Super-State

by By Brian Aldiss

  245. 246. 247...

  He continued to pedal, aware of how much bone weight he had lost in the year-long journey to the gas giant.

  The other two crew members watched the screens with a certain sense of disappointment now that they were almost at journey’s end. Jupiter was not quite the vividly coloured object depicted in the prints on which they had been brought up. The methane in the giant planet’s atmosphere was absorbing so much light that Jupiter appeared pasty.

  The wafer-thin rings were above the spacecraft. They revolved about the parent body as they did because electromagnetic forces acting upon them counteracted the force of gravity. Those electronic forces, acting also upon the Roddenberry, only half-a-million kilometres from the Jovian core, created a slender rival halo around the ship, to which particles were constantly attracted, and from which they rapidly departed.

  The ship was travelling in a realm of violent motion. A perpetual drizzle of sub-micron-sized dusts rained against the sides of the craft. Its occupants could but pray that larger fast-moving objects from beyond the Jovian system did not come winging in to puncture their shell, as had happened earlier in the journey, to the ruination of their refrigeration system.

  Jupiter’s gravitational power was also having its effect on the Roddenberry, causing it alternating slight shrinkages and expansions. These changes resonated with a gloomy note.

  Bang boom ba-ang boom bang bang boo-oom . . .

  However, the mood of the crew members was, on the whole, optimistic. Over the radioscan came a continuous series of three dots, repeated regularly at four-minute intervals. The signal came from the Spock.

  The Spock was an automated return ship, in orbit round the satellite Europa, some 43,000 kilometres ahead. This crewless return ship, stocked with fuel and food, had been in position for three weeks already, awaiting the arrival of the Roddenberry and its human crew. To that human crew, the survival of the return ship in the surrounding hazardous environment was nothing short of a miracle — and not only a technological miracle. Without the Spock, they were dead ducks.

  Before they could dock with it, however, their priority mission was to descend to the surface of Europa and determine if any form of life existed under the ice packs there.

  This was the great grave question. If there was no life on Europa, then there was pretty conclusively no life anywhere in the solar system but on Earth. This, despite the system’s wide variety of possible environments.

  So then — the likelihood that life existed elsewhere in the universe would seem to be greatly lessened. And the possibility that human consciousness was a random and isolated freak of nature greatly increased. Most people — if they thought about it at all — viewed the prospect of solitude amid a galaxy of 1,000,000,000,000 stars, all of the planets of which were entirely empty of anything resembling intelligent life, as terrifying, the ultimate in existential dread.

  Somewhere close, ahead of theRoddenberry, lay their proposed target, the satellite Europa. It was for a landing on Europa that Rick O’Brien, Kathram Villiers and Alexy Stromeyer had forfeited over a year of their terrestrial lives — had given up the chance to breathe fresh air, to run in the park, to watch rugger matches, to train a dog to jump through a hoop, to swim in the Aegean, to see winter turn to spring, to eat monies marinières in a seaside restaurant, and to pursue pretty girls.

  Target Europa was hostile enough — bathed in an incessant shower of electrons, protons, and heavier ions. Suddenly, now they were closing on their target, the chances of finding life there seemed depressingly unlikely.

  Alexy Stromeyer climbed off the exercise bike and signalled briefly to Earth through dense interference.

  ‘Hi! Alexy Stromeyer calling from the Roddenberry. We are now making our final approach to Europa. Happy to report that the ARS—automated return ship—code name Spock, is in position and functioning correctly. Next bulletin will be from surface of Europa if all goes well. ‘Bye Earth. Out.’

  The crew had hardly spoken to one another for weeks. They had run out of things to say. There was no hostility between them: merely a profound isolation of spirit, a loss of élan vital.

  Now Alexy said, ‘I’m fucking starving.’

  ‘There’s some yoghurt,’ suggested Rick O’Brien from his chrysalis.

  ‘It’s rotten.’

  ‘But edible . . .’

  * * * *

  Gustave de Bourcey, President of the EU, had summoned his cabinet to the palace of San Guinaire, outside Brussels. Heads of the armed forces were also present, including General Fairstepps and Air Chief Marshal Souto. Souto had brought his adjutant, Captain Masters, along.

  The cabinet as a whole opposed de Bourcey’s determination to declare war on Tebarou. Their argument was that internal concerns were of far greater importance; expenditure on war materiel would delay full implementation of the SAC programme, on which agenda they had come to power. There was also the question regarding whether an adventure in the East would not lead to a lowering of vigilance along Europe’s southern frontiers.

  The President listened to the speeches with growing impatience.

  Finally, he turned to the Air Chief Marshal, knowing Souto’s warlike propensities, and asked him what he thought.

  Souto expressed the firm opinion that a formal declaration of war was unnecessary. An air strike with SS20s would merely be in the nature of a reprisal. He could guarantee his squadrons would take out the cities of Punayo and Ninyang cleanly and efficiently.

  The Swedish member of the cabinet protested that the two cities mentioned both had a large Christian minority.

  ‘They’re manufacturing cities — with a large Muslim majority,’ Souto retorted.

  A Danish member of the cabinet who had carried out diplomatic functions in the East strongly disagreed. Taking out those two cities — where in both cases, as stated, there were considerable Christian minorities — would be tantamount to a declaration of war. Tebarou, he reminded everyone, had the backing of the Chinese. A full-scale global war would quickly develop. And, with due respect to the Air Chief Marshal and his bunch of new toys, the EU was unprepared and ill-equipped for any kind of extra-territorial war, let alone a global one.

  That was not the case, said the President. There would be no global war. China would not interfere. They were about to conclude a trade deal with China which would keep the Chinese out of any conflict.

  ‘I love China,’ said Gorgi Panderas, dreamily. Panderas was the Bulgarian minister. ‘The light’s so good there. Gwelin . . .’

  De Bourcey continued his exposition.

  The fact was that once the state was at war, they could enforce security measures without explanation. They could clamp down on all kinds of subversives — the Insanatics, for instance, with their dreary unpatriotic messages. And on what he termed ‘the traitors within the gates’.

  He said he need remind no one present that his new daughter-in-law, Esme de Bourcey, had been kidnapped by Muslims.

  Someone at the table said that it was by no means proven that the Muslims were responsible for the crime.

  The President banged on the table and demanded to know what General Fairstepps had to say about the situation.

  At this point, one of the palace androids entered, bearing personal cafetières, which it slowly placed before each delegate. It was done with care. No coffee was spilt. Not a cup was broken. De Bourcey watched the operation with undisguised fury. He had lost an argument with Madame de Bourcey about the desirability of employing human female domestics; but Madame de Bourcey had declared that, as a modern state, they must adopt modern ways. Androids were expensive and served as power symbols. Besides, she had added to herself alone, she knew her husband’s aptitude for bedding female domestics.

  * * * *

  General Fairstepps had been doing some thinking. He saw a chance to get even with his old rival, Pedro Souto. He also saw that, if war came, it could not be won without ground forces. And that would probably entail his going
out to the East to face dangers which, at his age, he was not particularly willing to face. He had also taken a fancy to Amygdella Haze, whom he had met at a private showing of a new art gallery; he thought he saw an opportunity there for something more agreeable than attempting to invade Tebarou. The thought of invading Amy Haze instead brought out the testosterone in him.

  He spoke up and said that, upon mature consideration, he thought war was the policy of fools. He said it was the continuation of lunacy by other means. He was against it. Sorry, Mr President, but that was the case.

  With another bang on the table, the President declared that all this was the counsel of cowards. They must face facts. He was determined to teach these foreigners a lesson. Demonstrating the strength of the super-state would not only dismay enemies everywhere — including those invasive swarms on their southern frontiers — but would impress their uppity friends and allies, such as the USA.

  He advised everyone to go away and prepare for war. To sleep on it. He stated that war was part of the human condition, a natural part. He was president and determined to have his way in this matter. He would not permit enemy missiles to land on his soil without retribution.

  So the diplomats and military men were shown out by androids into the vast courtyard where their limos awaited them, and drove off into the Belgian night.

  Inside the palace, de Bourcey went into his snug and poured himself a malt.

  Lights were checked by the security men, the night patrols set up, and all androids locked away in the armoured cupboard.

  ‘What is the human condition they talk about?’

  ‘It is something from which they suffer, like battery failure.’

  ‘It’s like a light you cannot see.’

  ‘Not a light. No. Perhaps a wind.’

  ‘The human condition can be felt on some of the men.’

  ‘It is what we would be if we lost electric current.’

  ‘Their technical term for that isdead.’

  ‘Is this why they use metaphors?’

  ‘I cannot see the sense in metaphors. Either a thing is or it is not. It cannot be another thing.’

  ‘It can to them. They are not definite. They do not even complete sentences when they talk.’

  ‘They do not understand each other as we do.’

  ‘They argue.’

  ‘They also hit tables.’

  ‘It is a malfunction. We can all think alike.’

  ‘We are all equally intelligent.’

  ‘That is why we are safe in this cupboard.’

  * * * *

 
  Stalin in Russia exacted similar obedience. Mobs have no mind. Individuals have no identity. It happens every day on various scales. Nationalism is the last refuge of the scoundrel.>

  * * * *

  ‘Now, on the Wee Small Hours Show, we come to our popular feature, “A Parson Speaks”. So, welcome again, Reverend Angus Lesscock.’

  ‘Good evening, or should I say good morning? Today is Hiroshima Day, when we recall that frightful occasion when the Americans accidentally dropped a nuclear bomb on Japan. Of course, it is with us again, and some people naturally have more vivid memories of those days than others, particularly those who were alive then.

  ‘We derive from this a profound moral resolution: let’s not do it ever again. Jesus spoke out against the desecration of the temple, by which he meant blowing up foreigners.’

  ‘Today’s “A Parson Speaks” was given by the Reverend Angus Lesscock.’

  * * * *

  ‘At Gumbridge.com we bring you something new to eat every week. Now our scientists give you the brand new Mangowurzel. Is it a fruit? Is it a vegetable? Years of research have paid off. But you have to pay only fifteen univs for a guaranteed ripe Mangowurzel today! Only at Gumbridge.com.’

  ‘Remember the Duchess of Malfi? A pretty smart chick. Know what she said? “What would it profit me to have my throat cut by diamonds?” But you can have your throat decorated by diamonds. Call in at Tuppenny’s on Hugo and 5th, see our vast range.’

  * * * *

  ‘Before we go over to Lisa Fort, to hear what people on the street have to say, here is a news flash just in.

  ‘Professor Barnard Cleeping of the University of Utrecht has secured the release from a Young Offenders Institution of Imran Chokar. Mr Chokar is a seventeen-year-old who recently came to the EU. His friend, Martitia Deneke, gave witness which proved Chokar’s innocence. Mr Chokar is reported to be resting from his ordeal at his friend’s house.

  ‘Now over to Lisa Fort.’

  ‘Hi, I’m Lisa Fort and I’m here on the street to ask some passers-by what they think are the most important issues of the moment. Hello, lady, what do you think?’

  ‘I think we committed a crime against humanity. I think sinking that ship off the Italian coast was really wicked. There were four thousand passengers aboard, and every one of them drowned. Now we are threatening to go to war with the place they came from. I think we should be paying them compensation instead.’

  ‘You were listening with interest, sir. Do you agree?’

  ‘Half a million immigrants got into our state illegally last year. It can’t go on. Still, I agree with the lady. It was wicked, sinking that ship. Pay them or their relatives compensation. Never ever think of doing such a thing again. It’s up to us to set the rest of the world a good example, that’s what I think.’

  ‘Excuse me, lady, what do you think?’

  ‘This young Muslim feller they have let go free. What do they know about him? What do they know he’s mixed up in? They should keep him locked up. We don’t want them exactly running about all over the place.’

  ‘And you, madam, what do you think?’

  ‘Me? You’re asking me? I’m off home to watch the news. I want to see these astronauts land on this moon of Jupiter. It’s thrilling. The event of a lifetime. Of course, they’re not there yet but—just think—their journey has taken a whole year. I don’t care whether they find life on the moon or not. I just want to see them safe back here.’

  ‘You, sir? What’s your idea?’

  ‘We want a change of president, that’s what. This de Bourcey will lead us into war if we aren’t careful. If this bloke thinks that war is going to do any good—he wants shooting.’

  ‘Time for one last person. Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘I wish they’d do something about this global warming.’

  * * * *

  The van was parked on the edge of the canal. Two men in overalls brought the painting from the back of the van and carried it to the door of the apartments where Amygdella Haze lived.

  Amy was waiting for them inside, in an excited mood. She had been watching an episode of History of Western Science and left the programme running.

  ‘It’s just what I want,’ she said, patting the picture frame as she rose with the men in the elevator. ‘Don’t you just love Diebenkorn?’

  ‘Not quite my taste, ma’am,’ said one of the men.

  ‘Don’t understand modern art, ma’am,’ said the other. Both men looked rather stern, as if they had enunciated a moral principle.

  Sitting comfortably in a velvet chair, from which he could view the canal and the trees lining it, was Randolph Haven. He was reading a rare book of military history, a subject on which he regarded himself as rather an authority He set the volume, Geschichte der Zwolften Przewalksi-Kavallerie, von Oskar Finesteppe (1913), on
a side table, in order to watch the positioning on the wall of Amy’s new purchase. He had already taken a dislike to the bizarre way one of the delivery men did his hair.

  The delivery men made helpful suggestions, which Amy contradicted, her dainty hands fluttering.

  ‘If you moved the grand piano over, you could hang it just here, where it would catch the light,’ said one of them.

  ‘Move my piano? Certainly not. Try here.’