by Mick Farren
It might have been a cruel joke, but if it was true, what would a new government mean? One that opened the camps, or one that would set up gas ovens? The note was passed from one man to the next in aching silence. They scarcely dared to hope. Freedom? Maybe even revenge? It was almost inconceivable.
Carlisle
"You know what this is? This is like that Orson Welles Martian freakout back in the radio days."
"Except that it's to the hundredth power."
"I don't understand this. It's mass mania."
"Do they really believe it's the Apocalypse?"
"It's like these figures of Mansard's have hit some nerve and flipped everyone out."
Carlisle looked coldly at the man who had spoken. "If you're already half out of your mind on propaganda, poverty, and A-waves, flipping all the way might not look like so bad a deal."
That brought him some sharp looks. He glanced back at Dreisler. "This is the revolution, isn't it? We've got free speech now, right?"
Dreisler was sitting behind everyone, apparently watching their reactions; he seemed almost languid. The only sign that he might also be feeling the strain was the way he chain-smoked unfiltered cigarettes, holding them between thumb and forefinger, FDR style.
"As long as you're breathing, Harry, your mouth will keep flapping."
Carlisle's mouth did indeed keep flapping. The day's events were building a reckless go-for-broke anger inside him. "You don't seem very surprised by all this. Were you expecting it? Maybe like the Proverb shooting?"
Dreisler's eyes flashed cold. "Watch it, Harry."
Carlisle ignored the warning. "Seriously, what do you think is going on out there?"
Dreisler's expression was impossible to read. "I think Johansen's right. Mansard has hit a nerve. He may even have lanced a large boil on the national psyche. Maybe it's the emotional end of the Faithful era. America wants one last, massive psychodelusion."
Carlisle slumped down in an empty operator's chair. "People are getting hurt out there."
Dreisler dragged on his cigarette. "People always get hurt. Omelets and eggs, remember?"
Carlisle thought of the dead cop on the stairs to the roof.
In the Astor Place com center they were watching the chaos growing outside. As soon as Faithful had been secured in the basement lockup under heavy guard, Dreisler, with the swagger of a magician, had produced a living, breathing Japanese cowboy called Hama who had jacked into the acres of corrupted software and laced in a temporary vaccine program. That, at least, had provided a narrow logic path through the virus-filled, psychedelic, random jungles that had once been the CCC base software. Dreisler had immediately used it to consolidate his position and start infiltrating his men into places that might be potential contra strongholds.
"As with revolution," he said, "the best time to fight counterrevolution is before it gets started."
It was not too long, though, before he was hampered in his efforts by the growing madness in the outside world and the reports of it that began to choke every communication channel.
Later it would be called the Armageddon Crazy, and it would go into the textbooks as one of the most extreme cases of riptide mass hysteria in a supposedly developed country. The appearance of Mansard's skywalkers had convinced vast numbers of people that Judgment Day was really at hand, and those vast numbers of people began to act accordingly. They went nuts. Initially it was confined to the crowds lining the Manhattan and Jersey sides of the river. People hurled themselves into the river in ever growing numbers. There were points during the night, even after the skywalkers were long gone, when the margins of the Hudson looked like a lemming fest, with bobbing heads and the thrashings of non-swimmers who had decided that they did not want to die after all. Unfortunately, the mania did not stay confined to the river for long. It rapidly spread across the city. By midnight, it was estimated that over two million people were raging through New York City, weeping, wailing, talking in tongues, and doing their best to damage themselves. At first the police had attempted to employ normal crowd-control measures, but after a while they were forced to admit defeat and simply step aside. The Armageddon Crazy was too highly charged to be kept in check. Also peace officers were not necessarily immune. The entire crew of a Pharaoh flipped out together and ran their armored carrier off the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. Many of those affected took it into their heads to go to graveyards and search for resurrected relatives. The hysteria was compounded by hundreds of people stumbling around among the headstones.
It was quickly discovered that the insanity could be transmitted electronically. With the TV censorship system burned out by virus, the images from New York – the giant skywalkers and the madness they had caused – went out unchecked, all over the country. As soon as the footage hit the screens in another city the same thing happened. Chicago, St. Louis, and Atlanta were infected immediately. New Orleans, Baltimore, and Detroit lasted an hour. Los Angeles held out for almost four hours, but when the Crazy got going, that city suffered one of the most spectacular outbreaks in the country. Hymn-singing arsonists burned huge tracts of the bone-dry Hollywood Hills, and naked millionaires ran down Rodeo Drive trying to give away their money. The gay underground took it as the signal to rise. Armed drag queens battled deacons to a standstill in a firelight that ran for twenty blocks down Santa Monica Boulevard.
The original plan had intended that Arlen Proverb go on TV the moment Faithful was in custody and pitch the idea of a brave new world to the country. That crucial move quickly fell victim to the Crazy. Dreisler had Proverb stashed in a safe house on the Upper East Side. When the signal was given, Proverb was supposed to get to a small basement studio and give his address, to those who still thought there might be a tomorrow, through a remote feed. The signal was sent, but nothing came back. It was discovered that the landline from the uptown studio had been put out of commission by an over-zealous virus. The backup plan called for Proverb to go across the park to another studio located at Seventy-ninth and Amsterdam. According to a garbled phone message, Proverb had set off with an escort but had not been heard from since. There were reports that thousands had gathered in Central Park to pray for the end. It was all too possible that the sight of a white limo trying to bull its way through might have driven them into a kill frenzy.
In the com center, a single screen was flashing regular blue and yellow pulses. An operator pointed to it. "That could be someone trying to get a visual signal in and it's being blocked."
Dreisler glanced at Hama. "Can you jack in and create a channel for it to get through?"
The Japanese bowed. "Of course."
He quickly connected his DNI leads. Under flaps of skin that resembled gills, the cowboy had rows of receptors on each side of his head that ran from ear to collarbone. There was nothing remotely like him anywhere in the U.S.A. If America decided to rejoin the rest of the world, they might find it an alien place.
Within seconds, an image of Proverb replaced the blue and yellow pulsing. His hair was messed and mere was a cut over his left eye, but otherwise he seemed okay. At first, he was mouthing soundlessly, like a fish in an aquarium, but then the audio cut in with an amplified crackle.
"… hear me? Is there anybody out there?"
Dreisler was on his feet. "Proverb, can you hear me?"
Proverb nodded. "I can hear you, but I can't see you."
Dreisler turned to Hama again. "Can we patch him to the satellite send?"
"No problem."
"Okay, Alien, can you go on the air?"
Proverb pushed his hair back out of his eyes. "Now?"
"Right now."
"I'm a bit of a mess, but I guess so."
Dreisler looked around the room. "Get ready to transmit this on all available channels. I don't want any mistakes." His attention switched to Proverb. "Are you ready, Alien?"
Carlisle supposed that Dreisler was what had once been called a natural leader. He had his doubts about where the deacon might be leadin
g them, though.
Proverb nodded. The professional communicator was coming through. "On your cue."
"I'll give you a ten-second count."
Proverb had appeared on all the TV monitor screens. A digital display counted off the time. Cynthia Kline slipped into the seat next to Harry Carlisle. She quickly squeezed his arm.
"Is it going to be possible for us to be friends when all this is over?" she asked quietly.
Carlisle raised a helpless hand. "Let's find out when all this is all over."
"Are we through? Are you that angry with me?"
Carlisle shook his head. "Not angry. It's just hard dealing with the idea that all the time we were sleeping together, we were actually on opposite sides."
"I couldn't tell you who I really was. You must realize that."
"I realize it all on a logical level. It's the emotional acceptance that I'm having trouble with. Hell, it was my job to catch you people and put you in jail, maybe see you hang. It's not an easy turnaround."
"We're on the same side now."
Carlisle sighed. "That is true."
Cynthia looked at him anxiously. "So?"
He took hold of her hand and squeezed it. "So let's see this thing through and then have a long talk about what we're going to do next."
Over on the other side of the room, Dreisler gestured with a flourish. "On the air."
A synthivoice provided the program interrupt. "We are taking you to New York City for a message from the Provisional Government of National Reconstruction."
Proverb betrayed one flash of uncertainty, and then the pro was in business. He had the expression of a man who had seen some hard times but knew he was going to win out in the end. Carlisle realized that another piece of history was being made.
"My friends, there's some of you out there who know me and some who don't. For those of you who don't, my name is Arlen Proverb. This morning I was a preacher and pretty sure of myself. Tonight, after everything that has happened, I'm just an American, and there's only one thing that I'm still certain about. I want to see this country regain its self-respect."
Speedboat
"… I want to see this country regain its self-respect. It seems that some of us have forgotten that when you come down to it, that's all any of us are – just Americans."
Speedboat reached for his beer. "What are they high on down there?"
He lay flat on his chest on the bed in the beat-up Buffalo motel room. For once he was glued to the TV instead of using it to merely ease the interminable waiting. It came and it went. It was yanked off the air and then restored minutes later. For a while, Canadian programming had leaked through the jamming, but that had abruptly stopped. Regular programs would start only to be interrupted by wild, insane footage of the monsters attacking New York and the population going into screaming panic. Even he could see that the monsters were holograms, but the panic was absolutely real. New York had gone crazy, and the rest of the country appeared to be following suit.
Aden Proverb was going on about a country divided and a country reborn. Speedboat switched channels to see if he could get any more live coverage of the craziness. To his dismay he found that Alien Proverb was on every channel. He abruptly killed the volume. Then he thought he heard noises outside the room. He heard them again. He rolled over.
"That sounds like…"
He sat bolt upright.
"That sounds like gunfire."
There was sweat on his palms as he got off the bed and moved cautiously toward the window. He separated the slats of the dusty blind. Some large vehicle with red lights flashing on top of it sat in the parking lot. One word sprang into his mind. Raid! He looked around the room. There was no back way out. He heard more gunfire, but it was some distance away. There were voices in the parking lot. He caught a snatch of conversation.
"… so I told him, eh, fuck with me again and I'll be taking your fucking blood pressure the hard way."
A loudhailer barked.
"You in the motel, come out of there! Everybody outside in the parking lot! Right now!"
Speedboat stood in the middle of the room. His stomach knotted as he fought off panic. There was no way that he was going to avoid the camp. He went slowly to the door and opened it. He looked out and could not believe his eyes. A massive, dark-green, amphibious tank was parked in the motel parking lot. A tank? Why the hell would the deacons be using a tank? None of the miserable refugees sheltering in the motel was that dangerous. The tank did not even look right. It had the heavy, slab-sided look that was the hallmark of the Russians, or, at least, something based on a Russian design. It was then that he saw the large, red, Canadian maple leaf on the side of the turret. Speedboat could not believe his eyes. The Canadians had crossed the border. One of the tank crew was walking toward him. The collar of his tank suit was unfastened, and his visor was pushed back. He was grinning.
"Don't look so goddamn miserable, pal. You're getting liberated."
EPILOGUES AND EPITAPHS
It was five days before the armageddon crazy finally Faded. America woke to the worst national hangover in history. The sense of guilt and shame that came with any hangover was buried in a furious binge of what became known as National Reconstruction. Alien Proverb's 'I'm just an American' speech seemed to have provoked a solid response, and the country appeared to have a genuine desire to let go of the Fundamentalist security blanket and really attempt to regain its self-respect. The speech was broadcast over forty times in the week following the Sunday Revolution. Unfortunately national reconstruction did not go as far as many would have hoped. Although some basic civil liberties were restored and thousands of political prisoners were released, the apparatus of repression created by the deacons was largely left in place. The economy continued to founder, and after three years there still had been no elections.
Proverb
Alien Proverb was declared interim president and retained the title until he was shot to death by John Manly Walker during a public address in Council Bluffs, Iowa. The assassination gave Matthew Dreisler the excuse he needed to declare the infamous State of Emergency.
Dreisler
Matthew Dreisler became the absolute overlord of both domestic and foreign security. Although Proverb was president, Dreisler became de facto commander in chief. At first, the Canadians kept him somewhat in check, hut after the pullout, he felt free to start constructing the perfect police state. His design was so self-sustaining that even after he himself was killed in the bomb attack on his private jet, the machine that he had created continued to function.
Carlisle
One month after the Sunday Revolution, Harry Carlisle applied for leave and a passport. He said he was going for two weeks of sun in Rio De Janeiro. He was never seen again. Some claimed that he had changed his name and vanished. Others believed that Dreisler had arranged his murder.
Kline
Around about the same time that Harry Carlisle supposedly left for his Rio vacation, Cynthia Kline also disappeared. Most who had known her assumed that as an operative of the Canadian Secret Service she had merely been given a new identity and transferred to a fresh theater of operations. As with Carlisle, however, there were those who subscribed to a more sinister theory: She and Harry Carlisle had both been killed at Dreisler's instigation.
Mansard
It took the new administration a full six weeks to decide whether Charlie Mansard was a hero or a criminal for having triggered the Armageddon Crazy. Finally they opted for the former, and Charlie went on to become world famous for his theatrical productions using skywalker holograms. He received special Tony awards for his presentations of Wagner's Ring Cycle and the musical The Last Words of Dutch Schultz.
1346408 Stone
Eli Stone got out of Joshua in the first wave of releases. He never, however, really readjusted to life in the outside world. After some months of being unable to hold down a job and treatment for chronic depression, he took his own life in a room in a cheap hotel on
Forty-third Street.
Speedboat
Speedboat returned to the Lower East Side. Inside of a year he had pulled off a major narcotics coup and left for Australia, never to return. He surfaced in Sydney, under the name Tommy Wilson, where he successfully managed the popular entertainer Ann Rango.
KLINE AND CARLISLE
Parallel shafts of sunlight lanced through the venetian blinds, and traffic noise floated up from the King's Cross red-light district. Down in the street, garish neon flashed and Chinese sailors on raucous shore leave from the aircraft carrier Revolutionary Fervor loudly made their presence known. Up in room 1009 of the Sebel Townhouse, enjoying the soft introspection that was the aftermath of afternoon delight, Harry Carlisle and Cynthia Kline still held on to each other. Their naked bodies were filmed with sweat, and they were both in that half world between satiation and sleep. After New York, Sydney was like a blast of robust freedom. Down the hall, a group of English musicians was having a party. It had been going on for two days. The TV babbled in the corner.
An item about the U.S.A. came on the Channel 17 news. More prisoners had been released from the camps. Carlisle propped himself up on one elbow. There was footage of Arlen Proverb making a speech.
"… and each day brings new discoveries that continue to confirm that the Faithful administration is a regime that will live in infamy."
Harry grunted. "Can't he make up his own stuff any more?"
Cynthia's voice was drowsy. "Harry?"
"Yeah?"
"You don't think we made a mistake, do you?"
Harry shook his head. "We didn't make a mistake."
"We could have been wrong about Dreisler."
