Splendid Apocalypse: The Fall of Old Earth (An Old Guy/Cybertank Adventure Book 5)

by Timothy J. Gawne

  “A good question,” said Mahalanobis. “Under normal conditions you would be correct. It would only be a matter of time before the authorities crushed us. The Neoliberal elite has room only for slaves, serfs, and sycophants. It cannot tolerate anyone having an independent existence; there can be no rivals for power. Things, however, are now chaotic. The environment is collapsing, and the Neoliberals are conducting raids on anyone and everything that has even the slightest sign of order. If we keep our heads down, they might overlook us.”

  “And why do you call them – what was the word again? – Neoliberals? I’ve never heard that term, besides the current governing coalition is conservative.”

  “Neoliberal is an old word, from the end of the 20th century. It describes the philosophy where all human relationships are reduced to marketplace transactions, and the market is rigged. However, Neoliberals are nothing if not masters of propaganda, and they hide their true nature behind a multiplicity of false fronts. Calling them by their true name is the first step in resisting them. Did you know that you can be arrested for using that word?”

  “You can be arrested for anything, in my experience,” said Blucher.

  “Quite.”

  The two walked past a site where several cultists under the direction of a Librarian were installing hydroponics units. The long, low trays needed to be hooked up to water supplies and returns, and powerful lights suspended up over them.

  “The work seems to be going well,” said Blucher.

  “So far,” admitted Mahalanobis. “We are hopeful. Still, trying to grow crops in an enclosed environment is a challenge. There is so much to organize. Imagine what it would be like if the world was still fresh and there were only a billion or two of us. We could just throw seeds on the ground and they would grow themselves.”

  “I suppose,” said Blucher, “but somehow I doubt that it was ever that easy.”

  “You are right, of course. In any event, if we can just get the system up and running and reduce it to a routine it will be less daunting. Now, to change the subject, tell me about your time with the ribhus. What were they like?”

  “That’s tough to say. I’ve already told you that they are developing their own language, right? They say that English doesn’t suit their vocal cords, and that the grammar is too crude for them. Most of what they were talking about I didn’t get. Certainly they are fast and strong and perceptive beyond anything human. I could never have kept up with their full speed, so I know I held them back.”

  “They could have just left you behind. That speaks of a sense of honor.”

  “Yes, I suppose it does. Though it’s not absolute, they won’t kill themselves just for honor. They made it clear that if I became a serious liability they would have abandoned me. Still, I think they took risks to help me. Some of their inbuilt loyalty to themselves may have rubbed off on me.”

  Mahalanobis and Blucher passed a section of the tunnel where two cultists were building a restroom into a side alcove. Mahalanobis noted with pleasure that the cultists did not require supervision to install the drains to the water treatment plant. “Tell me about this inbuilt loyalty.”

  Blucher ran a hand through her hair. “I don’t know much about it, really. They mentioned it in passing a few times, but they are totally committed to each other. I never saw humans work so well as a team.”

  “Biological systems never have absolute specificity,” said Mahalanobis. “The features in a human child that bond us to them are also present in most mammalian young. This is why humans find kittens and puppies to be so cute. Perhaps you are correct, and some of their native loyalty may spill over to us.”

  “Maybe,” said Blucher.

  “Any other impressions of them that could be of use?”

  “You know, it’s funny. When I was with them it could get wearing, without me even noticing it. Their gestures and body language are mostly human, but just off enough that it kind of builds up a feeling of irritation without you even realizing it. On the other hand, when I am back in human company, people seem so heavy and clumsy and slow.”

  “I can see that that could be jarring. I hope you are settling in with us.”

  “Oh yes, very well on that score. Do you know what bothers me the most?”

  “I think I can guess, but tell me anyhow.”

  “The paperwork. I have been on the run for months now. I have not accessed my email, I have not filled out a tax form, or recertified on diversity training, or made payments on my student loans. I haven’t even been logging the times that I use the bathroom. There must be multiple arrest warrants out for me. It’s been so long, that I can never go back!”

  “That is a common reaction of people whom we have recruited from Neoliberal society. How are the nightmares?”

  “You know about the nightmares?” asked Blucher.

  “Of course I do,” said Mahalanobis. “You dream of the police coming for you because you are so far behind on your taxes. You dream of endless ranks of missing scheduled payments and certifications and you wake up in the middle of the night sweating and terrified. You dream that you access your email and there is notice after notice that important reports are overdue. You have lived this life for so long that it’s a part of you. This is a standard pattern.”

  “Oh. I guess that makes sense. I suppose it will get better over time.”

  “Indeed,” said Mahalanobis. “There is, however, another way. I could give you a book that would help.”

  Blucher looked skeptical. “A book? I’ve read self-help books. Mostly they just tell you what you already know, and the rest is trash. Books don’t help with things like this.”

  They passed a section of the subway platform where cultist children were playing with a soccer ball. Someone had set up some red plastic netting to keep the ball in bounds. When the Librarians had first encountered them, they had been scrawny and sullen, with creepy accusing stares. Now there was meat on their bones, and they were laughing and completely missing the point of passing the ball to a teammate. Mahalanobis thought that nothing boosts morale as much as the sound of children playing.

  “My dear Miss Blucher,” said Mahalanobis, “where to begin? Do you remember the old joke, that if an infinite number of monkeys were typing on the keys of a word-processor they would eventually, by chance, reproduce the complete scripts for all ten seasons of Nymphomaniac Engineer in Zentopia?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “The point is that they would not just reproduce the complete script, they would also produce every possible variant. Now some of these would be gobblygook and easily dismissed, but some would be only slightly flawed versions of the true scripts, and some would be deeply flawed versions, grammatically correct but totally missing the point of the original.”

  “All right. I agree, but I still don’t see where this is leading.”

  “The point is that global data networks are like that. There is the truth, buried in there somewhere, and outright lies, and subtle lies, and misdirection, and all of it. A million human lifetimes would not let you sift the pure items from those with lethal inbuilt flaws. That is why proper cataloging, and librarians, are so important.”

  “But,” said Blucher, “there are computerized search engines. Surely this can all be done automatically? I thought that human librarians were obsolete?”

  “Ah,” said Mahalanobis, “you mistake information for wisdom, a common error in this day. If you do a computer search for what is 2+2? You will get 3, and 5, and 1.412, but most answers will come back as 4, and you can easily validate the results yourself. But more complex questions? Where evaluating each possible answer would require a human lifetime? When powerful forces have an interest in spreading misinformation? Search engines cannot help you there. You need a proper index that has been carefully curated and refined and defended by those with a strong regard for the truth.”

  They passed through a section of the subway that was currently
empty. The old station lights had been reactivated by the Librarians, and it was simulated late afternoon, so the area was brightly lit. The walls, however, were still covered with centuries of graffiti and stains, and the space where the tracks used to be were still piled up with refuse.

  Blucher pointed to the piles of garbage. “It’s comfortable down here, but I have never seen so much trash in one place. Isn’t it a public health hazard?”

  “It is,” said Mahalanobis. “Someday we will have to do something about it, but for now we can’t spare the effort from the hydroponics and water systems. I could see that, with work, this place could become quite pleasant. It would not be hard to install small parks with realistic simulations of the sky and sun. We could have a stream passing through here, with rainbow trout – they would be lovely to look at and a good food source. Something to look forward to, if we live that long.”

  Blucher looked around. “It’s hard to see much potential in all this rubbish, but I guess so. It’s just a bare canvas. Still, wouldn’t that be wasteful? Parks, streams? With a more efficient allocation of resources you could accommodate so many more…”

  “Efficient?” said Mahalanobis. “Efficient? Well, yes, if we gave up all human decencies I could see that we could jam more people into these caverns. Why not? Why not force people to live in squalor, if only there can be more of them? Why not cut the legs off of children destined for clerical work, to save on their rations? And why not cull all of the older and less efficient workers, strip their bones of meat and boil their skins into soup, to make room for younger and more efficient workers? Why not turn the world into a screaming hell if only there can be more serfs?”

  Blucher turned red. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Mahalanobis closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. “No, my lady, it is I that must apologize. I spoke rashly. It is just that you have struck a ganglion. You have been so long indoctrinated with the twisted lies of Neoliberalism that you cannot help yourself. However, back to the subject at hand. I think we should pay a visit to the archives. I have something to show you.”

  Mahalanobis led Blucher back towards the main section of the subway platform.

  “The archives. That’s the part of your library that has real books, right?”

  “Yes, and other forms of data storage as well, but books are the holiest.”

  “I think I heard that you Librarians Temporal have more than one location? You are a franchise?”

  “A franchise?” Mahalanobis smiled. “I haven’t heard us described as such, but yes, we are a franchise. There are currently 113 branches of the Librarians Temporal spread across the Earth, although we have taken losses. In the last year the central authorities have destroyed 34 branches. Some of our greatest minds were lost as well; a tragedy, and a sin.”

  “Do you have a ruling committee or something?”

  “Not as such. Our local branches have a large degree of autonomy. Partly this is due to a need to avoid scrutiny from the federal authorities. If we had made too big a show of coordination they would have declared us a militia or a terrorist organization and stamped us out long ago. We do have a central council of the senior archivists of each branch, but it does not have very much formal power. There is no way that we can meet in person. To avoid signals intelligence from detecting a pattern, we are forced to communicate using physical letters, or very occasional short messages embedded in emails via steganography.”

  “You can run a globe-spanning organization with 113 branches using only physical letters?”

  “You would be surprised what you can do with hand-written letters if you avoid making the simple complex. Besides, I think the federal intelligence agencies have forgotten that such things even exist. They have become supreme experts in all aspects of monitoring communications on the global datanets. Not even we Librarians Temporal would dare to challenge them in that arena. But simple notes written on a napkin? A physical book packed in with some antiques? It is, I think, beyond their conception that such a thing could be important.”

  They came to a part of the platform that had been walled off with ancient particle board. The door was only clear plastic sheets hanging down from a wooden beam. Mahalanobis pushed the plastic aside and allowed Blucher to enter first.

  Right inside the door was a nondescript 40-something Librarian seated at a small table, reading a book. Mahalanobis waved at him. “Hello Brother Sincich! How goes the archives?”

  Brother Sincich did not look up from his book. “Oh well enough, brother, well enough. I cannot recall the archives being this busy for a long time. Your ribhus are quite the voracious readers, and I see you have brought another customer. I would assist her myself, but I know that she is in capable hands.”

  “Thank you, brother,” said Mahalanobis. Sincich did not respond, but only turned another page in his book.

  The room was well lit, with rows of mis-matched bookshelves each full of precisely indexed books. There was a metal card catalog over to one side. At the far end they could see an entrance to another room that contained archaic computer equipment. Tables and chairs of random design were scattered around the room, occupied by red-robed Librarians, a couple of cultists, and three ribhus.

  One of the ribhus put down his book, and stood up. “Hello, Imelda, and Brother Mahalanobis. It’s good to see you. Thank you for allowing us to access your archives. It is astonishing. We would not have thought such a thing possible.”

  “You are most welcome, Calibri,” said Mahalanobis. “Remember that we are Librarians. We are sworn to provide access to all who come in peace. Perhaps sometime you might be persuaded to add to our stores?”

  “We would be honored,” said Calibri, “but we need to digest what we have found here first. My people are each smarter than the average human, but we are young, and few. The time I have spent in these archives has shown me just how much we still have to learn. I am humbled.”

  “A pleasure,” said Mahalanobis. “Miss Blucher tells me that you have been developing your own language? Perhaps, as your other duties permit, you might be persuaded to produce a dictionary, and a grammar?”

  “Certainly. Although I doubt that a human would find it much use. Our language is adapted to our own neural structures and vocal cords.”

  “Perhaps not much immediate use, but certainly it would be insightful. The real aliens are, as you likely know, not very talkative. You would be our first encounter with an intelligent biological species that is not strictly human. Who knows what advances we might make together?”

  “Be careful, Calibri,” said Blucher, “or he’ll convert you into a Librarian.”

  Calibri laughed. “In other circumstances, if I did not have the fate of my species suspended by a hair, I would do so gladly. For now, please consider us as friends of the library.” The ribhus closed his book and, in one effortless, graceful motion, inserted it back into its place on the shelves. “I am afraid that my break is almost up, and that I need to head back to work. The power distribution hubs are still unfinished.”

  “I must say,” said Mahalanobis, “you ribhus are the fastest and most efficient workers that I have ever encountered. We are finally, I think, turning the corner here much in part due to you. Thank you.”

  Calibri bowed. “You are most welcome. At first we were hardly even slaves – we were hardware, test animals. Then we were on the run. We were free, but not safe. Now we are free and safe. Whatever we can do to support our new home, we will.” With that, he turned and walked out of the archives. Sincich waved as the ribhus left, still without looking up from his reading.

  “It does seem to be going well, so far,” said Blucher.

  “It does,” said Mahalanobis, “it does. I am more hopeful about the future of our library than I have been in some time. By the way, I hope you don’t mind living with the cultists? How are you getting along?”

  “Oh, quite well. I’ve spent a lot of time supervising blue-collar workers, this lot isn’t bad.”<
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  “Sister Haldane tells me that you have been invaluable in organizing the cultists that are constructing the new medical facilities, and it takes a lot to impress Sister Haldane. You have had similar experience before?”

  “Of a sort. I managed a, um, small industrial enterprise, so it’s something I know. Anyhow, I’m not sure that you should keep on calling them ‘cultists.’ I mean, they hardly worship this Cthulhu thing at all.”

  “I see your point. Then what should we call them?”

  “Well, how about citizens?”

  “Citizens? Citizens of what?”

  “I don’t know, this… this great underground empire you’re building down here. Something like that.”

  “The Great Underground Empire. Someday I’ll give you the reference and show you how humorous that is. Still, why not. It does have to be called something. Preferably without the words ‘people’s democratic republic’ attached. But here, this is what I wanted to show you.”

  Adenour retrieved a book from one of the shelves, and gave it to Blucher. It was bound in old leather, and dog-eared from years of reading, but otherwise in good condition. The cover was embossed with the words “Essentials of Self-Control’, by Protonicus.

  “Just a single book?” asked Blucher.

  “Yes, just a single book, but one of the true classics. It will change your life. You have read a real book before, haven’t you?”

  “Oh yes, of course,” said Blucher. “Mostly maintenance and emergency procedure manuals, things that always have to be available even when the power goes off or the network crashes.” She flipped through the pages. “But this has no active links, no embedded dictionary, and no note-taking service. It’s so primitive!”

  “True. It also has no distracting ads involving dancing marshmallows, no automated reporting of your reading to the central authorities, and no links where you might accidently bankrupt yourself by purchasing a forklift. It is just the distilled wisdom of one of the wisest human beings to have ever lived, pure and uncorrupted. He speaks to you now, to you directly, and through this book he is your slave. The book has barely a hundred kilobytes of information, and that seems low, but think how much a single bit – yes or no – could convey, in answer to an appropriate question.”