“When dawn broke the Cockerel was a bloody abattoir, under complete control of the Fanzoii.
“With their savagery dissipated, the Fanzoii let Sadler and Purslen live. But they wanted them under their control. So another Fanzoy female raped Sadler. When they stripped Purslen they found him to be a capon. They almost killed him outright, but he begged so piteously they relented, deeming him harmless, which he proved indeed to be.
“Three days later the storm truly came upon us. Without men or bots, we sustained the damage you saw.
“In the storm, Sadler received a concussion from a falling spar. He never awoke from it, and would normally have died, I believe, save for the bond with the Fanzoy female. She kept his autonomic nervous system functioning. They used him like a toy, as you saw. He was held rigid, barely breathing, under the sheet in my cabin, as you sat unknowing, not two meters away.”
Merino’s tale of horror made my stomach and mind revolt. Yet I longed to hear it through to its end. As I watched the shriveled man speak, clearly a husk of his former elegant self, the same mix of pity and repugnance I had felt for him earlier swept over me.
“The next months were a torpid living hell. The Fanzoii, as I understood through the thoughts of Tess, longed to return to Carambriole, or, failing that, to make landfall elsewhere. Many times they were so frustrated by their situation that Monteagle and I were nearly put to death.
“But always they saved us to be their go-betweens, should we ever sight another ship.
“And then you hailed us.
“When you and your mate came aboard, you nearly died. Outside my cabin, the Fanzoii were ready to set upon you, despite their prior plans. Through Tess, I saved your lives. I convinced her that we could get all we wanted through subterfuge, and that if we killed you it would alert your ship, which would sail away.
“The rest you know. I emerged and made my show of commanding those who commanded me. Then fell to me the task of convincing you of our innocent need. Every second you were on the Cockerel, death hovered at your back, should you so much as breathe suspicion of the true state of affairs.
“Only my play-acting kept you and your mate—and possibly the rest of your crew—from death. Or from becoming living puppets.
“When you proposed to warp our two ships together, the Fanzoii rejoiced. They planned to swarm aboard in seconds and take over the Melville. The best you could have expected was to be cast adrift in my wreck.
“I knew I had to do something. I begged to come with you. Tess silently assented, believing me sapped of my will. Luckily she could not see the whole shape of my thoughts.
“It worked out as you witnessed. God be thanked it did. If only Monteagle might also have been saved. If only none of this had happened!”
Merino drained his glass. I wordlessly refilled it. He sat unspeaking.
Here then was the man I had labeled in my mind a coward and a spineless fop. Weak in the face of his unnatural lusts he might have been—but which of us has not some hidden master he bows down to will-lessly? Coward? Fop? How would I have endured his fate?
“I will take you home,” I said at last.
“If only you could,” said Merino, and gazed ceilingward with a shiver.
VII. A Partial Transcript
Seventeen years passed between the time I watched the despondent Anselmo Merino, a borrowed suit of my clothes hanging loosely on him, walk down the gangplank of my detoured ship and onto the dock at Saint Ursula, and the time I next heard of him.
Much happened, of course, in those years. I returned to Tirso Town, a continent away, where I sold my last load of satinwood for more than I had expected when I embarked. There I paid off my men and found quite to my surprise that all my taste for being a free trader was gone, leaving a film of ashes in my mouth. It was as if something vital had been sapped from me off Encantada Island, never to be replenished.
I became a shipper of other men’s goods, an easy and undemanding profession. Gradually I recovered my old spirits, but was never wholly as I had been.
One day, after the interval of time mentioned above, I found myself supervising the loading of some crates. Trundlebots were streaming aboard like ants when one malfunctioned and plunged back several meters down to the stone quay with its box. Robot and crate smashed with a sickening sound.
In the process of cleaning up the debris I noticed that the pottery in the crate had been wrapped in old and yellowed newspaper. Idly, I examined a sheet.
Its masthead read The Saint Ursula Daily Gleaner. The date was several months after Merino had disembarked.
I gathered up all the sheets I could find and returned to my cabin.
There I read—with, strangely, no feeling of surprise, as if I had always known that I would some day learn of this—a partial transcript of the trial of Anselmo Merino, on charges of dereliction of duty, gross misconduct, and bestiality.
The possible sentence specified that the prisoner be remanded to the Holy Inquisitors for undescribed punitive measures, should he be judged guilty.
I here re-transcribe what I believe is the most relevant—and revelatory—section of the fragment, in an effort to further illuminate that odd and flawed, yet compelling, man, Anselmo Merino, with whose life mine had the fortune—whether good or ill, I still cannot say—to become inextricably entangled, and whom I yet brood on constantly.
His fate the fragment failed to reveal.
I dare to hope they found him innocent, or deemed mercy applicable and pardoned him.
Testimony Given in the Trial of Aristarch Anselmo Merino, in the Matter of the Loss of His Ship, the Golden Cockerel, and the Miscarriage of His Mission. 6 January 902 Post Scattering
judge: Quiet in the court! There must be a decorous silence, however repugnant the testimony becomes, or the court will be cleared! Fine. See that it is maintained. Prosecutor, you may proceed.
prosecutor: Thank you, Your Honor. Let me recapitulate, Aristarch Merino. You do not deny having carnal relations with one of the Fanzoii you were transporting?
merino: No.
prosecutor: Nor do you deny that said relations, by chaining your will to that of the alien referred to hereafter as “Tess,” were ultimately responsible for the deaths of your entire crew and the total failure of your mission?
merino: No, I do not deny that.
prosecutor: Can you suggest any reason why the court should see your actions as anything other than arrogant self-indulgence that resulted in the most dishonorable tragedy in the Aristarchy’s history? How can your actions fail to besmirch all Aristarchs by implication, in the eyes of the lower classes? How can we be lenient with you, and not appear to condone your deeds?
merino: [After a pause] I cannot by any means justify what I did. And it would be reprehensible to lay the blame on those above me, who chose an imperfect tool for their task. I can only express my sincerest sorrow for the men I doomed, and wish that they had had a better captain. As for the taint I placed on the Aristarchy, I hereby affirm that I alone am culpable. I heartily wish that events had not transpired as they did. Yet who can undo the past? I only caution all those involved in similar ventures in the future, who might be quick to pass judgment on me, to examine their own souls and hearts and ask if they too might not fail when put to the test.
judge: Refrain from instructing us in morality, Aristarch Merino. You are hardly in a position to do so.
merino: I realize that, your Honor. I only sought to point out the possibility that others might act as I found myself acting, should the Aristarchy persist in this misguided scheme.
judge: I, for one, find such an imputation baseless and arrogant. And your attempt to shape policy is itself misguided. In fact, your whole attitude during this trial has struck me as overbearing and lacking in contrition.
merino: I repeat my deepest regrets for the suffering I have caused.
judge: Protestations of sorrow are easy to make, yet truly felt perhaps only under the hands of the Inquisitors.
>
merino: [Silent]
prosecutor: Do you have anything further to say in your defense?
merino: No.
judge: The jury will now adjourn.
II
Adventures of a Restless Mind
We’ve all heard the famous adage about the fox knowing many small things, and the hedgehog knowing one big thing. It seems to me that this truism applies to writers more so than to those in other professions.
There are writers who focus on the same material from book to book, digging deeper and deeper into seemingly inexhaustible motherlodes of theme and topic. Then there are writers who feel the need to prospect across vast literary Alaskas, hungry for new horizons and possible riches in anyplace other than where they’ve already been.
It should be obvious to anyone who’s read my stuff that I’m one of the latter. A fox on the move, a butterfly or industrious bee, zipping from flower to flower. I like to think such constant change keeps me flexible and fresh, makes me widen the tunnel vision we all inevitably develop.
So here in this section, you’ll see me dabbling in realism, fabulism, ribofunk, horsepowerpunk, and what might be called “galactic core values.”
I might not have struck gold yet, but I keep looking.
My, my, how times do change! Once, not so very long ago in a more innocent age, the notion of “monkey-wrenching” or “culture-jamming” seemed like good, clean fun. A stolid, stable, somnolent society can always use a few jesters to speed up its pulse and awaken the stupefied masses to thoughts of alternatives to their daily grind. But in a world where society teeters on the brink of collapse (or is perceived to be so teetering), due to enemies within and without, where the majority of citizens are scared stiff and a premium is placed on not rocking the boat, the actions which earlier had been considered tolerable buffoonery now look like sheer sedition. After 9/11, every yippie became a terrorist by default. But perhaps you can let your freak flag fly high once more for just the space of a few pages …
My Adventures with the SPCA
I screwed on the stolen plates, while Fiona used bungee cords to mount the PA system speakers on the Toyota’s roof, next to the illuminated Domino’s Pizza sign we had lifted from an unattended delivery car. Burr had his head under the hood.
Standing, I brushed grit off the knees of my jeans.
“Are we ready?”
Fiona twanged the bungee cords. “Snug as a plug in a jug.” Tonight for some reason she was smiling. It looked good on her, and I felt sad she couldn’t do it more often.
Burr emerged from beneath the hood and slammed it shut.
“All wired,” he said, brushing black curls away from his eyes.
Tonight for some reason Burr was scowling. It looked lousy on him, and I was glad he didn’t do it more often.
“What about the leaflets?” I said.
“Shit!” said Burr. “Almost forgot. I’ll get ’em.”
I watched Burr go inside our house. Then I turned to Fiona.
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah, fine.”
“Sure?”
“Oh, quit worrying about me. I’m great. If you must know, Burr tried grabbing my ass a few minutes ago in the kitchen.”
“That’s just Burr. Don’t let it get in the way of our job.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
I still didn’t understand something. “Why are you smiling?”
“I’m picturing his face when he looked down and saw the knife.”
“Woof!”
Burr came out with the box from Kinko’s. “All set!”
We clambered into the car. I was driving, and Burr was beside me in front, mic already nervously in hand. Fiona held the open box of leaflets in her lap. It had cost an extra penny apiece to get them folded, but was well worth it for the professional look.
“Take the freeway?”
“It’s a little too light out yet,” Burr said. “We don’t want to make it easy for people to remember our faces. Let’s go crosstown.”
“Good thinking.”
No one said much on the ride. It was a nice summer night, but we were all busy thinking about what could go wrong.
Burr tried whistling the Mission Impossible theme song once, but gave up when it fell flat.
The south side of the city was Burnout Town, trickle-down economics at its finest: vacant lots littered with trash; old rows of dismal project housing; fortified stores; a lone Salvation Army outpost; human wreckage almost indistinguishable from the inanimate junk. All that was missing to make it look like the worst Brazilian favela was a flock of circling buzzards, vigilante-strung corpses on the few remaining light poles, and a burning garbage dump.
Suspicious and indifferent black and Hispanic faces watched us from corners, stoops, and windows. Although Domino’s was only half a mile away, on the edge of the devastation, their drivers seldom ventured in this direction.
“Better start,” said Burr nervously. “Before they decide we look like a can of government surplus meat waiting to be opened.”
“That’s really unfair and judgmental,” Fiona said.
“Don’t get on my case now, you and your frigid bleeding heart—”
“Forget it,” I said. “Let’s just do it.”
Burr flicked on the PA. He coughed a couple of times, and it came out sounding like God’s bronchitis. He turned down the volume, then began his rap.
“Free pizza! Help celebrate our anniversary! Free pizza for the first thousand people! Grab a flier! Use the coupon! Free pizza right now!”
Fiona started tossing fliers from the car. The people already on the street snatched them from midair or piled on them like football players. Men, women, and kids were pouring out of the buildings.
The fliers looked really pro. Burr had typeset them on our Mac, using scanned Domino’s illos. The pizza joint’s address was in twelve-point bold.
At the bottom, in minuscule type, a line read: “Sponsored in part by the SPCA.”
There had been a quaver in Burr’s voice. But now that he saw how successful his spiel was, he got cocky.
“Extra pepperoni! Double cheese! Anchovies and pineapples!”
“Hey, cool it, man …”
We drove up and down through the neighborhood until all the fliers were gone. Then we made a big circle back toward Domino’s.
Parking a dozen blocks away, we switched plates, dismounted the sign and speakers, and trashed them in a Dumpster.
“Hate to waste good equipment like that—” said Burr.
“They’re incriminating. And besides, we won’t be needing them again. No repeating ourselves, remember?”
We started to walk toward Domino’s. Four blocks away, we could hear the angry crowd noise.
“I’m a little scared,” Fiona said.
“Nothing to be scared of. Believe me, no one got a good look at us. They were too busy diving for coupons.”
Sirens started to wail, plainly converging on the disturbance.
We couldn’t get any closer than a hundred yards to the Domino’s. It was surrounded by a solid mass of people, and the people were ringed by squad cars, their lights painting the scene a patriotic red, white, and blue.
A chant began to swell.
“Pizza! Pizza! Motherfuckin’ pizza!”
I approached a cop. He dropped his hand to his gun instinctively, then recovered himself.
“What’s happening, officer?” I said in my best concerned Young Republican voice.
“Some kinda crazy publicity stunt that went cock-eyed.” His walkie-talkie crackled. “’Scuse me.”
I eavesdropped on his conversation. Apparently, every Domino’s in the city had been enlisted to deal with the crisis. All orders in progress had been diverted to the scene of the incipient riot. Ovens were being crammed with pizza after hastily assembled pizza to satisfy the crowd. Extra tomato sauce and mozzarella had been requisitioned from as far away as Boston. All speed limits and traffic laws had been tempor
arily waived for the courageous drivers.
I walked back to Fiona and Burr.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have ignition.”
Perhaps a little unwisely, considering the cops, we gave each other high-five salutes. But we couldn’t help it, and they were too busy to notice.
“Let’s get home,” said Burr. “I’m starving.”
“There’s nothing in the fridge,” Fiona reminded us. “Takeout?”
“Chinese? Or pizza?” said Fiona reflexively.
And that’s when we lost it, laughing through tears so hard that we could hardly find the car.
The Society for Poetically Creative Anarchy was born in a laundromat, while our grass-greened workclothes were in the spin cycle.
That’s where Burr and I met Fiona.
Burr and I had grown up together. We went through elementary school, high school, and three years of college as buddies, reading the same comics, the same science fiction, the same boho philosophers, the same semiotic jarheads. When we both ran out of intellectual steam and tuition money at the same time—that year they axed the Pell grants—we dropped out together and started a landscaping business with a used Ford Ranger and some old tools and mowers given to us by Burr’s uncle Karl, who wanted to retire.
The work was hard but the money was decent, and we were our own bosses. We even had a few months off in midwinter, when we collected unemployment.
We were pretty much content to glide along as we were doing. But even though we were pretty comfortable, we still liked to bullshit about how fucked-up society was.
We were metaphysical malcontents, our brains warped by too much Edward Abbey and secondhand Bakunin, but lacking any clear goals.
Emperor of Gondwanaland Page 4