by Ian McDonald
“SHELTER closed it down about twelve years back,” explained the girl he had learned to call Kansas Byrne. “Part of a planned population shift; the prollets over in Wheldon formed eight new septs, and there was a lot of assimilation of other prollet boros all over Yu and a massive population surge in Wheldon. The winger population was reduced from thirty percent to ten to accommodate the influx, and the surplus was sent over here. Of course, that fugged up the mixed-caste ratios, so the Ministry of Pain declared Pendelburg a monocaste district, all winger. So they had to relocate the trog clan that had been living in Big Tree for close on three hundred years. Never was a terribly big or important clan, they didn’t make much of a fuss when they went. Thunderheart heard about this place when he was a cub, all the way over on Grundy Street, and that’s twelve prefectures. Seemed it became a kind of unofficial singing-ground for the trog bell-boys; still use it, keeps us awake most nights, shuggers up there singing their balls off for the glory of clan and family.” Her words had become little buzzing, inconsequential mosquitoes as the ’lectrovan had penetrated the veil of flowering vines that fronted Big Tree and brought them into a three-dimensional grid of green vibrancy. Girders wrapped with vines, spreading limbs, massive boles, leaves, flowers, a faint dappling of light, leaf-diffracted and chlorophyll-green; all dripping, heavy drops of rain falling through the green cubes and shafts and tunnels. Wicker hammocks, cocoons, wooden huts built onto girders, open spaces, floors, terraces, walkways, swings, levels. “Perfect temporary headquarters for the ’postles. Thunderheart remembered how to get the life systems chuggin’ again, and now we have all the water we can drink and the fruit we can eat. And when we get tired of fruit, which is kind of regularly, we go down to the winger deli and shoplift.”
“Shoplift?” He had imagined V. S. Pyar’s muscles bulging as he held up the corner of a building while the Raging Apostles slipped inside.
“Stealing food, toiletries, little things, without anyone’s seeing,” explained the zook, Devadip Samdhavi.
“It’s quite a work of art,” Kansas Byrne had continued. “A very subtle work of prestidigitation. Pity no one even notices. They’re just not geared up to think that way.”
“We’ve had to reinvent a lot of long-lost antisocial skills,” added the zook. “We can get almost anything in the city without having to pay for it. Of course, some big things, big props and all, we have to use marquins for, and then move before the Love Police backtrack the transaction.”
As he replayed his memories in the cinema of the imagination, the singers in the canopy pumped up their throat sacks to give song. Basso profundo voices booming to the moon, and pride and glory and ambition as the bell-boys did battle in the canopy high above his wicker sleep-basket. The rain, which had wavered indecisively, began again in earnest, raindrops falling from the monsoon sky, raindrops intersecting leaf, growing leaf. Pit. Pat. Pit. Falling on the singers and the Big Tree and the gray, steely, lone waters of the Lamarinthian Canal and the barges growling along it: drip, drop, drip—all across this great city of Yu. He was again taken up into clairaudience, and in the universal voice he heard voices.
“I still maintain it’s too dangerous, we cannot afford to take risks.”
“But the whole thing is about taking risks. We take a risk every time we go out on the streets, every time we use our marquins or filch something, we take a risk when every famulus-carrying winger sees us on the streets.”
“But have you the right to endanger people in the group who have no way of leaving it if they disagree with your decision?”
“Consider this, if we do say no, what do we do with him?”
“There is no risk. No additional risk. Any damage done has already been done. If there ever was any damage to do. I think not. This man, no famulus, no memory, no name ’cept one he takes off the side of an arcology, no number, no nothing—ask yourselves, sibs, would the Love Police send someone who is so obviously an agent?”
“Well, if he isn’t an agent, then what is he?”
“That’s the mystery, isn’t it? And mystery is what we are all about.”
Voices all rose together, a clangorous discord in the song of the Big Tree at which even the singers in the branches fell silent. One voice outstayed them all: Joshua Drumm’s.
“Please, please, comrades. We’ve been over all the arguments. Now it’s time to vote.”
Then the clouds opened and the waiting rain crashed down upon Big Tree and the canopy across the sky and silenced all voices but its own. And it carried Kilimanjaro West, the man of the rain, away with it, into the recesses of exhaustion and the warmth of his sleep-basket, into the dreamtime.
Joshua Drumm came, out of the night, out of the dreaming; an imp-shaped bottle of papaya wine in one hand, two glasses in the other. He went to wake the sleeper, but Kilimanjaro West’s eyes were bright, almost shockingly open.
“Congratulations,” said Joshua Drumm. “Welcome to Raging Apostles!”
“They voted for me?”
“Five votes to three. We are rather inexperienced at democracy, but a simple majority was enough. The recalcitrants will come round in time, I think. They have little other option.” He unscrewed the imp’s head, poured two measures. “So, welcome to Raging Apostles, Kilimanjaro West, or whatever you are.” Joshua Drumm stood up on the rope walkway and lifted his glass to the faraway tail-gas flares of the industrial parks around La Gironde. He studied the wine for color. “Not a bad vintage. For a society which worships mediocrity. That, you see, is the touchstone which empowers the Raging Apostles. That the artist, and I don’t just mean a member of the tlakh caste, produces his work, creates, if you must use the rather worn-out word, and people respond to his creation. They cannot do otherwise. They either say ‘Yes, we accept this’ or ‘No, we do not accept this.’ Either way, they have made judgments of value and quality, either way they have measured themselves, their humanity, their world, against his creation and found themselves either sufficient or deficient. And what is this thing against which we measure ourselves, this domain of values and qualities and judgments, but conscience? Art is conscience, a criterion by which humanity may measure itself and ultimately know itself. The artist should be the conscience of society.
“But without pain, how can there be any conscience? If no one can hurt anyone and no one can be hurt, how can there be any morality behind our acts except the simple expediency of the avoidance of pain? The central premise of the Compassionate Society is to let everyone do what will make them the happiest without hurting any other person or in any way diminishing another’s happiness.”
Kilimanjaro West thought back through the moving pictures; to BeeJee &ersenn, writhing on the floor in lonely ecstasy.
“But people are hurt. People can still feel pain.”
“Oh, yes, and while they can still feel, there is hope.”
“Hope for what?”
Joshua Drumm sipped his wine, rinsed it around his mouth. “You know, this isn’t bad at all. It was worth the while stealing it from the winery over in Ste.-Claire. Hope for a true creativity. Anticipating your next question, that is a creativity that goes beyond the boundaries of castes and social orders and of the Arts in general, into every aspect of life. True creativity is the truly creative life, the life that transforms every event into a creation, and thus transcends.”
“And pain? Is there then a true pain, like this true creativity?”
A laugh. Sharp, brilliant as a shower of rain.
“Citizen West, I find myself underestimating you and I find that most unfortunate. No artist should ever underestimate another human being. Pain is the sculptor of creativity. The truly creative act is not the act which seeks solely to avoid pain, it seeks to embrace it, understand it, and thus transcend it. Without pain, it is incomplete. But in a society without pain, how can there be any transcendence?”
“Is the death of creativity, if what you say is true, not worth the price of freedom from pain?”
The rop
ewalk creaked and swayed, stirred by the twenty-four-o’clock wind. From the streets of Pendelburg, fifty meters below, came night voices and the ringing of pedicab bells, venturing out after the rain.
“I do not think so.”
“And the other Raging Apostles?”
“Touch the apostles and you’ll touch purposes as diverse as the castes from which they were drawn. They’ll all have their chances to talk with you, the new boy, tell you how they came to be ’postles. Myself being director, I had first pick, and the responsibility of telling you the outcome of the voting. But I think you’ll find that diverse though their stories are, they all stem from a deep dissatisfaction with the Compassionate Society and the world of mediocrity it has bequeathed us.”
“So the Raging Apostles are there to put a little pain into people’s lives.”
“And wonder. And joy. And horror. And beauty. And sexuality. And wisdom. And laughter. Yes, remember, we are the conscience of a conscienceless society.”
“I’m afraid I know very little.”
The faraway gas-flares glittered reflections in Joshua Drumm’s wise-animal eyes.
“Knows little, understands less, but wiser than all because he listens. Just who are you, Kilimanjaro West?”
“I am a man in search of a history so that he may have a future.”
“Then you must be one of us. Like you, we have all put off the histories the Compassionate Society wrote for us to become our own men and women. Like you, we are seeking a future, a future not just for ourselves but, we believe, for everyone. You are special, I tell you that, you have come from somewhere and you are going to somewhere, and I cannot say where except that I feel it is extraordinary. Try to remember, can you remember anything about yourself?”
Kilimanjaro West closed his eyes and tried to remember; remember back to the time of the voices, the time before the small, damp, cold room and the universes that opened out of it, universe within universe within universe, each one larger than the one out of which it had unfolded.
“I don’t remember, I can’t remember, but I think I feel, that for a long time, I was nothing. Can you understand that? That, if not forever, then for a very long time I was not, I was a mere potential waiting to be called into being. Dead. Asleep. Waiting. Nothing. That is why I cannot remember. Because there is nothing to remember.” Then Kilimanjaro West turned to Joshua Drumm and said, “Tell me, do you think that I might be … holy?”
New Mysteries
EXTRACTED FROM THE POWER and Light Workers’ Mystery, a choreo-drama traditionally performed upon Matildamass morning by a mixed professional/amateur cast of dancers and chorus, the chorus, by longstanding tradition, containing representatives from each of the castes employed by Universal Power and Light.
(Scene: Earth before the Break. Enter MR. & MRS. ALL RIGHT JACK riding on the shoulders of the naked THIRD ADAM and THIRD EVE. CHORUS is dressed in vivid plaids, floral prints, and wasp-frame glasses. All wear cameras and the silver-haired/blue-rinsed masks of MR. & MRS. ALL RIGHT JACK.)
MR. CHORUS: Isn’t it just terrible?
MRS. CHORUS: Terrible. Terrible. Just terrible.
MR. CHORUS: Those poor people.
MRS. CHORUS: Starving to death.
MR. CHORUS: I blame it on their governments, personally.
MRS. CHORUS: Absolutely. Absolutely. Absolutely.
MR. CHORUS: It’s because they can’t keep Law and Order.
MRS. CHORUS: Law and Order. Law and Order. Law and Order!
MR. CHORUS: It’s useless giving them money. They only spend it on killing each other when they should be spending it on paying off what they owe us.
MRS. CHORUS: Absolutely. Useless. Useless. Useless. Spendthrifts!
MR. CHORUS: No economic sense at all. Spend and borrow like there’s no tomorrow.
MRS. CHORUS: Spend and borrow. Spend and borrow. Spend and borrow. Like there’s no tomorrow.
MR. CHORUS: Is it any wonder, really, why they have so many famines?
MRS. CHORUS: Makes you all the more grateful for what you have, doesn’t it?
THE DANCE OF
MR. & MRS. ALL RIGHT JACK
(Continuous with above, MR & MRS. ALL RIGHT JACK perform an intricate pas de deux that forces their bearers, THIRD ADAM and THIRD EVE into more complex and convoluted steps that they are increasingly incapable of performing as they grow more fatigued under the burden of their riders. Further, as the dance progresses, MR & MRS. ALL RIGHT JACK have been tearing lumps of synthflesh from THIRD ADAM and THIRD EVE and eating it. The bearers become increasingly emaciated and eventually collapse under the weight of their burdens.)
CHORUS: Help us! Help us! Feed us, we want some food!
(VOICES UNITED): We must have something to eat, feed us, you no good sucks!
Scene ii
(Enter the SISTERS OF INDUSTRY and MADAM MARKET FORCE, SISTER FLORA is naked but covered in wet, sticky mud. SISTER INFOTECH wears a chrome body-stocking, winged silver powerwheels and mirror shades, SISTER MUNITIA is dressed in leather straps, studs, spikes, and a horned helmet, SISTER ENERGIA wears an electric-blue leotard and industrial power exoskeleton. MADAM MARKET FORCE is dressed as a bordello madam in crimson basque, button boots, and opera gloves. She carries a whip.)
VOX MARKET FORCE: Who’ll come, who’ll come a dollar a dance? Dollar a dance, gentlefolk, dollar a dance, who’ll take a dollar a chance with the ladies?
CHORUS: Dollar a dance, dollar a chance, dollar a prance with the ladies …
(Enter four CAPTAINS OF INDUSTRY dressed in dashing red-white-and-blue uniforms.)
VOX MARKET FORCE: Who’ll invest in the services of these fine ladies? Who’ll pay for their company? Take Sister Flora here …
CHORUS: Dollar a chance, dollar a prance with the ladies …
VOX MARKET FORCE: A fine fruity, fertile girl, my bravos, full of life and the joys of spring, who’s man enough to take her for a night of earthy pleasure, a night of rustic joy?
CHORUS: Who’ll pay, who’ll buy, who’ll invest, who’ll speculate?
VOX MARKET FORCE: Or Miss Infotech here, looks hard as steel, me boyos, but she’s a real fast lady, fast as light, too fast for you, my fine gentlemen; what she doesn’t know about it isn’t worth knowing!
CHORUS: Dollar a chance, dollar a prance with the ladies …
VOX MARKET FORCE: Or dear Sister Munitia, who’s into a little military discipline, a little force majeure, who wants a good fight and a better capitulation. Better beware, my fine laddies, with Sister Munitia you never know who’ll end up dominated by whom!
CHORUS: Who’ll pay, who’ll buy, who’ll invest, who’ll speculate?
VOX MARKET FORCE: Take little Lady Energia; what a live wire, my brave boys, what a bright spark. Juice enough for all of you, and she’ll be running long after the last of you’ve burned out. So, who’ll buy these gorgeous ladies?
CHORUS: Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy? Who’ll buy?
(THIRD ADAM crawls onstage. He offers his handful of coins to each of the prostitutes in turn. The SISTERS OF INDUSTRY laugh and scorn him as each, in turn, is swept off her feet by the dashing CAPTAINS OF INDUSTRY. The CAPTAINS stuff wads of notes into cleavages, belts, panties, between thighs, etcetera. They dance. During the dance, MADAM MARKET FORCE waltzes with THIRD ADAM. As she passes each of the SISTERS, she picks the money from their places of concealment and crams it into her basque. Moving upstage, she begins to whip THIRD ADAM with great enthusiasm. As she is thus occupied, enter FOUR HORSEPERSONS OF APOCALYPSE: PLAGUE, FAMINE, NUCLEAR DESTRUCTION, DEATH. Unbeknownst to her, they pick MADAM MARKET FORCE’s pockets, leaving her penniless, and tear her money into shreds.)
(Voices of HORSEPERSONS: bass, tenor, contralto, soprano.)
HORSEPERSON 1: What care we for such beads and bauds?
HORSEPERSON 2: These gimcracks and gewgaws?
HORSEPERSON 3: These tinsels and trifles? HORSEPERSON 4: Tinsel, trifles, toys, and tissue. Triviali ties taken.
HORSEP
ERSON 3: Torn.
HORSEPERSON 2: Shredded.
HORSEPERSON 1: Scattered!
(A blizzard of torn paper sweeps the stage. MADAM MARKET FORCE continues to beat THIRD ADAM. The FOUR HORSEPERSONS move throughout the dance. Each slips into the place of the SISTERS OF INDUSTRY dancing with the CAPTAINS. As the CAPTAINS realize with whom they are now dancing, they try to break away, but the embrace of the FOUR HORSEPERSONS is unbreakable. They begin to dance faster and faster, hurling shredded money everywhere. The CAPTAINS OF INDUSTRY are dragged, dancing, to their destruction.)
Scene iii
(The Court of the CELESTIALS. Arrayed on the highest level in shining costumes, the CELESTIAL PATRONS. Before them, on subsequent levels, diverse ARCHANGELS, ANGELS, SIDDHI, SAINTS, and SANTRELS according to degree. All hands are bound with silver chains. Enter ENTROPIC DEMONS, dressed in black rubber body-stockings with spikes and outsize false genitalia. Dance symbolizing BATTLE. CELESTIALS are powerless to properly defend themselves.)
VOX CELESTIAL: Release! Release! release!
(Enter CONTEMPLACIO. He yawns, sleeps, and in his sleep, dreams.)
THE DREAM OF CONTEMPLACIO
(Scene: Heaven. Enter FIRST ADAM and FIRST EVE hand in hand with THIRD ADAM and THIRD EVE and MR. & MRS. ALL RIGHT JACK, who were once the Second Adam and Second Eve. They are astounded to find themselves naked in lush meadows under blue skies. They play like children. As they play, enter the SISTERS OF INDUSTRY dressed in white. They bear with them the bodies of the CAPTAINS OF INDUSTRY, still chained to the FOUR HORSEPERSONS, dead and emaciated. The bodies are piled in a feu de joie, and as they burn, the ADAMS, EVES, and SISTERS dance around them. MADAM MARKET FORCE is drawn by the sound of the dancing. She tries to implore the SISTERS OF INDUSTRY to resume their harlotry, but she is seized by all. She is flung onto the pyre. The burning bodies of the dead are seen to sink down into the embrace of the ENTROPIC DEMONS, and as they sink, so the staging area rises, bearing the ADAMS, EVES, and SISTERS. In his dream, CONTEMPLACIO sees, to his amazement, that the lift is being borne up to heaven on the hands of the CELETIALS, ARCHANGELS, ANGELS, SIDDHI, SAINTS, and SANTRELS, horn up by their unchained hands.)