Moderan

by David R. Bunch

  INCIDENT IN MODERAN

  IN MODERAN truly we are not often between wars, but this was a truce time. A couple of Strongholds in the north had malfunctioned—some breakdown in their ammo-transport belts, I think—and we had all voted to hold up the war a day or so to give them a chance to get back in the blasting. Don’t get me wrong—this was no lily-white flower-heart fair-play kind of thing or love-thy-neighbor-Stronghold sort of hypocrisy, like might have been in the Old Days. This was a hard-neck common-sense compromise with reality. The bigger and better the war, the bigger and better the chance to hate voluminously and win honors. It was as simple as that.

  But at any rate, it was between wars that I was doing some odd-job things just outside the eleventh, outermost Wall of my Stronghold. To be right truthful, I was mostly just sitting out there in my hip-snuggie chair, enjoying the bleary summer sun through the red-brown vapor shield of July and telling my head weapons man what to do. He was, so it chanced, polishing an honors plaque that proclaimed on Wall 11 how our fort, Stronghold 10, was FIRST IN WAR, FIRST IN HATE, AND FIRST IN THE FEARS OF THE ENEMY.

  Things were getting tedious. What I mean is, it was getting dull, this sitting around between wars, directing the polishing of plaques and dozing in the filtered summer sun. Out of sheer boredom, and for the amusement of it all, I suppose, I was just about ready to get up and start beating my weapons man with my new-metal swagger stick loaded with lead. Not that he wasn’t doing an excellent job, you understand, but just to have something to do. I was saved this rather stupid and perhaps pointless, though not altogether unpleasant, expedient by a movement on the ninth hill to my left. Quickly I adjusted my wide-range Moderan vision to pinpoint look, threw my little pocko-scope viewer up to my eyes and caught a shape.

  When it got there, it was a shape, all right! I immediately saw it was one of those pieces of movement—man? animal? walking vegetable?—well, what are we going to say for most of these mutant forms that roam the homeless plastic in Moderan? When he stood before me, I felt disturbed. Strangely I felt somehow guilty, and ashamed, that he was so bent and twisted and mushy-looking with flesh. Oh, why can’t they all be hard and shining with metal, and clean, like we Stronghold masters are, with a very minimum of flesh-strip holding them in shape? It makes for such a well-ordered and hate-happy life, the way we masters are in Moderan, so shiny and steellike in our glory, with our flesh-strips few and played down and new-metal alloy the bulk of our bodily splendor. But I suppose there must always be lower forms, insects for us to stride on. . . . I decided to try speech, since I couldn’t just sit there with him staring at me so with those flesh eyeballs. “We’re between wars here,” I said conversationally. “Two of the mighty Strongholds of the north broke down, so we decided to hold up.”

  He didn’t say anything. He was looking now at the honors plaque on Wall 11 and at the weapons man polishing the proud words. “It’s just a kind of fill-in in-between job,” I said. “Besides, it gives me a chance to doze out here in this filtered summer sun while the weapons man does the work. But it gets tedious. Before you came, I was right on the point of getting up to start beating him with my new-metal swagger stick loaded with lead, even if he is all-metal new-metal alloy, and doing an excellent job, and probably wouldn’t have felt the beating anyway. But just to have something to do, you know. As you perhaps realize, a Stronghold master mustn’t do any real work in Moderan. It’s against the code.” I laughed a little, but strangely I felt nervous in my flesh-strips and vague along the rims of my joins. Why did he look at me that way? Even so, why should the stares of such an insignificant piece of life affect me at all?

  Could he talk? He could. Blue soft lips parted and a yellow-pink piece of gristly meat jigged up and down in wet slop in his mouth that was raw-flesh red. When this somewhat vulgar performance of meat and air was through, I realize he had said, “We had a little funeral for Son a while ago. We hacked away at the plastic with our poor makeshift grave kits and put him under the crust on time. We hurried. We knew you couldn’t guarantee much truce. I come to thank you for what you did.”

  I shook a little at this strange speech and turn, then recovered myself quickly and waved a steel hand airily. “Consider that I’m thanked. If you wish a steel flower for a decoration, take one.”

  He shuddered in all his loose-flesh parts. “I came to thank you,” he told me in what I supposed passed for blunt speech in his tribe, “not to be ridiculed.” In his stare there was a look of puzzlement and doubt now.

  Suddenly I found the whole thing growing quite ludicrous. Here I was, a Moderan man between wars, minding my own business, sitting outside the eleventh outermost Wall of my Stronghold, waiting for the war to resume, and some strange walking lump of sentimentality that I didn’t even know existed hurries across from the ninth hill to my left to thank me for a funeral. “You had a good one?” I suggested. Frantically I tried to remember things from the Old Days. “The mourners stretched down for a mile? Music—a lot? Flowers—banked all about?”

  “Just us,” he said, “I and his mother. And Son. We hurried. We were sure you couldn’t give much time from all the busy times. We thank you for what you did—for the decency.”

  Decency? Now, what an odd word? What could he mean by decency? “Decency?” I said.

  “The rites. You know! We had time for a little prayer. We asked that Son be allowed to live forever in a happy home.”

  “Listen,” I said, a little fed up already with all this, “I don’t more than half remember from the Old Days enough about this to discuss it. But you poor flesh mutants bury your dead and then ask that they be allowed to rise and live again about twenty-five times lighter than a dehumidified air bubble. Isn’t that about it? But isn’t that taking quite a chance? Why don’t you just get wise and do it like we Moderan masters do? Just have that operation while you’re young and vigorous, throw away what flesh you don’t need, “replace” yourself with all-metal new-metal alloy “replacements” and live forever. Feed yourself this pure honey-of-introven extract we’ve come up with and it’s a cinch, you’ll have it made. We know what we’ve got, and we know how to live. . . . And now, if you’ll excuse me, according to that report arriving at this very moment over the Warner, those Strongholds that aborted the war seem to be fixed up again. We stopped the blasting because of them so we’ll just have to really move now to make up hate-time. I would guess the firing may be a little heavier than you’ve ever seen it.”

  Through the last parts of this speech I watched what looked like puzzlement and doubt flicker strangely across his flesh-encumbered countenance. “You stopped the war because—because those two Strongholds aborted in the north? You—you didn’t really do it then so we could bury Son and have the decency?!” A cold thought must have wrapped him round; he seemed to shrink and shrivel and go inches shorter right there on the plastic. I marveled anew at the great hard times these flesh things gave themselves with their emotions and their heart palpitations. I thumped my “replaced” chest in a kind of meditation and thanked the lucky iron stars in our splendid new-satellite heavens for my calm-cool condition. “In a little while,” I said, “we’ll open up this blasting. We’re clearing the lines now for first countdown and a general resumption. You see, we try to start even. After that it’s every Stronghold for itself to just blast away and make the most expeditious use of the ammo.”

  He looked at me a long time for some sign of joking. After a while he said in a tone that I supposed with the flesh things passed for great sadness and great resignation, “No, I guess you really didn’t stop it so we could bury Son and have the decency. I guess it truly was the aborted Strongholds in the north. I see now I read something true and fine into it and that true and fine something wasn’t there at all. And so I—I came across to thank you for a decency—for nothing—”

  I probably nodded ever such a little, or possibly I didn’t, because I was hearing the Voice now, hearing the Warner say that all was about in readiness for Great Blast
to go and for the masters again to take their positions at the switch panels of War Rooms. “That’s it!” I said to no one and nothing in particular. “It’ll be double firing now and around-the-day launching of war heads until we make up our time in hate units.”

  Just as, bidding my weapons man not to forget the hip-snuggie, I was about to turn and go, hustle off to my War Room and resume Great Blast, a cold sound struck through my steel. What was that high whimpering along the plastic? Then I saw. It was the little flesh-bum. He had lost control of his emotions, had fallen down and was now blubbering real tears. “It’s okay, don’t be scared,” I shouted at him as I turned to hurry. “Keep low in the draws, avoid even halfway up hills and travel swiftly. You’ll make it. We fire only at peaks, first go.”

  But as I passed through the Wall and was bidding the weapons man make all secure, I noticed the little flesh-fellow remained prone, blubbering along the plastic. He was not making any effort to get clear and save himself! And suddenly old Neighboring Stronghold to the east let loose with such a cheating early burst that the little flesh-bum was quite pancaked down—indeed even far further than pancaked, as it got him with a deadly zump bomb that I’m sure was capable of punching him to the center of the earth even as he was being vaporized to high sky and all winds, and I was ever so glad this had fallen just a little bit short of my complex. But as I glanced at the smoking havoc and a large patch of nothing now, where a moment before had been the good plastic earth-cover, I could not help but rejoice that the war was certainly again GO. For the flesh-bum I didn’t even try for tears, and nothing in my mind could bring my heart rain as I raced on to the War Room to punch my launch knobs down.

  THE FINAL DECISION

  STEEL you can be rid of. Easily. You just lay it by. Metal is a fine thing to leave stacked in comers or along ditches of roads. Or melt it down. When you’re THROUGH. Our new-metal alloy “replacements”—what a fine deal . . . to live forever, ho!!!

  To live forever; to be our true bad selves. How fine it sounded. What a grand plan! But have you ever lain back at the switch panel in your War Room with your fort on the status of Continuous Blast for weeks on end? Karoom karoom karoom. How it palls. How it tires. How you begin to ask yourself, this is for what? what purpose, hey? But you pause once—you rest just a little before the general amnesty goes out with the white flags up and you’re dead, your walls flattened, your Stronghold crushed to dust. So what’s to do? Year after year you lie back in your Stronghold and ride with the general plan. They want war, you war. They decide to peace it awhile, you send up your white flag along with the jolly rest. And you smile your teeth at the seasons and let time roll. After all, you have a lot of it—time. In Moderan.

  One morning, say—it’s a June Wednesday—the vapor shield is blue in memory of those old blue skies, the rockets are firing arroump arroump arroump, the walking doll bombs are rolling out toward all the Enemies and the Honest Jakes are homing down just fine to the kill—in fact, it’s a perfect war. Then what? Suddenly your heart kicks up in its settings and you feel like doing some poems or sorrowing to go love your neighbor and tell him how up an ode or two. Or you want to go love your neighbor and tell him how wrong is the war. Can you do it in this society? In Moderan! You dare! And anyway, what is TRUTH—the poems or the war? Telling your neighbor it’s wrong, or smiling your teeth bare while his poor green blood spots the plastic?

  But before I tell you what I’ve decided to do concerning this TRUTH-PURPOSE Big Question, let me say I’ve tasted the sweets. I’ve been the top war man for many a vapor shield. (A vapor shield is a month, in Moderan, in case you hadn’t heard.) I’ve had them all at bay, my rockets beautifully firing for many a Moderan year. I’ve done the civic thing too. I’ve helped the poor struggling Stronghold against the bully one. I’ve ganged up on the arrogant to blast them down for trees. (A fine metal park now “grows” and glows with shining shrubs where many a bully Stronghold once stood and defied our happy laws.) I’ve trained ever so many boys, refugees from Old Life in Far Wide, made them lean clean citizens for the Program, cleared them of Conscience Clutter and Moral Know, got them ready for Joys. I’ve sung the hymns on Gads Sonsday, done my prayers to the Needle Building, the Court men, the Hall men, the God-pieces far and wide. And each and every penance day has found me with my little plastic bag of penance tears slung down from a new-metal hand, my latest war medal around my neck, marching with my battle opposites—plop-plip-plap-plop over the homeless plastic—going to the ceremonies, doing penance because as a man I had not, as indeed no man has, been perfect. Yes, I had won all my wars, but—well, who ever wins them as well as he might have won—who ever had as many as he might have had with a little more hard trying?

  And now let me try a confession. (I’m not ashamed. I’ve sought Truth.) Let me confess that along with all these high accomplishments of war I’ve also been a lover. Ah yes, I know it’s unusual. I know I shake you, somewhat. But I reach for Truth—all Truth. I, the greatest of all the Stronghold masters, with my war medals stacked case on case, here on the brink of an Ultimate Decision I confess that I have known, have felt, have been among that unreasonable, unreliable word “love.” I am guilty, but I am not sorry; I am not ashamed. Here in this steel-ribbed land, this plastic-coated iron and concrete new-metal place, where we practice strength and speculate on armor, dedicated to the high principle that only hate is reliable and finally true, I was a lover! I seem to brag. Perhaps I do brag.

  It started out as Joys. Joys, let me say, are fine in Moderan. Joys are what we live for, Joys and wars, and wars are, in a way, of course the ultimate Joys. But when a Joy turns into love, you’re on dangerous ground. No longer thinking clean, you may be cluttered. You do not have, perhaps, that sharp precise decision about you that you had when you were clear and knew that hate was the only reliable emotion. Perhaps, in the final flunking, my greatness was truly my temporary downfall.

  It began at the great awards festival that year in Warwington, the first year I won the double honors, the one of the crossed missiles and the award of the eleven steel walls. The award of the crossed missiles was given me because I was the top blaster in Moderan that year, having leveled more recalcitrant Strongholds as cleared places for trees, having fired more nuisance missiles without knockout harm to the Strongholds that lived clear-and-true by the rules of honorable war. The award of the eleven walls was pinned because my inventiveness had come up with a plan that had allowed my servants to be meaner to each other, that is, they had piled up more hate points per capita than had the servants of any other master. Well, there I was, supreme abroad and supreme at home, the acknowledged mean-master of all the lands of Moderan. It was a heady eminence; it was a feat to bloat the ribs and stand the man up taller.

  So I went to get my awards that day in Warwington. At the glittering Banquet of Honor I inched out bold when my name was called; plop-plip-plap-plop. I wavered toward the dais, slow slow as we go working our hinges and braces. But no one laughed, for they were steel men too. What a price we have paid for our iron durability; what a bounty went to some cruel god of reality when we took the path of “replacements,” accepted the new-metal parts and played our flesh-strips down. How I longed that shining day for one stretch of good striding, one minute with firm young flesh on my steel-rod legs and real feet in my high-polish war boots to reach me forward in a jaunty step.

  Amid the heartbreak waiting of the jealous Stronghold masters at last I attained the dais. I stood there waving my joints in a little matter of mockery, lined my leg “replacements” up to stand me to tallest tall, pulled full my new-metal lungs and stared down into the honorable hating faces. Then the applause broke out, salvo on salvo of honor done by steel hands beating steel hands. Outside in the parks the honor missiles fired. Yes, as I said earlier, I have tasted the sweets.

  On the dais that day occurred the unusual thing for me the double-honors winner. And it was ultimately my temporary downfall. While I stood chest-proud and tail-up for th
e pinning on of the honors, someone flicked on the ladies. What I mean to say is, while the ceremonial master was fastening my medals to me, a servant type rose up, a stagehand kind of person, and went all around on the dais and flicked to ON the life-switches of all the new-metal ladies that decorated our ceremonial area. Ordinarily it would have meant nothing, for our urges along those lines are not usually more than a light lukewarm in Moderan, and we have other things to do of a more consecrated nature. A lady for variety in Joys maybe once or twice a year, but other than that—phoo! But tonight I turned—and of such small things are our lives twisted and warped and arrested, and made full. My medals gleaming in gold, I caught the eye of a charmer. I was stunned to blue-gold and heaven-madness of dreaming, my heart pistoning hard while I stared. Later on in the show, when in eulogy they were giving me Everything—the world for my greatness, all the verbal blah about how a people should be proud, how much truly they owed for my double-win example—I said, trying hard for calm, going big for the cool nonchalance while my heart hammered—pointing, “Throw in the little blue-eyed goldy-blonde one. I’ve a spot for her in my statuary.” So they loaded my war cars with ladies when I readied for my home. All of them I quickly melted down, except the ONE!

  But the ONE! Here on the brink of the Final Deciding, after all the eras, after all the monotonous years of tasting the sweets of honor, how I see her, thinking back. Small and gold and blue—how they molded her, how her hinges were set in smooth! So I had taken her home and had looked at her long and well once and had set her among my statuary and had forgot her—all would have still been safe. Or I could have admired the mechanics at great length, or a little while, rubbed the rivets and weld joints well and then melted her down with my torches. What’s to harm? But no, I couldn’t do the prudent thing. Not me!