Super-State

by By Brian Aldiss

  ‘Another reason why Alexy is on his way to Europa,’ said Paulus, glancing at his watch. He was thinking of his son, several million kilometres from Earth.

  * * * *

  At that juncture, a recording of silvery bells rang out. Guests stopped eating or hurriedly grabbed another glass of champagne.

  Another silvery sound followed — the voice of the Mistress of Ceremonies, Barbara Barbicandy, acknowledged to be the world’s best organiser of important events. She warmly welcomed all guests to this great occasion, and asked them if they would now assemble in the Place of Ceremonies. And she hoped that the weather would hold on this loveliest of all occasions.

  As if to reinforce her wish, a peal of thunder rumbled into the broad valley from the hills to the north. Above those hills, fork lightning flashed.

  The crowds politely jostled their way to the Place of Ceremonies, where solemn music played. No pop groups now, only a choir of six ladies, draped from neck to foot in white gowns, in tribute to a recollected virginity.

  While the ladies, standing, sang ‘Morning has broken, like the first morning’, the guests seated themselves in comfortable chairs, the wealthier ones being escorted every inch of the way. Gabbo and Obbagi had thrones to themselves, apart from the crowd.

  When all were well settled, and something resembling silence had fallen, rucked curtains drew apart at the front of the hall. This revealed a flower-bedecked altar, before which stood Archbishop Byron Arnold Jones-Simms, clad in scarlet robes, looking as humble as could a man who so greatly enjoyed the limelight.

  He stepped forward now, saying in his deep, seductive, sedative voice, ‘My dear brethen, we are here assembled to bear witness to the marriage of two of our dearest citizens, Victor de Bourcey, son of the President of the European Union, and Esme Brackentoth, Queen of the Restaurant Profession.’

  As he spoke, the aforesaid Victor entered the hall, proceeding to the altar with his presidential father just behind him. At the sight of de Bourcey Senior, some in the congregation rose in respect. This caused uncertainty in the ranks. Gradually more people also rose in imitation. Finally, everyone, sheeplike, rose to their feet, with the exception of Gabbo and Obbagi. After a pause, the reverse procedure was followed, until the entire congregation was reseated.

  The Archbishop spoke again. ‘As many of you will know, our bride has been engaged in supervising the opening of her new restaurant, the first restaurant to be built on the peak of Mount Everest. Weather conditions have deteriorated markedly — markedly — in the last twenty-four hours, with the result that our dear Esme has been forced to remain on Everest until conditions improve. However, she has been able to provide a standby — an understudy, shall we say? — to take her place in the ceremony, which it was impossible to postpone, and our heroic bridegroom has graciously consented to her — or, rather, it — as in propria persona

  As he was speaking, the electronic organ was going softly through the paces of Wagner’s Wedding March, and a veiled and befrocked personage (‘Train twenty metres long,’ whispered knowledgeable ladies in the congregation to their menfolk) was bearing steadily down the aisle. She was followed by two young human bridesmaids, both blushing at the exposure to so many gazes.

  She came to a halt precisely beside the willowy and elegant figure of Victor.

  The bride substitute was not human. She had emerged from the Renault-Bourcey factory, which specialised in manufacturing androids. A plastic face much resembling that of the stranded Esme Brackentoth had been attached to her head, while a digitised version of Esme’s voice issued from her plastic mouth.

  ‘As one can see, of the ALF21 vintage,’ commented Obbagi quietly to Gabbo.

  Victor de Bourcey took the android’s arm and the ceremony proceeded.

  ‘It’s a form of auto-incest,’ whispered Paulus Stromeyer to his neighbour, Barnard Cleeping. ‘Since she was made on his production line . . .’

  Intoned the Archbishop, ‘As we are all aware, a war between ignorance and wisdom has been declared, and eternally the war between good and evil continues. The good have their backs to the wall, and are forever in danger of losing the war, but this ceremony represents a battle won . . .’

  He then gravely bent his attention to the happy couple, his ancient black face creased in earnest enquiry.

  ‘I do,’ said the android distinctly, and at the appropriate time.

  The Archbishop proclaimed in an uncanny voice, raising his arms above his head, ’Forasmuch as Victor and Esme’s stand-in have been joined together in holy wedlock before all the congregation as witnesses, I now proclaim them man and substitute, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. God bless you all, and may the Lord look mercifully upon you. Amen.’

  Enthusiastic clapping broke out.

  ‘Hope he enjoys the honeymoon,’ said Barnard Cleeping.

  ‘He’ll need a tin-opener,’ chuckled Paulus Stromeyer.

  * * * *

  With some relief, the congregation rose and emerged into the open air. The sun still shone, although now with a leaden quality. Over the northern hills, the thunder clouds still prevailed, lightning still sizzled. Little the two thousand guests cared; for the women, a more important matter was to control their hats in the slight breeze; while for the men, one of the concerns was to see under those hats to those well-made-up faces. Bertie Haze had pushed through the crowd and was now talking to Bettina Squire; Bettina was considering that she might like him, despite his rather spotty chin; Bertie was thinking he realised she was a bit on the heavy side, but was nevertheless passable. He knew that her cousin, Francine, was beyond his target area. While they spoke about the worldwide success of the new Norwegian pop group Strand, many calculations, hardly monitored by consciousness, were working rapidly in their minds towards strategies of either advance or retreat.

  Later, when the dancing started, when Bertie seized both his opportunity and Bettina, the complexities would be resolved, or made further complex.

  Such potential pairings were in operation elsewhere. Even among the elders — de Bourcey père, let’s say, condescending to chat with Rose Baywater, who was being bright — computation regarding what might be loosely regarded as sexual, even if merely theoretically sexual, was inevitably the order of the day: perhaps more brazenly here, after the assistance of drink and the proximity of so many members of the other gender flaunting, however discreetly, their better attributes.

  Many there were invisibly undressed in that happy congregation, where champagne glasses were lifted in lieu of skirts. Yet still intellectual conversation had its day, for a percentage of those present were accustomed to dealing in abstract ideas. A group of intellectual conversationalists had gathered about Paulus Stromeyer, since his son, Alexy, was one of the three-man crew of the Roddenberry, the space vehicle presently approaching Jupiter and its satellites. Stromeyer was talking with the celebrated and eccentric archaeologist Daniel Potts, father of Olduvai Potts, as well as Amygdella Haze, her lover, Randolph Haven, Barnard Cleeping, and some students from the Sorbonne.

  ‘Just supposing theRoddenberry does find life there . . .’ one of the female students was saying. ‘It will entirely change how we feel about ourselves. I mean, we shall then have to establish regular flights to Jupiter, shall we not?’

  Daniel Potts, who, in his early sixties, had a countenance somewhat resembling a disappointed walnut, asked the girl, ‘And what benefits do you expect to derive from these “regular flights to Jupiter”?’

  Although she was taken aback by the challenge, she had a ready answer. ‘If travel broadens the mind, then think how broadened it will be by a trip to Jupiter!’

  ‘The precept is false,’ said Daniel. ‘Travel does not broaden anyone’s mind. It merely confirms one’s prejudices.’

  ‘Perhaps this young lady is without prejudices,’ Paulus said, coming to the girl’s aid.

  Amygdella, lowering her voice, told Randolph Haven, ‘I met Daniel’s daughter once. Josephine, I believ
e her name was. She certainly did not love her father. How Lena can bear him I do not understand.’

  Daniel’s hearing was sharp. ‘There must be much that evades your understanding, Amy,’ he said, sweetly.

  ‘Why are you so cross, dear Daniel?’ Amygdella asked, taking the older man’s arm.

  He gave her a straight reply, while attempting a smile. ‘For one thing, I do not drink, so I am not half-tight like the rest of you. For another I see any wedding service — even one with an android as bride — as a primitive ritual. Something of the sort was probably practised in the Pliocene, and we have not managed to grow out of it yet. Once, of course, it involved the taking of the female’s virginity. That hardly applies in this present case.’

  ‘You could remove one of her batteries,’ said Randolph, and laughed at his own joke.

  * * * *

  Under these thunderous ideas, and the thunder overhead, another thunder went unheard — the thunder of hooves. It was a thunder the city dwellers were ill-equipped to recognise. But the meeting of intellects, no less than the ceremonial cutting of the immense wedding cake — a creditable replica of the Reichstag under icing sugar — was rudely broken into.

  Rushing down from the northern mountains came a veritable stampede. A hundred or more mustangs burst into the grounds of the festivities. These were wild horses, living in a reserve in the high country, shaggy beasts in various shades of brown. Hardy creatures, living in the harsh scrub and maquis of those altitudes — living social and harmless lives, but now galvanised by the electricity in the air.

  Its vibrations had entered their skulls. Suddenly heads came up. The lead stallions neighed, hooves kicked the dust. They began to move. Thunder roared. A low-growing tree burst into flame after a lightning strike. The trot became a gallop. It was as if their batteries had become too highly charged.

  At full tilt, the herd surged down the slopes of the mountains into the valley, crossed the shallow river, gained the far side. Snorting, they charged ever onwards, mindless as an avalanche. Straight into the enchanted crowd of party-goers.

  Screams, cries! Mustangs rearing, people falling as they fled.

  Olduvai Potts had ascended a platform and had begun to sing. His accompanists dropped their instruments and fled. Wayne Bargane, Master of Ceremonies, was standing by the platform. He did not run away.

  The horses began to surround the platform. Olduvai ran and jumped on to the back of the lead stallion. Following his example without hesitation, Wayne rushed forward to grasp the mustang by its mane. It reared but was brought to a standstill. Hanging on ferociously, Olduvai kicked its flanks. Assisted by Wayne, they turned the beast about.

  Other men also ran forward. Amygdella Haze was a good horsewoman. She jumped on to a lead mare and calmed it. The rest of the horses became confused. They milled about uncertainly.

  Wayne’s son Cassidy came running from the administration building with a box and a lighted fuse. Dropping the box he pulled from it two of the sky-busting rockets intended to form a part of the firework display later. He lit them.

  With a splutter and a whistle, the rockets sailed upwards. Metres above the crowd, they burst into a myriad stars, banging and shrieking as they went. The equine tide turned. In disorderly fashion, the mustangs began to gallop away, back towards the mountains they had left so precipitately.

  Ambulance men moved among the guests, rescuing those who had fallen, calming them, escorting the injured to their casualty tent. Wayne climbed back on to the platform to reassure everyone that no harm had been done and that the merriment would continue. He thanked Olduvai Potts for his bravery. Olduvai climbed up and took a bow. The guests applauded.

  ‘All that excitement was not prearranged — let me tell you that!’ he announced. The guests loved it.

  ‘You have a brave son,’ Barnard Cleeping told Daniel Potts.

  ‘Oh, he’s pretty brave,’ said Potts père. ‘At this moment I feel almost sorry I disowned him.’

  * * * *

  Report from the Roddenberry, six million kilometres from Earth:

  ‘Hi, this is Alexy Stromeyer calling from the Roddenberry. We have a problem with the starboard solar wing. Rick O’Brien has been out there, trying to locate the cause. It’s tricky just now. We appear to be travelling through a small grit shower Rick had to get back under cover before he had fixed the rotator drive, in case his suit was punctured. We’ll try again in another watch. Food getting very low—some provisions have degraded in refrigeration. Tempers a bit frazzled. We are going to try to grab some sleep now. ‘Bye, Earth. Out.’

  * * * *

  Fergus O’Brien walked slowly across the campus to his old Chevvy. A student saluted him as he went. Fergus kept his head down, ignoring the youth, pretending the sun was in his eyes.

  He drove slowly the few hundred metres to the university apartment block where he occupied part of the ground floor. Letting himself into the apartment, he found his son Pat playing a ferocious game on the computer.

  ‘No prep this evening, son?’

  ‘Wait! Wait! Don’t breathe! This time I’ve really got—’ Pat was a fat little boy, most of his bulk submerged beneath a large red sweater. He let the sentence hang as he blasted the green monster on his screen.

  Sighing, Fergus went into the kitchenette and grabbed a Bud from the cooler.

  After another burst of blaster fire, the eight-year-old shouted, ‘Hey, Dad, they didn’t make you Head of Department after all. So I’d guess from your atmosphere of woe.’ He laughed to think of it.

  Fergus leant his scraggy figure at the threshold of the room. ‘If you want to know, I was passed over, damn it. They gave the job to that lousy Marlene Nowotny.’

  ‘Ah, she’s a bitch. She’ll never last!’

  ‘I commend your loyalty, son.’

  ‘Wanna go out to eat? The TV says that Uncle Rick is getting near to Jupiter. He was outside doing a space walk today. I wish I was there with him. Jeez. Do those three guys carry guns, Dad? Just in case maybe they bump into alien life forms?’

  ‘I don’t believe they do.’

  ‘Not even a single shooter? What if some horrible green thing comes zooming out of Jupiter at them?’

  Fergus laughed. ‘Maybe they would try making friends with it.’

  ‘Jeez, I wouldn’t try that. No way. I’d shoot it dead.’

  Fergus retreated into the cellar room. He sat at his computer without switching on. Sipping at the Bud, he reflected bitterly on his life as a failure. Marlene Nowotny was his junior. Okay, so she had published some papers. Admittedly they had been well received. And of course she did sports. Why didn’t he do sports? Why was her hair shorter than his?

  Then there was Brother Rick. His younger brother. Always obsessed by sports, even as a small kid. Baseball and space, his two interests. Now he was going to be one of the first men ever to land on — which satellite of Jupiter were they heading for? Okay, so he hadn’t forgotten. Why kid himself? Europa. So that Rick O’Brien’s name would go down in history, revered for ever in America and Ireland. Whereas the name of Fergus O’Brien . . .

  He sighed heavily. What he needed was a big project. Like BIG.

  He switched on the computer. The three seconds it took to boot up always seemed like an age.

  Twenty-two e-mails awaited him. They would all be from students, asking their endless fatuous questions . . . ‘Could you tell me what explorer discovered the Humboldt Current?’ ‘In England, what is the name of the guy at the top of the Nelson Monument in London?’

  * * * *

  After the wedding celebrations, Jane and Bettina Squire flew back to Hartisham-on-Sea. Jane’s sister Ann flew with Kevin Krawstadt and other friends to her house in the south of France. Laura Nye went with them to her little bungalow near Antibes. Francine Squire retreated loftily to her apartment in Paris.

  Their chauffeur met Jane and her daughter at Norwich airport and drove them to the old Squire mansion, Pippet Hall. Her partner, Remy Gautiner, w
as sitting at a canvas, painting a part of the shrubbery. He set aside his palette and came to kiss Jane. The wind took his long dark hair.

  Jane was jaded after all the excitement.

  ‘I must get out of this dress, Remy.’

  He regarded her figure approvingly.

  ‘You’re half out of it already.’

  She laughed. ‘It is a bit low-cut, that’s true.’

  He kissed Bettina.

  ‘How was the wedding?’

  ‘They had horses in it,’ Bettina told him, as they entered the house. ‘It was mega-cool.’

  In her bedroom, Jane kicked off her shoes, slipped out of her clothes, showered, put on a cerulean dressing gown, and went to see her father.