From above, Western Minnesota is almost as grey as the Moon. Great dunes,
the remains of chemically-leached soil, march across the miles, driven by
incessant winds. Here and there, an oasis appears around some deep pothole or
gullied stream. Stunted cottonwoods and sawgrass cluster around these wet spots.
Occasionally, nomads can be seen, leading their often-blind horses from
oasis to oasis. Sometimes they dig into the rubble-hill remains of old towns,
looking for scavengable goods. But our story is not about them. We move on,
westward.
A dark green line appears on the horizon. In places it sparkles with
iridescence. As we come closer, we see that it is a massive hedge. Its tallest
members are a kind of cottonwood, hundreds of feet tall. Their bark glints with
crystalline highlights. At the feet of these behemoths grow great bushes,
covered in pink flowers. Between them all hang vast cobweb strands of shining
white thread, making a dense netting.
We pass over the hedge, and its purpose becomes clear: it keeps out the
dust. We now see that the hedge encloses an oval land, perhaps thirty miles long
and five wide. It is a rich land, with thick foliage of green and purple. Many
small settlements of earth-sheltered houses can be seen. Towering windmills
stand like sentinels over each.
Near the western hedge lies a shallow river. A large group of buildings
huddles beside it. We approach, and see an amphitheater. On the stage stands an
old man in white robes. His graying red hair swings about his waist as he
strides back and forth, gesturing and proclaiming. His audience, mostly
children, listen intently.
He is the Rememberer, as were his father and grandfather, all the way
back to the beginnings of The Land. He speaks with the voice of his ancestors;
for the sake of the great stories, he and his ancestors are one.
“My cousins, The
Land is good. It has always been good. But it has not always been as it is
today. I will tell you how it came to be this way. I will tell you of the people
who made it as it is. That’s what people do, we make things. Sometimes the
things are good. Sometimes they are not so good. But we are always making.
“Here is what we
made.”
Jody Neihaus wasn’t what anyone would call pretty. With her straw-blond
hair, strong jaw and broad forehead, some may have called her ‘no-nonsense
handsome.’ Her shy demeanor did nothing to draw attention. There were
thousands like her at the U of M; small-town girls of Northern European stock,
still intimidated after years in the city.
She was feeling sorry for herself that day, her first day in Literary
Research class. She was stuck in a dungeon room in an old stone pile of a
building on the West Bank campus of the University of Minnesota. The windows
looked out just at ground level. Seated, she could only see a patch of sky and
the tops of some pine trees.
She was moping, waiting for class to start, when a tall, bony whirlwind
with a ponytail dropped an REI backpack on the next desk.
“Hi, I’m Bill,” he said,
sticking out a hand. Startled, she let him vigorously shake her hand.
Then he glanced out the window and shouted “Mushrooms!” He snatched a
plastic bag from his pack, and ran out the door.
Jody had noticed the toadstools on her way in, but thought nothing of
them. She glanced up at the window. She could see his shadow as he was crawled
around, stuffing them in his sack.
He stormed back in, then held the bag open for her to smell the fruits.
When she shrank back, he said, “Oh,
come on! I’ve been eating these for years. They grew in our back yard in
Colorado.”
She leaned forward, assaying a sniff.
“I suppose
they’re alright,” she muttered.
“Alright?
They’re wonderful! Come on over to my place tonight and I’ll cook ‘em up
for you. Waddaya say?”
“I
don’t know. I just met you…”
“Come
on. I live in a big old house with a dozen other people. It’s not like we’d
be alone,” he said. Then
he spotted a familiar face in the room.
“Hey, Allen!” Bill called. “Ya wanna come
over tonight to reassure this nice lady of my intentions?”
Eventually, she relented.
That’s where it started. Where Jody had rarely even been outside of
Minnesota, Bill had been everywhere, much of it on foot. Where she was a child
of the prairie, he was a Colorado Rockies boy. Where Jody was retiring about
anything but art, Bill was passionate about everything. To create in fiber was
her one obsession; he wanted to see and know everything. She studied to be an
Art Instructor, to share her passion. He wanted to be a Librarian, to swim on
seas of information. They had one of those strange opposites kinships, perhaps a
kharmic bond. He reminded her of her older brother Steve’s far visions. She
reminded him that a hearth to return to is needed by every adventurer.
One autumn morning Karl was taking a nap. Nothing in Phoenix needed his
attention, and he’d been distracted by an odd feeling of foreboding. Karl was
a lucid dreamer, one who is conscious that he is dreaming, and is able to act
with knowledge in his dreams. He hoped that such a dream would give insight into
his unsettled feelings this day.
He found himself in a glass-walled office, high in a tower over New York.
Next to him, looking out over the cityscape was Juan Trippe, the aviation
pioneer and founder of Pan Am airlines. Some of the world’s greatest
airplanes, such as the 747, were his brainchildren. In the shadows lurked robed
and bearded men, grinning.
Trippe was pointing out over the New York skyline and crying.
“My beautiful
airplanes!” he moaned. “Why did they
have to do that with them?”
A few blocks away, smoke billowed from a pair of bluish glass
skyscrapers. Karl could feel the terror of the people within, like a gale of
ammonia and acrid smoke.
Why would someone do such a nasty thing to Juan? He wondered.
I’m glad I’m just dreaming.
He heard shouts in the distance. As he turned toward them, the scene
faded. Alec was shaking his shoulders and shouting.
“Dad! Dad! Wake
up! Red Thursday came on a Tuesday!”
Karl sprang awake in a surge of adrenaline. That was a family
high-disaster code, drawn from Robert Heinlein’s book “Friday.” Oh, Gods, no! he thought.
“Where? What,” he asked as he
jumped up, grabbed his pants, and headed out the door.
“New York! The
“Again?
How bad this time?”
“Terminal.
Hit by an airliner. Maybe two.”
Juan, I’m glad you didn’t live
to see this.
The TV lounge was crowded. The Phoenixites watched, mesmerized, as havoc
engulfed Manhattan. When the towers fell, Karl told his people “The
Reichstag has burned. It goes downhill from here.”
Some were confused.
“It’s an
historical pattern. A Right-wing government comes to power on a technicality. It
stresses nationalism, not international cooperation. Then a very public disaster
provides the excuse for clamping down. Watch for increasing security demands,
racial stereotyping, eroding of constitutional rights, foreign wars, the whole
deal. Even if Mr. Bush means well, that’s the path his philosophy, and
history, will lead him down: to full-blown imperialistic fascism.
“Friends,
we may have just gone from research center to Ark.”
Jody thought Steve’s funeral an odd affair. He’d pretty much lived on
the road for NASA for years. He had never married. Asyl was his home as much as
anywhere, even though his travels had ranged far beyond it. As in many churches
across America that September, Asyl Lutheran Church brought together an odd
assortment of mourners. They came to share History as much as Grief.
Just being in the old church was strange for Jody. The sanctuary, with
its high beams and musky smells seemed an apparition from another life. All of
her childhood Sundays had been spent there. When she was a girl, this place had
been the center of all goodness and comfort; but at the U she’d drifted into
an ill-defined faith. The old forms didn’t mean so much any more- but on this
important occasion, here she was.
All the formal trappings were out for Asyl’s lone 9/11 victim. Candles
burned on the altar. Banners draped every wall. There were friends of the
Neihauses, dressed in their Sunday clothes, NASA acquaintances in suits from
nerdly to elegant, Kate and Karl looking professorial, and the usual local “church
crashers” in whatever
presentable clothes they owned. Faiths ranged from Lutheran to Wiccan, from
Buddhist to Atheist.
The ceremony opened with Jody and her parents lighting a large candle.
Several classmates then spoke about Steve’s High School days. A NASA astronaut
described Steve’s diligence and his dedication to expanding Humanity’s
frontiers. Then the minister preached about the heritage of Asyl’s pioneer
forebears. Jody was last, talking about his last phone call.
Jody barely got through her part; she was stopped several times by
choking sobs. She spoke about the last time she’d talked to him. He had been
in New York, consulting with subcontractors. He had one last meeting, early the
next day. After that, he’d be coming to Minnesota for a visit. He’d bring
her a souvenir of the World Trade towers, where the engineers’ offices were.
“I’ll
be there day after tomorrow, Sis. Bye now!”
were his last words to her.
In the lobby afterward Jody overheard an older woman saying to friends, “Such
a nice boy, too.”
Jody looked toward the woman, curious.
“It’s a shame
he had so many funny ideas. If he’d just settled down to a safe, normal life,
he’d still be around.”
Another added, “All this
nonsense about running all over the country! And space ships! Uff dah! That boy
should’ve just stayed put, like sensible folks.”
Kate appeared at Jody’s shoulder.
“‘Sensible
folks,’” she chuckled. “Don’t let
them get to you, kid. Their own great-grandfathers, who walked beside their
wagons from St. Paul to get here, would disown them as yellow sheep.”
Pastor Iversen tried, he really did.
“Jody, I never
knew Steve well, but everyone spoke highly of him.”
he said after the service. “We
can’t understand why God chose to take him now, but we can know that it was
part of His great plan. Hold onto that, and the grief will pass.”
Jody heard him. She remembered why she’d lost her faith; it meant
pretending that things were OK. It meant that being powerless pets of The
Almighty gave enough meaning to life- but it didn’t.
To Jody and Steve, only children of Mike and Inge, the wood behind the
houses had been their private world. They climbed the trees, picked nuts and
berries, and watched birds and squirrels.
Out of this all, what stood out in Jody’s memory were nights of
stargazing on its outside edge. The trees blocked the town’s lights, and the
flat fields all around gave an unobstructed view.
Steve was a giant to her. He seemed to have been born knowing the stars,
their names, their constellations, and the myths they embodied. Model spacecraft
hung from his bedroom ceiling. He played guitar, and sang songs of voyaging and
discovery. He had shelves of books about an adventurous future, where war,
poverty, disease and hatred were but a distant memory. In Steve’s future,
people took risks and endured hardship because they chose to, not because
circumstances forced them to.
He always did a ritual on July 20th.
“Why is this
night different from all other nights? On this night we crossed over. We went to
the Moon. That’s what people DO: We go and find out.”
He sighed. “I’ll go find
out some day.”
Steve proved that he had the drive for his vision in high school. He
fixed up an outbuilding to be his model rocketry lab. He crammed in all the
science and math classes he could. He lettered in track. He became an Eagle
Scout. But while the vision of his soul was strong enough, the vision of his
body wasn’t. By the middle of his junior year he needed glasses; astronauts
couldn’t wear glasses.
Still, the fire burned. If he couldn’t follow Neil Armstrong, he could
follow Verner von Braun. If he couldn’t go “where no man
had gone before,” he could help
to send others. He graduated at the top of his class at the University of
Minnesota. Then he claimed a double Masters in Engineering and Avionics from Cal
Tech. That’s where NASA found him.
Jody still had the shoebox of postcards. Beginning with Huntsville,
Alabama, Steve had sent her picture cards from everywhere NASA sent him. He was
a troubleshooter who made sure that vendors’ goods met spec. He’d also been
one of the team who finally tracked down the cause of the Challenger disaster in
the ‘80s.
On the afternoon of the funeral, Jody received a postcard showing the
World Trade Towers. In neat blueprint-style lettering it proclaimed, “Hey,
kid! See you soon. Love, Steve.”
Jody had thought Steve would always be there. She had thought that she’d live
in the future his visions pointed to. She was wrong, on both counts.
Fat Tuesday that next week was a somber affair. Some of the regular
attendees were from the Middle East: That the 9/11 attacks had apparently been
carried out by Arab terrorists made them fearful.
“Hey, we all
know that you aren’t that way,” said Isaac, a
mathematician.
Abdul, another math professor, said, “I thank you,
friend. But we all know that Islam has always had its militant side.”
“But
so has Christianity,” said Kate, “and most
Christians are live and let live folks.”
“True,
said Fatima Iskedra, an Historian. “But
don’t forget that in ninety-nine percent of religious wars, one or the other
of them was the aggressor.”
“It’s
got nothing to do with religion!”
declared Karl Mueller. “Any
truly religious person knows better than killing and maiming. It’s an excuse,
or at best a shorthand cultural reference.”
“So,
what do you think it’s really about?”
asked Kate.
“Cultural
imperialism, pure and simple,” said Karl. “The rich
western countries can dictate how markets work, what gets played on the radio,
and what gets seen on TV and in theaters. People from other cultures are sick of
it, and are fighting back.”
“Precisely,” said Isaac,
while Abdul nodded vigorously.
Jody looked doubtful.
“But doesn’t
that apply to how the urban centers treat us out here?”
she asked.
Karl smiled a sinister smile.
“It does,
indeed,” he said. “And what do you
think is going to happen one of these days?”
There was silence for nearly a full minute.
“Jody,” Kate said. “You’re the
only one of us who actually lost someone close. What do you think?”
“I
think there are many people who kill dreams. They can’t stand anyone who
reaches higher than they do. Sometimes they kill with remarks and looks.
Sometimes they cut your budget. Sometimes they blow you up. It’s all the same.”
The few televisions left around Asyl were all tuned in that afternoon;
the Great Leader of the Emergency Government was to address the nation on
matters of “supreme
importance.” The dining
hall at Phoenix had been transformed into a TV theater, with a huge screen
erected at one end. The address coincided with supper time. It was the
best-attended meal in Phoenix history. As people gathered their meals, there was
much loud discussion about what could be coming.
The Presidential seal appeared on the screen. The Phoenixites quieted
down. Most looked anxious. Many held hands across tables.
“Ladies
and Gentlemen, the President of the United States”
“My
fellow Americans,” President Bush
the Third began. “Our nation and
our world are sad and wounded. Events far beyond our control have stripped
hundreds of thousands of our fellow citizens, and over a billion souls
worldwide, of their homes and livelihood. Our nation of wise, broad-shouldered
people has stood strong in these tribulations. We have paid the war reparations
demanded by a vindictive UN. We lead the way in helping the victims of disaster,
even as we fight the forces of terrorism and subversion from within.
Nevertheless, our best, hamstrung by antiquated structures, is not enough.
“My father,
during his presidency, wisely saw that economic recovery was not possible
without unleashing the genius of American business. Accordingly, he declared our
Federal Lands to be Long Term Outlook Zones, to be wisely administered for the
benefit of ALL Americans, not just a few outdoorsmen and animal lovers. From the
great forests thus liberated for development, millions of board feet of lumber
flowed. From newly opened oil fields, an abundance of fuel gushed to increase
our national security.
“But even that
bounty is not enough for our new challenges.
“America now,
more than every in its history, feeds the world. Much of that world has been
forced upon us as refugees, and many more depend upon our exports of grain.
Because of this, I have decided, after deliberation with my Emergency Cabinet,
our 65 Governors, and prominent business leaders, to turn all food production
over to a new conglomerate, AgriCorp. Just as vertically integrated retail
corporations changed inefficient, high-priced, small-scale stores and
restaurants into the efficient, consistent chains we know today, AgriCorp shall
revolutionize agriculture. From the field to the table, all facets of food
creation will be part of a balanced, manageable whole. Productivity, quality and
uniformity of product will rise to unequalled levels.
“Some small
towns which now serve agribusiness will be retained, although most will be
consolidated with others, or eliminated. AgriCorp shall administer all
settlements outside of the Metros as company towns.
“Small,
privately held farms will be united under AgriCorp. Their current owners will be
compensated by giving them apartments in metropolitan areas, along with whatever
retraining they need to become productive members of Corporate Society.
“As always, the
United States of America has room for the non-conformist and free-thinker. But
in these times, such people can easily become pawns of terrorists; Therefore, I
am empowering the states to create within their borders Local Outlook
Opportunity Zones, places where these people can pursue their ways with no
government interference or aid. From the acronym, these shall be known as
LOOZes, and their inhabitants as LOOZers.
“Security needs
must be served. Once people are in the Zones, they may not leave, except
temporarily and as per the needs of commerce, subject to their Administrator’s
policies.
“Time
is of the essence. All of these changes shall be implemented by June 1st, Two
Thousand and Twenty. To this end, I am invoking emergency powers of eminent
domain and travel regulation. We must move quickly to meet the threats which,
uh, threaten us.
“These are
troubling times, but we of the United States are a tough and proud people.
Together, we shall weather this storm, preserving our sacred values and rights.
God be with us all.”
The scene was disorganized and organic through the afternoon. About 5
o’clock, a young woman from the Magic Pumpkin set up a mic on the bandstand.
“OK, folks! Are
we having fun, hah?” she called
out. “Not to cut into
your eating or whatevering…”
She paused for laughter, and then continued, “It’s time to
open up the stage. There’s a signup sheet on the table over there. We have
slots open until one in the morning, so grab the one you want. Any style goes,
as long as you’re good.”
“To
get things rolling, let’s welcome the Pumpkin’s own Grandma Turtle! And no,
they aren’t selling CDs today!”
The crowd cheered, stomped and otherwise carried on while half a dozen
women in fringed buckskin outfits ascended the stage. Their instruments were
wooden flutes and panpipes, hand drums and guitars. The lead singer and front
woman carried a sort of lute made from a huge turtle shell.
Tina told me that the group was something of a legend on the folk music
scene. The women followed Native American traditional spirituality, with a
feminist spin.
“We have joy to
be here today,” the musician
said, and then held up her instrument. “Great
Spirit blessed me, years ago, by leading me to find sister turtle here. She’d
been attacked by a dog while laying her eggs. I chased him away. While I
watched, she gave up her strong turtle spirit. I covered the eggs for her,
leaving a tobacco blessing beside them, and then brought her body home. Our band
is named for her. May the feminine strength for life she showed bless all of you
through our music.
“We’ll start
with a huayno, a sacred dance tune from Peru.”
I’d never heard anything like it before. Rattles, a large drum, and
huge panpipes provided a solid beat. Strings and high pipes wove a syncopated
net of sound over it. The result was solemn and joyful, every bit as sacred as a
Bach cantata, but making you want to move in its rhythm. Soon the dance floor
was filled, and folks all over the campgrounds were dancing along.
When they finished, the crowd was very appreciative, hooting, stomping
and clapping.
They followed this with a high, lamenting tune, mostly flutes, with a
solo voice singing forlornly in some other language.
After maybe an hour, Grandma Turtle was followed by an R&B quintet,
with a female lead vocalist. They put on a show straight out of the 1940s, the
men in zoot suits and the singer in a slinky, sequined dress.
On through the night we heard bluegrass, choral music, classic rock,
chanting, and Bob Dylan style folk.
Late that night I found myself dancing to a swing band with Tina. As I
held her, swaying to a slow tune, I realized that I would miss her. Despite the
terrors she’d endured, she was probably the freest, most confident woman I’d
ever known. All of these people were like that- unburdened.
We woke
up slowly the next day; the Sealing Ceremony wasn’t until Noon, so there was
plenty of time. Everyone was sleepy, but some early risers had started food
cooking. I picked up a gyro from the Magic Pumpkin stall, and then walked about,
dodging scrambling children, listening to music and taking in last impressions.
Finally, but too soon, Noon came. Like a scene from an old epic movie,
horns blew and skyrockets flew from the gate complex. The AgriCorp anthem began
to blare from huge speakers on the gate. We all made our way to the south end to
watch the show.
A small vehicle, like an over-decorated golf cart, slowly made its way
through the gate and down the hill, flanked by a squad of huge Augments marching
in double time.
The cart pulled to a stop beside my car. Onto the stand strode Ehrhart.
Half a dozen newsdrones buzzily hovered in the air around The Great Man. He was
a greasy looking old man with a wide, loose smile. He took the podium and stood
for a moment, looking out over the assembled crowds. Behind him stood the
Augment bodyguards, in armor of bright corporate colors; each held a machine
gun. Ehrhart spread his arms, as if to embrace the multitudes.
“My friends,
people under my care, I come to you on a joyous day! We gather here to proclaim
that America is greater than ever! Our actions prove that the System works! In
our society of True Capitalism, all have Security! All have the unbridled right
to seek plenty and comfort! Each settles at the level for which God Almighty has
equipped him!”
He paused for the applause which never came.
“Today we show
the mercy of our wisdom. Misfits are not persecuted, just isolated to find their
own way. You choose not to strive, not to plan or grow, and we respect your
right to that.
“You have turned
your backs on the great Civilization toward which Humanity has been striving for
ten thousand years, but we do not turn our backs on you! We have set aside this
place for you in our mercy and benevolence! You are here fully free to explore
your maudlin dreams, where you cannot slow the ongoing progress of Corporate
America!”
He searched the crowd until he spotted me. He stepped to the side, spread
wide his arms, and proclaimed, “Jimmie Olson,
loyal corporate son, come forth from among them! Return to the bosom of Society!”
That was my cue. I shook hands with Alec and the others, hugged Tina, and
walked over to my car. Erhart had come down from the platform to stand beside
it. He gave me an exaggerated two-handed handshake. As I got in and drove to the
gate, he followed in his cart.
My last view of my friends, over the shoulders of a squad of cyborg
soldiers, was of hundreds silently holding their hands out to me in farewell and
blessing.
Before boarding the waiting helicopter, Erhart strode up to my car.
“I will expect a
full report from you, lad,”
he said, extending his hand with his famous smile.
“Yes sir, of
course,” I said a bit
too forcedly. “I’ll get
right on it.”
No, you won’t. Erhart thought. At least, you won’t want to.
I’ll have my eye on you, boy.
“I
look forward to reading it.”
Erhart said. “Call my
secretary to make an appointment. Soon!
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