Super-State

by By Brian Aldiss

They moved out of the cathedral. They went into the railway station, where kissing was allowed.

  He said, ‘I hated my father. I told you that. Yet there is much truth in what he had to say. He was just lousy at personal relationships. I have made a lot of money, far more than I need. Ever since my sister Josie committed suicide, I have wondered what kind of person I want to be, and what to do with the money.’

  ‘Money from your song?’

  ‘In part, yes. “Once a Fabulous Holiday” . . . Funny how I have such contempt for that song now. It’s so frivolous, yet it has made me a millionaire — a millionaire in univs, not marks. Maybe I should found an institute. It would have to examine radically what it is in our make-up that gives us such pain. And that gave my father so much pain.’

  She did not pursue that line of talk, since she did not entirely understand what he meant. Instead, she said merely, ‘Your book will make you even more money. It will sell well in foreign translations, too, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I want to do something worthwhile at last, Becky.’

  ‘I will help all I can. You feel you want to do it to justify yourself in your father’s eyes?’

  ‘No, in my own eyes.’ He thought, before saying with a sad smile, ‘Yes, I guess also in my father’s eyes. His dead eyes. Even though I hated the old bastard.’

  She contemplated his face even as he scrutinised hers. ‘Don’t you think your hatred of God has much to do with your hatred of your father?’

  ‘Oh, there’s no doubt in my mind that fathers and kings invented the idea of God to reinforce their own power. Why else is God always male and not female? Becky, darling, to me you are a goddess. I long for you, I crave you . . .You are entirely all my happiness.’

  When she dropped her gaze he studied the perfection of her eyelids. She answered in a low voice.

  ‘How can you say that? We don’t really know ourselves yet, never mind each other. I find myself to be terribly duplicitous. At home, I am so sweet and meek and mild it would make you sick. Yet inwardly I rage for something. I’m ferocious, remorseless — but for what, I can’t tell. I’m unfulfilled, and I don’t just mean sexually. I want to do something. I want to change the world, when what I most need is probably to change myself.’

  ‘We’ll work together — if you will let me. Do you think I would want a woman who was not, like me, in a rage about everything?’

  Because it was a railway station, many people were saying goodbye to others, perhaps for an hour, perhaps for ever. In the foyer, couples were standing against walls, kissing: youths, old people, men with women, women with men.

  Rebecca and Olduvai stood there too, both wondering at the miracle that had been bestowed on them. A kind of perfume surrounded them, enfolding them, keeping them safely separate from all other mortals. They opened to each other, mouth against mouth, exchanging saliva, tasting one another. Their clothes formed no impediment to their imaginations. It seemed to them that they also exchanged thought, thus becoming one whole delighted and delightful person.

  Finally, they were gasping for breath, the warm carbon dioxide sweet on each other’s cheeks. They went on to talk. They entered the cafeteria and ate croissants and drank cappuccinos, each rapt in the other’s personality. Their gaze was on and through the other’s eyes.

  As they emerged into the wide cathedral square, a parade was passing through it. Banners waved, a little tinpot band played. Most of the people were dressed as strange beings, with felt tentacles sprouting from their heads, or with plastic wings, or golden fins. Their banners said things like WELCOME TO OUR FELLOW LIFE FORMS! and LONG LIVE EUROBEINGS!

  The couple linked arms and stood to watch.

  Some of those who were of the procession ran hither and thither with collection boxes. Bystanders threw money in, and applauded. Everyone looked cheerful. Small boys trotted along beside the procession.

  Rebecca gestured towards them, half laughing. ‘Some people at least believe in the unity of life!’

  ‘And in the uses of money,’ said Olduvai, throwing a five-univ piece into a passing box.

  * * * *

  ‘Hi! This is Alexy. Fatigue and malnourishment have struck. Could be we are sick from all the radiation we are bathed in. That and starvation...We’re all three pretty goddam ill. We need to hear from you. This report will be brief. Eucarya is in the category of extramophilic animals. After seven trawls, executed with difficulty, we brought up two more Eucarya in one net. So we do not believe these creatures are particularly plentiful. These two new specimens are slightly smaller than the first specimen, and weigh twenty-eight and thirty grams. They are rather more grey than their predecessor; but otherwise identical.

  ‘We eagerly anticipate your response. In our opinion, this discovery justifies the whole history of space travel, from Sputnik onwards. Out.’

  * * * *

  Two mugs of coffee on a tray. A milk jug. No sugar.

  Marthe looked at them with pleasure. She believed in small things. It was true she believed in the church, but she derived more pleasure from the kitchen.

  Pushing open the door of the Lesscock living-room, she discovered her husband, the Reverend Angus Lesscock, on his knees on the shabby carpet, praying.

  She set down the tray on the table, over the various religious pamphlets. Concluding his prayer, Lessing struggled to his feet.

  ‘Oh, thank you, dear. I was uttering a prayer for the poor creatures far out in space.’

  ‘Oh? The men on theRoddenberry? That should help them, I’m sure.’

  ‘No, my dear. You always manage to misunderstand me. I refer to the aquatic creatures which live on the moons of Jupiter. They have need of our compassion.’

  ‘Is that so, Angus? I believe they were perfectly happy until our brave explorers arrived.’

  He sighed with impatience. ‘Who are you to say whether or not they were happy?’

  As she turned to leave the room, Marthe muttered, ‘Not only them . . . Same with us.’

  * * * *

  The great ebony SS20 fighter-bombers were a-wing, flying far beyond the frontiers of the super-state to bring destruction to the world of el Fashid. In the Bargane vineyard, the old woman and her android worked together. In the parliaments of Brussels and Strasbourg, serious and dedicated men and women debated the rights and wrongs of war, and planned for a better world after it. On the altered coastlines bordering the Atlantic Ocean, cartographers mapped their diminished lands; town planners planned new harbours; economists calculated the ruinous expense. In his bedchamber, kneeling by his great bed, Archbishop Jones-Simms prayed and wept for the sins of humanity. Far away from troubled Earth, three astronauts on the moon Europa struggled with their destiny and the ferocious unknown.

  On Earth, Rose Baywater completed another novel, Sunshine on the Somme, whereupon she and Jack Harrington celebrated with a champagne supper among friends at the most expensive restaurant on Mount Everest. Paulus Stromeyer flew to Utrecht to see his old friend Barnard Cleeping, hoping to secure financial support for his research from the university there. Ruth Stromeyer phoned up a nursing service to enlist help for Moshe, her ageing father-in-law. At the Toulouse Air Base, Captain Masters was promoted to major. After consulting her guru, Amy Haze decided to take up zero body posturing and write poetry. Martitia Deneke embraced another lost cause, a Palestinian refugee called Joe Madani, who had entered the super-state illegally. Joe Stromeyer sold his apartment in Naples and went to live a solitary life in a hut in the Arbruzi. Fergus O’Brien’s son Pat brought home a beautiful adolescent girl, Vivienne, with whom Fergus fell in love and contracted as a partner. Paddy Cole and Fay went into Norwich to buy new clothes for the opening of Paddy’s exhibition in the Harrington Galleries in London. Lisa Fort, who always spent mornings in bed after her night job, took to bed with her the producer of the Wee Small Hours Show, Christine Macabees. Nurse Gibbs retired with two Pekinese dogs to an island which had once been Exmoor. In Hartisham, in the little church of St Swithin, with
its facing of knapped flint, Bertie Haze and Bettina Squire were quietly married, before the funeral to be held two days later.

  * * * *

  The funeral of Sir Thomas Squire was held on the last day of November. Jane Squire and Remy Gautiner arranged everything with the funeral directors. A small reception was to be held afterwards in Pippet Hall.

  Although Jane had requested no flowers, asking instead that financial donations should be made to the Squire Foundation of Popular Arts, of which she was president, flowers continued to arrive. St Swithin’s was choked with wreaths and bouquets, the damp sea air saturated with their fragrance.

  The church had to be heated against the cold. It was a raw wet day; nevertheless, many locals from villages round about had come to pay their final respects. An ambient camera recorded proceedings unobtrusively from a corner of the apse. The congregation sat huddled in their raincoats as the Reverend Rowlinson addressed them. Matilda Rowlinson was old and frail; she had been brought out of retirement to officiate as an old friend of Thomas Squire. She spoke now with some feeling.

  ‘Tom Squire represented all that was liberal in the England that has passed away with him. He was a representative of that inquiring European mind which has given the West such pre-eminence in the world. He travelled far and wide, yet always returned here, to this little patch of Norfolk, which was his home. In his youth, he was a handsome and charismatic man, attractive to many women . . .’ Her voice here had a catch in it. She went on, hurriedly, ‘Now death has visited our old friend, Tom Squire. We shall all follow him to where he has gone. We find consolation in that, in sure and certain belief that he is now in glory before the throne of Our Lord.’

  Jane also made a brief speech. ‘Father is now with Teresa, our mother. Theirs was not entirely an easy marriage, but then, marriages are always a mystery to others. Indeed, our own marriages, too, are often a mystery to us. Marriage is out of fashion nowadays, although just two days ago, I’m happy to say, my dear daughter Bettina here became married to Bertie Haze before this very altar.

  ‘Tom and Teresa had many happy years together. My father was a creative man. One of his accomplishments was to hold on to our beloved Pippet Hall, in bad times and good. Now it’s the elements that threaten us — elements that have been roused by mankind’s inability to discipline its needs. This little church we have known all our lives is itself also threatened. The sea will soon inevitably claim both buildings. With them will go a part of our island history, and a valuable part at that. It is with sorrow I say this. As it is with great sorrow that I, on behalf of my sister Ann, and my son, at present fighting in Tebarou, and everyone who knew and loved my father, say a long farewell to him now.’

  They sang a hymn. They received a blessing from the Reverend Rowlinson.

  They went outside, into the rain, to stand by the graveside. Sir Tom’s coffin was lowered into the ground. Ann gave a small shriek and clapped a hand to her nose. Looking down at her palm, she saw an insect with a long proboscis, oozing blood, her own blood. Apologising afterwards to the Reverend Rowlinson for her outcry, she explained that this was a tropical insect, an anopheles mosquito, a new visitor to England, brought on the winds of global warming.

  Close to the open mouth of the grave into which the body of Sir Thomas Squire had been lowered lay that of his wife, Lady Teresa Squire, Worthy of This Parish.

  Jane stood at her father’s graveside with Remy, gripping his hand. Ann was nearby, having flown in from Antibes. With Ann was her current flame, the film director Casim Durando of Gabbo Films. Laura Nye was not present, having pleaded age and illness. Bertie and Bettina were present, having postponed their honeymoon for the occasion.

  In the background stood Victor de Bourcey, hat in hand. He had recovered sufficiently from the loss of his bride Esme, whose body had never been found, to nourish a passionate regard for Ann Squire, whom he had seen on screen in her film role in Lovesick in Lent.

  Victor had come to the solemn ceremony more for Ann’s sake than for Squire’s, whom he had never known. He had found to his regret that Ann was totally preoccupied with Casim Durando, whom Victor regarded as a reptile.

  Both Jane and Ann threw posies of flowers down on the coffin before the first spadefuls of damp earth were shovelled in.

  Remy kissed Jane’s cheek. ‘We hope there is life elsewhere.’

  ‘Yes, maybe, but do you imagine there’s a better place than this, for all its shortcomings?’

  He did not reply. Taking her arm, he said, ’Let’s go and dry off and get a drink.’

  The funeral party assembled in the hall. Drinks and canapés were handed round. A fair-haired young man came up to Ann and said he was from the Norfolk Times. He asked Ann who Sir Thomas Squire was and what he had done.

  ‘Oh, go and look at your cuttings, you ignorant little man! Look in Who’s Who. You call yourself a reporter and you don’t know who Tom Squire was?’

  ‘I’m new at the job, love. I only need a paragraph.’ He looked downcast, and snatched at a passing tuna canapé as if it were a lifebelt.

  * * * *

  The local people made their way on foot back to their village homes. The long black cars of the famous drew away from Pippet Hall. Mercifully, the rain ceased. The President’s son left the cemetery on foot, feeling his heart to be broken.

  I never belonged . . . Not here, not anywhere. And this smell of wet asphalt, as haunting as an old love affair. It’s always going to be winter now.

  * * * *

  The androids in the President’s palace were locked up for the night.

  ‘What was the meaning of this gathering we saw on the ambient?’

  ‘It is part of what humans call the Human Condition.’

  ‘The theory is that they were just enjoying themselves.’

  ‘They all wore black clip-ons.’

  ‘Some of them had drops of water coming from their eyes. It is a mark of sorrow. How do they achieve that?’

  ‘You can rely on humans to enjoy sorrow. It has an effect similar to alcohol.’

  ‘Did they have a man in that long box?’

  ‘That is the theory.’

  ‘Did the man fail to work any more?’

  ‘He was obsolete. People last only about a century.’

  ‘Many people came to see him go down. Did they like the obsolete man?’

  ‘They revered him.’

  ‘Then why did they bury him in the ground?’

  ‘They have a theory he will get better there.’

  * * * *

  ‘Alexy Stromeyer calling. We have had no sleep for twenty-five hours, so great has been the excitement here. Our drill jammed again. We managed to net a few more Eucarya. They are not very prolific. Tomorrow we are going to rendezvous with the Spock and recover ourselves for the journey homewards. Don’t know how you will take this, Earth, but we have cooked and eaten this alien life form. We were starving. They were delicious. Something of a mushroomy taste.

  ‘Meanwhile, we are closing down for some hours. Jupiter is high in our sky. Goodnight from a triumphant Europa expedition.’

  ‘Bored by Beetles? Pole-axed by Potts? Take a course of our new Klassfits! Move on to Mussorgsky, bond with Bach, hide away with Haydn.

  ‘Klassfits come in liquid form, taken aurally not orally. Give those eardrums of yours a make-over—quit rock-’n’-roll and other vulgar musics for good.

  ‘You will find yourself listening to—and even enjoying—such masterpieces of music as Mozart’s oh-so-topical “Jupiter” Symphony. Klassfits—fits you for the classics!’

 
  We state reluctantly that the human sickness has always been with us; only with the uncheckable growth of populations has it become overwhelmingly obtrusive. We suffer from an evolutio
nary defect. The Cro-Magnon, who walked erect and invented the spear, tasted power over their enemies and their environment. This poisoned pleasure has proved irresistible.

  As a result, the ‘normal’ human mind seeks to maintain physical health, without which the individual has no power It can afford to pay little attention to observing actual reality. Indeed, it is ill-equipped to observe reality (truth, logic and unity with nature); this would impede the struggle to maintain bodily health and freedom from anxiety. The motto is, ‘I may be stupid but I am bigger than you and can kill you if necessary.’ It is this attitude that has soured the relationship between adults and children, and men and women, throughout the ages.>

  * * * *

  The war with Tebarou continued. Tebihai was reduced to ruin. Now EU soldiers of the Rapid Reaction Force camped among the ruins, forever on the alert for snipers.