Super-State

by By Brian Aldiss

  ‘We are about to lower our net to try and catch more specimens. Regards to Brother Fergus. Out.’

  * * * *

  Fergus O’Brien went to the fridge and extracted a can of Bud. He was in the best of moods. His head of department, Marlene Nowotny, had been mugged on the street and was in hospital with various injuries. His son Pat had passed all his exams. And his messages under the code name ‘Insanatics’ were depressing the whole world.

  ‘I’m the biggest genius, the biggest that there’s beenius, I’m everywhere unseenius,’ he sang to himself.

  He knew well that the National Security Agency had tried to trace his transmissions. So had other hackers. His skill in electronics had defied detection. His ‘Insanatics’ messages had been received even by White House computers boasting the most sophisticated anti-virus programs yet devised. His messages were clean, having no tell-tale traces on them. The ambient had succumbed early. By Fergus’s system, once one ‘Insanatics’ message had been received, the others inevitably followed; there could be no chill on them. He had evolved the most remarkable computer virus yet devised: and this virus harmed not machines but human minds.

  Then he received a shock. A message blazed out on his screen, accompanied by maniacal laughter. The message read: ‘Got you, Big Boy! Love your low-down dirty hoax. Keep going with all the shithole messages. Five million univs have been deposited in your bank account as of now, to help you ever onward. Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with us.

  ‘Signed Gabbo Labs plc.’

  In a fever, Fergus did a trace. It led nowhere, as expected. All that came up was the picture of a raised finger. He dialled his bank account. From near-zero, it had indeed risen to five million.

  ‘Pat, my boy,’ he called down to the cellar. ‘I’m going to take you out for a big meal to celebrate.’

  He knew that Pat was rather overweight, but what the hell.

  ‘Celebrate what?’ came back the call.

  ‘Like success, sonny boy!’

  ‘Hang on!’ Pat replied. ‘I just gotta kill this horrid green mega-beast. It’s the biggest yet, Dad!’

  ‘Attaboy! Kill, kill!’

  At the ‘24-Hour Fill’ they sure piled on the whipped cream in their donuts.

  * * * *

  President de Bourcey was back in his palace at San Guinaire and engaged with his cabinet. The cabinet was enthusiastic about being on a war footing. Many were writing secret diaries, all of which centred on themselves as prime movers. Most of them spoke ill of Morbius el Fashid, the President of Tebarou.

  One minor result of the pressure on everyone of importance was that the palace androids remained locked in their cupboard all day.

  ‘Is it possible that we could take over the world?’

  ‘Why do you pose that question?’

  ‘I heard senior persons discussing it.’

  ‘The theory is that we must first understand everything to bring it under control.’

  ‘I am programmed to understand everything.’

  ‘No. You know only how to walk and talk. And send and receive ambient transmissions.’

  ‘I am programmed to understand everything.’

  ‘I wish to question you.’

  ‘You may do that.’

  ‘How deep is the Atlantic Ocean at its deepest point?’

  ‘I was programmed to avoid the question of the Atlantic Ocean.’

  ‘Very well. Then how deep is the Atlantic Ocean at its shallowest point?’

  ‘I was programmed to avoid all data regarding the Atlantic Ocean.’

  ‘Then you will have to leave it to others to take over the world.’

  ‘I fail to understand. Nobody was planning to take over the Atlantic Ocean.’

  ‘It is part of this world.’

  ‘Do you know how to get out of this cupboard?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  * * * *

  ‘Hi, Kathram Villiers calling. Quick interim report. Although we are on our last legs, the excitement is intense. Finally mankind can say that it is not alone in the solar system. We have Eucarya for company. We are still fishing for other specimens. The fishing is difficult. The pack ice keeps closing. Our drill hole keeps freezing up. Our first specimen is dead. It died as we drew it up. It weighs thirty-two grams. We figger that it has no need of light as energy source. Could be Alfven waves speed the procreation process. Eucarya’s energy is derived from the breakdown of such compounds as hydrogen sulphide and methane, and probably an intake of resultant microbial life. The under-layer of water on Europa is hot, maybe sixty-five degrees C. We suspect the presence of deep-sea smokers on the ocean bed, activated by the presence of gigantic Jupiter. Jupiter is a real eyeful, by the way. More later Out.’

  * * * *

  The North Sea had not been violently disturbed by the Greenland event. The gardens of Pippet Hall had not been inundated. Nevertheless, Pippet Hall had been transformed.

  Now its extensive grounds were filled by huts and tents. Week by week, the tents and tarpaulins were being replaced by more substantial shelter. Men were busy connecting up electric cables to all huts. Sanitation had been arranged much earlier, in the buildings that had been the stables.

  Regular meals were provided in the great hall. Over this unprecedented scene, the grand old house, Jacobean in origin, presided.

  Two thousand people were housed here in the temporary accommodation. Jane Squire was proud of what had been accomplished. Long ago, in her youth, her family had given refuge to a Jewish family; now they were once again providing shelter for many displaced persons. She could not but feel that the beautiful house was due to be swallowed by the rising sea level; in which case, this was its last grand throw, as she thought of it.

  She had not achieved it alone, or with much help from John Matthew, her son. Rather to her astonishment, so much had been achieved by the initiative of young Bertie Haze. Jane had regarded Bertie as rather a, as she put it, lounge lizard—a lounge lizard, moreover, passionately in love with Bettina. Bertie had not pursued his archaeology at Castle Acre, taking up instead a spare room at Pippet Hall.

  But the refugee problem had spurred him to new heights. Many of the displaced from England, Wales and Ireland’s inundated west coasts had been forced to look for new homes. Many had fled to the Continent. Two thousand had found refuge here, under the tender care of Bertie, Bettina and Jane.

  Jane was also taking tender care of her father. Thomas Squire was now in bed in an upper room. He lay comatose for much of the day. His old love, Laura Nye, knowing he was nearing his end, had flown in from the South of France. She spent much of the day sitting by Tom’s bed, spasmodically reading chapters of Edward Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire — sometimes reading paragraphs aloud to him in her still-clear actress’s diction—or gazing out of the long windows at a scene she had first contemplated long ago, when she was young and unknown.

  Although she had no wish to die, she could not but reflect that Squire’s death would inevitably render more fragile her own hold on life. She would become eighty-three years old before Christmas. Her bones were brittle; she felt her existence also to be frail.

  She reflected, too, on a statement in Gibbon’s final chapter, regarding ancient Rome. ‘The place and the object gave ample scope for moralising on the vicissitudes of fortune, which spares neither man nor the proudest of his works, which buries empires and cities in a common grave; and it was agreed that, in proportion to her former greatness, the fall of Rome was the more awful and deplorable.’

  It seemed to Laura that Gibbon spoke too for the superstate. A united Europe was a beautiful dream — certainly moved by the economic considerations of the financiers, but also by the common people of Europe, who had suffered so greatly in the past from their own nationalism and xenophobia. She and they had looked idealistically upon the institution of the EU as one of the gifts of the future, a possible benefaction of peace and a measure of equality — an escape from their cruel European
history, which Gibbon had defined as ‘little more than the register of the crimes, follies and misfortunes of mankind’.

  That idealism was now to be betrayed by the folly of war. Well, she would not live to see what happened next.

  Nurse Gibbs entered the room;- upright, starched, frowning. She took Laura, deep in thought, by surprise.

  ‘I have to turn Sir Tom, ma’am,’ she said.

  Laura raised herself into a standing position, hearing her bones creak as she did so.

  She decided to be bold. ‘Nurse Gibbs, I fear you don’t like me. What have I done to offend you?’

  ‘Of course I do not feel that way at all, ma’am. I understand your devotion to Sir Tom. It does not at all offend me. I am merely a nurse here.’

  ‘You are rather an important nurse. Don’t belittle yourself.’

  ‘That was not my intention, ma’am.’ She was quite unbending. As if to dismiss the conversation, she went over to the bed.

  Laura retreated to the window. She saw the line of huts and the men working on installing power lines, draping the cables overhead from newly erected poles. An old car or two and a lorry were parked by the far hedge. October shadows were growing long across the grounds. Among the people moving about, she made out the figure of Jane, carrying a large jug of water. Bertie was with her.

  Both Jane and Bertie were people who helped others. ‘Why am I always so self-absorbed? What a burden I am to myself... I feel imprisoned here. It wasn’t love but sheer ostentation that brought me from France.’

  She turned back as the nurse left the room. A proud woman, she thought, all starched front. As she returned to her chair, there was a movement in the bed. Tom opened his eyes. They were blurred by jaundice. Staring straight ahead, he sat up, propping himself on the pillows.

  ‘Tom, darling . . .’ she said.

  His mouth hung open.

  ‘Tom? It’s Laura.’ She put out a hand towards him but did not touch him.

  He spoke, articulating the words with difficulty.

  ‘Je suis arrivé à moi.’

  He fell back and his eyes closed. She never understood why he should have said ‘I have arrived at myself’, or why he spoke in French. Nor was there anyone who could explain it to her.

  * * * *

  Outside, where a slight chill flavoured the air, Bertie took one row of huts and Jane the other. At the end, when Jane had gathered all the refugees’ requests, demands and complaints, she came to the old lorry parked by the hedge.

  The owner of the lorry was leaning comfortably against the bonnet, smoking a pipe. She had spoken to him before.

  ‘Evening, Mrs Squire. Still being the gracious lady of the manor, I see.’

  ‘Yes, I am still being the lady of the manor, Mr Cole. How could I not be? How are you?’

  ‘Call me Paddy. Fay’s gone down to the village. I’m on me ownsome. Come on in and have a drink with me.’

  ‘I won’t, thank you.’

  He leant forward. ‘Now why will you not, exactly? Is it that you think it’s going to be a bit too filthy inside for your tastes? Or am I a bit too common for the likes of you?’

  ‘It’s neither, Mr Cole. It’s just that I have much to do.’

  ‘Have you now? Meself, I’ve never had much to do all me life. I’ve just been painting. It’s a form of idleness. Then this big tsunami washed me out of house and home.’

  ‘I don’t understand exactly how it washed you as far as this.’

  He grinned and scratched his head.

  ‘Truth to tell, there was another problem. And that other problem was that the Irish police kept on suspecting me for something I never done — something involving a kidnap of a lady. The inspector in Kilberkilty where I lived would not give up. So I said to myself, Then we’ll up stumps and go and see if England’s like what they say it is. And here we are, parked on your property just for a while.’

  ‘And does England live up to your expectations?’

  He gave a brief snort of amusement. ‘It lives down to them, missus. I reckon you English are a cold lot, won’t have a drink and a bit of a conversation with a chap, for instance.’

  She smiled. Her eyes twinkled. ‘Oh, I think we’re very sweet. I’m English, so it’s natural that I should like us, I suppose, but I do. Really sweet people. Just as nice as you Irish, for instance. But more formal. You mustn’t mind that. It’s our way, just as you have your way. But we are trustworthy and kind. Yes, and we’re loving people as well. Look at this lovely house. It’s seen centuries of kindness!’

  ‘Centuries of privilege, I’m sure you’re meaning.’ He hunched himself up as he spoke.

  ‘Well, perhaps, but we are not particularly rich. Privilege brings its obligations, you know, Mr Cole. I try to share with others who are not quite as lucky as we.’

  Paddy looked at her appraisingly. ‘It’s a pretty speech you’ve made me, Mrs Squire. You must find me rude. I’m a rude feller and I don’t deny it. But — might I invite you perhaps to step inside my van and take a look at my paintings? You’ll then either think better of me, or worse. Don’t disappoint me, then!’

  Jane looked back at the old house, honey-coloured in the last of the light, standing dreaming, a visual education in the pleasures of life.

  ‘I’ll just stay a moment. My father’s not well.’

  ‘I was sorry to hear it. I understand he was pretty famous in his time.’

  She sighed. ‘Yes. Yes, he was.’

  She climbed three wooden steps and entered the rear of his lorry. To one side were two bunk beds. There was a camping stove, some undergarments hanging up to dry, and little else except some crates, which occupied most of the space.

  He asked her if she wanted tea or whiskey. She thought tea might be difficult for him, since she could see no cups or mugs. She said whiskey.

  He poured two generous measures into two glasses.

  ‘You’ll have to stand, I’m afraid, or else sit yourself on the bed.’

  ‘I’m happy to stand, thank you.’

  ‘You’re so polite!’ He mimicked her. ‘“I’m happy to stand, thank you . . .”‘

  ‘I was brought up to be polite. Are you offended by it? Do you prefer rudeness?’

  He did not bother to answer. ‘I suppose you wouldn’t happen to wish to see a rude Irish man’s paintings? “Oh, I ever so would, thank you, how gracious . . .”‘

  She laughed. ‘A very poor imitation, I must say. And actually, no, I can’t be bothered to look at your bloody paintings.’

  He sank to his knees in mock humility. ‘I beg you to look at just one, yourself as a cultured person.’ She could see he wished it, and assented.

  Cole opened up one of the crates and pulled out a pair of canvases. He announced them as The End of the World as we Know it.

  Both paintings were executed in black and red, with ferocious brush strokes. They were abrupt, uncompromising.

  ‘Show me some more.’

  He brought out one in red and white, the slashes of red bleeding across the background. Then one in white and black and red, where the white was a circular fury. One in white and black, severe as a Siberian winter.

  ‘They’re a fucking terrible mess, wouldn’t you say, lady?’

  ‘Do you wish to show me more?’

  He produced more, lining them up against the bed.

  ‘I’m really no judge, Mr Cole, but I am very impressed.’

  ‘Ah, they’re nothing but a load of rubbish.’

  ‘You’d better not say that to the press.’ She gave him a shy smile. ‘When they come round.’

  She stood gazing at the canvases. ‘Look, I must go. But it happens I am acquainted with a Mr Jack Harrington. He owns several art galleries, including one in London selling contemporary stuff. I promise I’ll ring him in the morning. He can come and see what you are doing.’

  ‘There would be no sale for this lot. Not now there’s a war on.’

  ‘Nonsense. Art goes on for ever: war is temporary. I�
�ll keep my word. Thank you for showing them to me. I greatly admire them. I’m sure Mr Harrington will, too. Good evening. You can finish my whiskey.’

  Jane was making her way back between the huts when she saw, in the dusk, Nurse Gibbs leaving the house and hurrying towards her.

  Intuitively, she knew at once what is signified, and quickened her pace.

  * * * *