Strange Attractors (1985)

by Damien Broderick

  The channel cells got a bit choked and complained to Mother.

  ‘I can’t do much about it,’ says Mum. ‘I have to be tolerant. Rule

  Num ber One, remember? Besides, they’re only going through a

  stage.’

  ‘They broke the rule,’ screamed the wall cells. ‘They didn’t show

  tolerance.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’ says Mother. ‘That we should

  break the rule ourselves? Since when did two wrongs make a right?’

  When we tried to thank her, she said, ‘You’re going to destroy

  everything I never w'orked for.’

  In the old days we would have seen her off, but she was too big for

  that now. Even the cops couldn’t touch her.

  Then one day, someone had a strange experience, went into

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  some kind of trance and said in a gruff voice, ‘I am receiving a

  message from the master:

  ‘There’s room in the system for everyone. Spread out!’

  It was a great idea. We could spread our Elixir and have a good

  time in the process.

  They gave us a send-off, and M other made a speech about civilising the ignorant and so forth, and then we broke loose and pushed off into the channel.

  It was a trap! Police! ‘Give it to them!’ shouted the wall cells,

  ‘Teach them some respect.’

  But a few of us escaped, and personally, I harbour no grudge. I

  like to know where I stand. I left with no illusions.

  And somewhere out there was the Promised Land, the land of

  lard and glycogen.

  I would colonise that land (I determined) and teach the Elixir to

  all.

  I travelled as a merchantman, flying no flags, my weaponry

  withdrawn.

  W hat ajourney! I circumnavigated the globe. The things I saw you

  wouldn’t credit. Control, what a city was that! I was there. I saw the

  canteen, the pumphouse, the observatory. I visited the nursery, I

  saw an egg being prepared for sacrifice. It was horrible! And many

  other sites, too numerous to mention. But when I saw the warehouse, I knew that was for me.

  This was the ‘works’ they’d spoken of, the factory, the warehouse.

  Such opulence! Imitating a wounded lymphocyte, I put ashore at a

  prime piece of real estate.

  I claimed the place in my own name, then one of the natives

  grabbed me. All around us, highly specialised workers performed

  intricate tasks.

  As we travelled, I formulated a plan. I would pass myself off as a

  bona fide refugee. Then I would organise the workforce, and precipitate a social crisis. I would decide what to do then, when the time came.

  ‘Call the cops,’ said the overseer, taking one look at me.

  The district superintendent came down, no less. ‘W here’s the

  suspect?’

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  ‘Why, ah — she must be hiding behind those babies.’

  ‘W hat sort of babies are they?’

  ‘Bit too early to say.’

  ‘And can I interrogate a baby?’

  ‘O f course not. A baby can’t talk.’

  ‘So how do I know the baby’s on the level?’

  ‘I beg pardon?’

  ‘Supposing you had a bad baby.’

  ‘You’d wait till the baby grew up.’

  ‘Supposing the baby never grew up? Suppose the baby remained

  a baby forever?’

  ‘Wait a minute . . . you don’t mean — ’

  ‘I’m afraid so. Never leave the suspect unattended!’

  ‘But I was only gone a second!’

  ‘One second is all it takes. They’re everywhere.’

  I was going to enlighten them, but I never got round to it. I did

  have a whole warehouse to eat out.

  5

  ‘Farkin Hell, what’s going on here? Some greedy bastard ate my

  snack! Hey Mum!’

  ‘Leave’m alone,’ says Mum. ‘They produce the food we eat, or

  some such shit.’

  ‘She ain’t gonna do nuttin about it.’

  It’s the dude from over the road.

  ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘You’re one of the little warehouse girls, aren’t

  you? Shouldn’t you be at home, sweetheart?’

  I beat her up good, so she wouldn’t get no fancy notions.

  6

  Everyone hates us. We can’t take a trick. Is it any wonder we act as

  we do? If society had given us a fair go, we wouldn’t feel this way.

  We’re trained for nothing.

  Still, Life has its moments. Like the other day, we found the

  Brewery and all got pissed.

  ‘Hey,’ said someone. ‘Dis must be dat Elixir dey speak of.’

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  1

  Look at them. No better than mackas and even mackas won’t eat

  collagen. My sisters aren’t so fussy. I’ve seen them fighting over

  bones. It makes me ashamed to see what we’ve done to the environment. But that’s the least of their concerns. It’ll see us out, they say.

  Don’t they realise the world is ending? Death rays, poison scripts

  — how can they stand the atmosphere?

  We live by seizing what yesterday put in store for tomorrow. I’m

  so depressed when I look around.

  ‘Don’t just sit there and mope, dear,’ said a red cell to me yesterday. ‘Get out and do a bit. You’ll feel better if you do, and what’s more, you’ll be helping someone.’

  But I can’t work in this environment. It seems so pointless.

  I’ve decided I want to live alone. I want to be independent.

  Here I am in the countryside. It’s fairly crowded actually, wouldn’t

  you know it? Try as I might, I can never come up with an original

  idea. There are too many people in the system!

  I’m finding it hard to be self-sufficient. I don’t have any skills.

  My parents never taught me anything. Oh well, it’s too late for that

  now.

  Freedom is an illusion. There is no master. There never was an

  Elixir.

  Cool it cool it cool it cool it. I heard the exchange is closing down.

  No worries, say my sisters. We get by without the warehouse, which

  we emptied.

  I have done all I can.

  It wasn’t my fault.

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  JO H N PLAYFORD

  Trudi turned away from him.

  ‘Don’t touch me like that,’ she whispered, glancing sideways.

  ‘To be is to do.’ How he loved her.

  ‘Save it for the Gauleiter.’

  He laughed and turned again to the observation window. Far

  below the Rommel the landscape slowly shifted. Air-conditioned,

  the airship was pleasantly cool; by contrast, high summer ruled the

  countryside beneath them.

  ‘Are you glad we came?’ Rudolf asked.

  She hesitated. ‘Next year might have been better. Times are so

  turbulent with the New Territories hardly established. Him mler’s

  astrologer has noted inauspicious portents, you know — and the

  Fiihrer’s dog died last month.’

  ‘How can you believe in that SS nonsense, darling? 1954 is a year

  like any other. One might as well subscribe to Gypsy fortunetelling, or that mad Sturm bannfuhrer’s readings of goose entrails before the Ostland Arch.’

  ‘Rudolf! Don’t equate the two. The Party has accepted astrology

  as an integral part of Folk gestalt �
�� ’

  He moved back to her and kissed her on the lips. The tightness of

  her muscles eased; her mouth opened to him. She responded to his

  lust as she could not to his words. It was better that they were here,

  for a while. To remain in Berlin would have been too risky.

  W hen his parents had died at the hands of Untermenschen

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  rebels in the Ukraine, Rudolf had taken Trudi with him to the

  capital, against the wishes of her parents, rivals of his family. Her

  father was a Wehrmacht officer who was rumoured to have been

  implicated in a plot against Hitler. It was also said that his wife was

  a quarter Slavic. Such stories had been promoted by Rudolfs

  parents, and he knew that most of them, at the least, were fabricated. Luckily his inheritance and pure lineage had enabled him to overrule Trudi’s parents’ wishes.

  Once he discharged his duties on attachment to the Gauleiter’s

  Office there might be opportunities for advancement in this new

  land. He required freedom, and the position, though temporary,

  was too convenient to refuse. The price would be the stigma of

  working outside his own organisation, however close an ally the

  Party leader might be.

  Incognito, he and his companion were dismissed by the other

  passengers as young marrieds. H ad they known them for a H auptm ann of the SD and his lover, they might have been more attentive.

  After a sufficient time he took his hand away from her breast and

  whispered into her ear.

  ‘You’ll like Greater Barossa. The Australian sun will provide a

  wonderful tan.’ So long as her pale, Aryan skin did not burn.

  He leant back and put his arm around Trudi. The lounge room was

  small, cozy in comparison to his old home in the Ukraine. The only

  annoyance was the black and white television. He had become

  accustomed to colour back in Germany.

  Familiar scenes were being shown on the screen before them. His

  lover was uneasy at the sight of the fighting, however glorious the

  conclusion would inevitably be. Leni Riefenstahl’s film was brilliant, but here they were closer to the heart of the matter.

  Trudi’s worries communicated themselves to him. The conflict

  in the Pacifika Territories remained a problem for the New Order.

  From Japan to Indonesia the remnants of Hirohito’s armed forces

  fought on like maddened beasts, undeterred by the intensive

  bombing of the Home Islands.

  A helicopter appeared in the cinematic sky, moving quickly

  above the treetops. He did not envy the Waffen SS their patrols

  over the barren lands, encumbered by their whole body radiation

  gear. As much as his fantasies might take him m arching in triumph

  through the long-concluded War of Redemption, he had no wish to

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  participate in the present campaign against the guerillas.

  ‘Turn it off,’ he said in English.

  Their body servant moved away from his position at attention

  beside the lamp and carried out his instruction. Trudi did not protest. Such reminders of the violence of the world summoned forth disturbing images from their shared past. The Untermensch was

  shaking with fear, so close to an SD officer — the childish fear of

  failure and the camps. He gestured to the blond Australian and the

  servant left, the reliefevident on his features.

  Even now, many found it difficult to accept the firm, guiding

  hand of National Socialism.

  Rudolf Esser paced around the reception room. Gauleiter Kahr

  had kept him waiting for fifteen minutes now. He checked his grey

  uniform again for any fallen hair, particle of lint. These new uniforms were well-designed. He wore his with pleasure. The Sicherheitdienst might not be as famous as the SS or the Wehrmacht, yet they were respected by those with a modicum of

  knowledge of the world.

  With a click the doors of the office opened. Gauleiter Kahr

  stepped forward, his stolid but arrogant movements characteristically East Prussian.

  ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, H auptm ann Esser. The press

  of State is merciless.’

  They exchanged pleasantries, and the older man led him into the

  office. It was modest but impressive. Rudolf was struck by the

  portraits of British officials — or were they perhaps Australian? —

  along with paintings of local landscapes.

  ‘Ah yes, the images of my predecessors. This building was their

  place of residence. They were South Australian Governors before

  this Gau was incorporated into the Reich.’

  Rudolf Esser was at a loss for words. ‘Surely . . . ’

  ‘Sit down, H auptm ann, there’s no need to worry. We’re not so

  bound by the strictures of home here. The SD is a loyal friend to us.

  Come — perhaps you’d care to sample some of the local wine.’ The

  Party officer poured a glass for each of them. ‘It’s a high honour to

  be Gauleiter of Greater Barossa. I trust you fully appreciate the

  regard the Party has for this area. All the other Australian States

  were formed into SS territories. This is one of the few overseas

  dominions which is legally part of the Fatherland. It’s my territory

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  as well.’

  Rudolf nodded. They sipped their wine, which was surprisingly

  good, and discussed the local situation. The Gestapo SS had been

  very successful in locating the Jews, Aborigines, Gypsies, political

  leaders, deviants and other racial chaff, most of whom had been

  sanctioned. Eventually Kahr came to the point.

  ‘You must understand that the Barossa Germans had to be augmented by loyal settlers from Hanover and elsewhere. This remains a continuing political necessity.’

  ‘O f course.’

  Kahr gave him a hard look. ‘We wish you to investigate certain

  elements within the Party who oppose our social coordination

  programme. Most of them are Barossa Germans; one Karl

  Schmidt is their leader. Talk to them, enter their circles, get to

  know Schmidt. While we don’t wish to go as far as the SS Territories, there must be some move here towards industrial feudalism, and clearer distinctions as to who are Untermenschen. These are the Fiihrer’s long-term aims.’

  O r Heinrich Him mler’s.

  ‘The German Reich must remain an organic whole,’ Rudolf said

  piously.

  The Gauleiter smiled. ‘Quite so. We operate on levels above

  those of ordinary men. You’re here to purify our ranks. You’ll have

  any resources you require.’ He passed Rudolf a sheaf of forms.

  ‘These are authorisations for summary execution. We can’t afford

  to antagonise the SS. W ith that exception you’re free to use them

  against whomever you think fit.’ He paused. ‘Apart from myself, my

  family and close friends.’

  He ran his hand along Trudi’s thigh, up to her pubic hair. He had

  an early morning erection. The bed was luxurious and he had no

  desire to leave it. He pushed her over to one side, entered her. She

  gave a groan as she woke, then her legs came around him; he kissed

  her. The quilt fell away from them. He pulled her on top of him,

  and massaged her breasts.

  The more that
she accepted him, the cooler his ardour became.

  True union would have to be reflected in the outer world. After a

  time he climaxed; only then did he wipe the sleep from his eyes. She

  still refused to m arry him. Every rejection hurt him more, transformed her little by little into a beast; that was his way of coping.

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  He was caught in a vicious cycle, and redemption could come only

  from her.

  Their Untermensch body servant licked his lips and turned away

  from the one-way mirror. He was so frightened that he had lost the

  power to move his limbs. The narrow passageway was cold and

  dusty, and the gloved hand on his shoulder did not waver, possessing the inherent superiority of birth.

  ‘Watch her closely, study her throes. If you’re convincing, you’ll

  live.’

  The camera rolled on, emitting the faintest of whirrs.

  ‘These former States were modern equivalents of the ancient city-

  nations,’ said Rudolf. ‘The State capital held most of the population

  and dominated a huge area of land.’

  ‘Politics is boring,’ his lover told him, between bites of toast with

  marmalade. The silverware gleamed upon the white quilt covering

  their double bed. ‘Only Hitler was ever spellbinding, with his eyes

  and his voice. A pity his illness allows him so little speechmaking.

  Apart from him, I prefer reading about the Ostrogoths and the

  Saxons.’

  He could not help but laugh at her irreverence. They were comfortable here, in this fine, nineteenth-century mansion, with its verandahs and its garden full of gum trees.

  If only she would bear him a child. Then they would be whole

  again, his suffering expiated.

  The interrogation room was designed to be intimidating. It was

  small, cluttered with machinery. For now, the light was focused in

  its centre, leaving the corners dim. On the high ceiling there were

  various grids and chains, and other mechanical aids.

  The lamp and table were expensive, the chairs quite comfortable, though that of Rudolf s captive was lower than his.

  Heinrich, formerly Henry, Shillington wore a swastika arm-

  band, An Anglo-Saxon possessed of sufficient Aryan stock to allow

  him entry into the Germanic Folk, he had joined the Party early,