Super-State

by By Brian Aldiss

  It was never cold in Tebarou, but it rained. The reinforcements lived in temporary barracks. They went out on daily patrols, during which they got wet or shot. The skirmishing dragged on. The soldiers knew they were never going to win. There were always more Tebarese. It remained true that in the end it was people who won wars, not the great machines roaring overhead.

  In the neighbouring country of Laos, General Gary Fairstepps was living out the war in some comfort in the Ou Neua hotel. With him was the newly promoted Colonel Randolph Haven. Haven and Fairstepps were uneasy together; both knew that the other had associated with Amy Haze, and did not care to admit it. Nevertheless, war had thrown them together and, like sensible men, they were making the best of things. Randolph was drinking seriously of the local hooch, orlando.

  Of the two men, Fairstepps was making the better of the best of things. He had on his knee a dusky maiden from the neighbourhood, who was showing evidence of something known euphemistically as affection: to which the general appeared inclined to respond. Indeed, he was wondering how to get rid of Haven without appearing rude. He wanted to show the girl deeper affection.

  Randolph had wandered over to the window, orlando glass in hand, and was saying, ‘Wonderful country, isn’t it? Never mind the rain. You’d never think there was a war on, would you, Gary? It’s amazingly peaceful. It has occurred to me—’

  At that moment, a shot rang out. The window shattered. The orlando went flying. Randolph fell dead of a sniper’s bullet.

  ‘Gracious, it really did occur to him!’ said Fairstepps, standing up suddenly and dropping the dusky beauty to the floor. ‘Bloody fool! Came from the working class, too . . .’

  He turned his attention to the lovely kneeling at his feet. ‘No, don’t get up, dear. Stay right there!’

  He unzipped his fly. After all, he thought, it was Christmas.

  But in the super-state the war hardly mattered. Taken all in all, everything was well there. A few problems, maybe, but they would be resolved in time. People were living longer, fornicating longer. Besides, it was the Christmas season again, when pagan rejoiced with Christian.

  All the windows of all the shops in all the cities of the nations united under the multi-star banner were a-glitter with decayed versions of the Christian myth. Tinsel abounded. An abundance of snow of a richness achieved only by virtual reality fell upon the piles of well-wrapped parcels in the windows. Android Santas poured toys from sacks that never ever emptied. Android reindeer pranced across fictitious wastes, many of them red of nose. It was a voluptuous time, a nose-pressed-against-glass time, a time to spend and spend, a time to raid Schlachter, boucher, marcellaio, slager, slakteri, talho, sklep miesny, kasap and butcher for fowl of all kinds, for pig and boar and by-products of same, not forgetting to call in at the pharmacy for aspirin, indigestion tablets and diarrhoea powders on the way to the wine store. Shops were piled high with goods, around which carol muzak swirled and tinkled: it was in the bleak midwinter with a temperature approaching thirty degrees. Happy shoppers with their golden credit cards mortgaged their futures over checkouts fringed with plastic holly.

  God, who so closely resembled Santa Claus, was in his heaven: all was well with the European world. Except for those who slept in doorways: and Paulus Stromeyer, at least, was planning to look after them with his boims and his serds.

  * * * *

  In the great and holy baroque church of Melk, overlooking the River Danube, Archbishop Schlafmeister administered glüivein to his congregation before delivering his sermon.

  His powerful voice rebounded from the cream-and-gilt baroque shadows.

  ‘So, once more, we are come to Christmas Thanksgiving Trick or Treat Day, and we rejoice for it. A sinner in my parish approached me the other day to enquire if I had any regrets about the fusion of various ceremonies. When I had blessed him, I assured him that we have to face the facts of mortal life. We have to be real.

  ‘The old Christmas used to be a time of snow and holly. We don’t have snow at this time of year any more, except in the windows of shops. By uniting Christmas with similar secular ceremonies, we thereby bring more worshippers into the church. Let us never forget that the old separate Trick or Treat ceremonies were religiously based. Basically, an innocent child was tapping hopefully at a door—at the Door of Life—saying to a grown-up, “If you don’t love me and treat me well, then you will suffer as I will.” It is a profound statement which we should always hold in our hearts, particularly at this season.

  ‘So I rejoice that this ancient ceremony is combined with the even more ancient ceremony of Christmas Thanksgiving. It makes sense in our busy modern world. It is truly a day off to celebrate the day when the infant Christ came knocking at all our doors.

  ‘“Yes”, you may possibly respond, “but he didn’t say ‘Trick or Treat’, did he?”

  ‘He may well have said to us, “Think and Treat”—a worthy message we are all well advised to heed, particularly at this season. And now to God the Father . . .’

  * * * *

  But there were heathens also who celebrated the happy occasion. Good fortune seemed to have smiled on Jane Squire, Remy Gautiner and Ann Squire, the ladies recovering from mourning their father’s death, on Bettina and Bertie Haze, on Bertie’s mother, Amygdella Haze, on Rebecca Stromeyer and Olduvai Potts, hand in hand, on Lena Potts, Oldy’s reconciled mother, riding in a motorised chair since her stroke, and on Jack Harrington, who was looking as dapper as ever. All had been invited to stay for a few days at Casim Durando’s palatial mansion in rue Matignon in Paris.

  Casim, of smooth and reptilian look, was generally considered to be something of a reptile; but his relationship with Francine, Ann’s daughter, seemed to be holding — so much so that Francine was starring in his movie for Gabbo Films, Fragments of a Dream, adapted from a novel by Rose Baywater, and now into post-production. Casim also proved generous with his style of entertainment, and with his excellent cellar.

  So all were happy as they took the air in the early afternoon. They walked in a group, exchanging remarks one with another as they went. They had strolled through the Tuileries and were about to cross to the rive gauche. There, Jack Harrington was to open his latest art gallery, which would display an artist’s storyboard sketches for Fragments of a Dream.

  ‘The Seine looks so angry,’ Jane remarked to Bertie, it’s not as I remember it.’

  ‘The rise in sea levels, you know. A man reported seeing a shark along by the next bridge only the other day. But he could have been drunk . . .’

  They said no more, noting the way in which walls had been built against further rises in water levels. Birds were singing, daffodils were in bloom, leaves were still on trees — all unseasonal signs.

  And what, Amy asked, did they all think of the crew of the Roddenberry having cooked and eaten the alien life on Europa? Opinions were divided; Olduvai condemned the greed of the crew while the others agreed it was not for them to criticise. Lives on Earth were so easy by comparison. Whereas, for the heroes on Europa, there would be no goose or turkey at this festive season. It was also agreed, amid giggles, that festive seasons were in short supply on that Jovian satellite.

  Casim suddenly exclaimed that he had left his beret in the last bar they had visited. The party should go on to the gallery, he suggested; he would run quickly back and reclaim his property.

  They did as he proposed. As they were crossing the pedestrian bridge by the Louvre, they saw a great agitation in the water racing below them. They stopped to hang over the rail to try to work out what was happening. Olduvai could not help recalling that his father had drowned himself in another renowned river.

  The water became more and more disturbed. Of a sudden, a great dragon head rose dripping from the flood. It was of a greyish-green hue, horned, with two red eyes glaring from under bony brows. Catching sight of the humans on the bridge, it snarled furiously, opening a terrifying chasm of a mouth to do so—a mouth fully armed with fangs. Much of the r
est of its body then heaved itself from the water to reveal bright green spines running down its back. The back was scaly. So was the great clawed foot it raised to hook on to the railings of the bridge.

  The women of the party screamed in terror. All fled to the left-hand bank. The dragon swung its head towards them and began to climb ashore. Rebecca, who was pregnant, fainted into Olduvai’s arms.

  The dragon stood dripping on the bank. Jack had the presence of mind to photograph it. The creature now did not stir, beyond a slow wag of its tail. Its mouth hung open. From that mouth issued the words, ’A Gabbo Films production’.

  Angry and frightened, the tourist group simply stood and stared at the lifelike horror.

  A deep voice behind them said, ‘Thank you, everybody, and sorry to scare you, but we like our little joke. We hope you enjoyed it too.’

  ‘No, we bloody well didn’t,’ said Olduvai, still clutching his beloved Rebecca. She was now conscious again.

  They turned as the massive randroid, Obbagi, strode facelessly to the green monster then turned to confront them. Behind the metallic figure came Gabbo, wrapped in a red cloak, smiling, bowing to left, to right, as he walked.

  ‘“Good evening, or should I say good morning?”!’ Gabbo quoted, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘You were on digital, one and all,’ announced Obbagi. ‘Your reactions have been filmed and you will all be paid ten thousand univs for signing release forms.’ He produced the forms from a cavity in his left side.

  ‘The clownishness of human life,’ said Gabbo, for once uncharacteristically willing to speak. ’Ah, me . . .Where would we be without our little jokes, indeed . . .’

  ‘You are disgusting,’ said Jack Harrington.

  ‘Of course I am disgusting. I am the sniggering face of capitalism. What was it some fellow long dead once remarked? That human life is a tragedy to those who feel, a comedy to those who think.’

  ‘We provide the comedy,’ said the gigantic automaton, looking anything but a figure of fun. ‘This was our Christmas comedy. It will form a momentary part of the movie Something in Seine.’

  Gabbo patted the scales of his green monster. ’Yes, yes, you can all go and have a drink now. Joke’s over. Last month or so — when was it, Obbagi? —’

  ‘I do not know of the passage of time, as I keep telling you.’

  ‘— We persuaded some ancient professor of archaeology stuck in Budapest that the galaxy was swarming with intelligent life and that they used Earth as a prison planet. It almost killed him.’

  The fat man burst into laughter. Roughly similar rumblings came from Obbagi.

  ‘You bloody well did kill him with your stupid lies!’ shouted Olduvai. He rushed forward. ‘That was my father!’

  His charge caught Gabbo amidships. Gabbo gave a bellow as the breath left him, staggered backwards and then was falling — falling. He hit the muddy waters of the Seine with a splash.

  His arms went up. The rest of him went down. The current swept him away.

  Rebecca rushed to the towering figure of the randroid. ‘Go after him!’ she called. The creature turned about and without hesitation jumped into the river. The group stood there, overwhelmed by what had happened, watching as the immense figure was carried away on the flood.

  * * * *

  ‘Hi, Earth. Alexy Stromeyer here. We are now aboard the return ship, Spock. Everything is functional and looking good. We have had a wonderful dinner; caught in Europa’s ocean. So we celebrate Christmas, far from home. We send best wishes to everyone on Earth! Happy Christmas, Trick or Treat! Out.’

 

  * * * *

  An Aldiss/Gabbo Production