Sunday in Acme

Some say that a crisis brings out the best in us. Others are not so sure.

Ask someone who's been there, is the usual wisdom.

Sunday morning, and Robert Thigpen didn't feel like going to church. Not that he was usually dilatory in his attendance – quite the contrary, he was usually Johnny-on-the-spot for deacon duties, ready to take up the offering ever since he'd found that he wasn't choir material. (The choir director had been diplomatic about it, but Robert had gathered that singing wasn't "his gift", and Robert was the opposite of thick-skinned when it came to criticism, so he was happy to bury his baritone light under the camouflaging bushel of an equally tone-deaf congregation.) Normally, Robert enjoyed the services, meeting the neighbours, admiring the kids' new duds, keeping private score of how often the pastor used the phrase "prayer warriors" in his allotted half-hour before the congregation grew restless to beat First Presbyterian to the Sunday buffet at the Wallaby steakhouse.

But today was the day before Memorial Day, and Robert was planning to play hookey. He had thoughtfully warned the chairman of the deacons that he thought he'd be coming down with a mild case of the 'flu today. Patriotic 'flu, he chuckled to himself as he set a plate on the floor for Obadiah the Cairn terrier – containing half his scrambled eggs, a bit of sausage, and some flour gravy. Obadiah loved flour gravy, at least when Robert made it. The little dog was a connoisseur of flour gravy, and wagged his tail happily as he and Robert shared breakfast.

The problem with civil religion, Robert mused as he stirred his coffee, was that it spilled over into religion-religion. Robert was as patriotic as the next fellow lucky enough to have grown up in an age with no draft, but he didn't like to see flags in church. Not even when the Vacation Bible School pledged allegiance to the Christian flag....and to the Saviour, for whose kingdom it stands....

Robert was a student of history, and the Christian flag made him think of things he didn't like to think about, such as the Crusades. Robert was a staunch Baptist, and therefore one of the last believers in the separation of church and state. A line in the sand, he thought. Y'all stay over yonder, and we'll stay over here, and we won't embarrass heaven and the government so much.

Besides, he liked and respected their pastor, Bro. Massey, in spite of "prayer warriors" overkill, and he didn't want to be present for the obligatory and uncomfortable platitudes about sacrifices he was sure none of them had made, or had a right to comment on in a religious context. So he was happily playing hookey, and sharing sausage, eggs, and flour gravy with Obadiah on a Sunday morning in Acme, North Carolina.

Washing up, Robert bethought himself of the meaning of the Memorial Day holiday. Ironic, really, when you come to think of it. Memorial Day was made up when half the people down here weren't even citizens any more, having lost a major war, made up to honour the war dead on the Other Side, so we made up our own Memorial Days, only, wouldn't you know it, typical Confederates had to have a different day in each state...Now, what do we do? Turn into the flag-wavin'est, most patriotic bunch in the 50 states, send the most kids to the military...What's up with that, as the young'uns say?

Robert addressed this last question aloud to Obadiah, who simply wagged his tail in reply and pawed Robert's leg, so Robert took the hint and his philosophy outdoors for a walk with his best friend.

A walk – and a whiff of his irreligious neighbours' barbecue – convinced Robert that what was needed on a beautiful day like today was a cookout, just him and Obadiah. Promising the disappointed terrier that he would only be gone for "two shakes", Robert grabbed his car keys and headed down Highway 55 for the Superbullseye, the big all-in-one department store whose full-service grocery boasted the best meats in town. On the way, Robert was mixing ingredients in his mind, planning which in-season vegetables to roast, and thinking of the best marinade. As he parked, he noticed that many of his neighbours must have had the same idea – a lot of cars and vans in the lot. Robert noted which big red ball (the Bullseye trademark) he was parked nearest to, and went through the whooshing double doors, letting the overwrought air conditioning hit him midsection as he got his bearings.

The Superbullseye was an attractive store, its goods pleasantly displayed against an overwhelming backdrop of fire-engine red. If it weren't that he reacted badly to the fluorescent lighting, Robert would have enjoyed lingering among the bargains. The place was much nicer than Lowmart, and the prices were just as good.

Although the store was attractive, Robert's fellow-shoppers were less so. It was the beginning of summer in the Piedmont, which brought out the local resident in his native plumage: baggy, knee-length, low-riding shorts for the male, tight tank tops and short-shorts for the female of the species, regardless of weight, age, or state of physical tone. Both genders sported an alarming number of tattoos on all exposed flesh. Robert had long ago decided that he would be grateful to go home to Jesus before the nursing homes were filled with octogenarians whose rheumy eyes peered out from behind a tapestry of withered manga gargoyles. Using a wet-wipe to clean the pudding – butterscotch, from the look of it – from the shopping-cart handle, Robert steered toward the meat counter.

The first shot sounded like a shelf falling near the front of the store. Robert turned toward the sound, concerned, just as the second report came. The female cashier, a middle-aged woman, crumpled to the floor. The white-haired man holding the gun turned it on the terrified customer and barked something Robert couldn't hear. The man ran for the front doors, leaving behind his wallet and keys, his cartful of groceries, and one flip-flop, lying forlornly near the exit.

What followed was a stampede. Hundreds of panicked shoppers crowded the front exits, stumbling over one another in their haste to get away from the shooter. In the split-second before he made his own decision, Robert thought he heard the sickening crunch of a broken bone, and a howl of pain and outrage.

Robert glanced around. He didn't see anyone else armed. He decided that the shooter must be alone, that the police would arrive soon, that shouting at the man with the gun would be a bad idea, and that the front of the store was not a good place to be, as that was where the nervous man was standing, shaking –probably trying to get used to the idea that he's just killed someone, he thought. Abandoning his cart, he headed in a brisk walk toward the back of the store. If nothing else, he could go out the loading area, or hide in the back until the police had sorted the mess out. He assumed the store workers would do as he advised his own staff –don't be a hero, give him whatever he wants, let him take all the cash, just don't provoke him – and he knew for a fact that they had walkie-talkies. He walked rather than ran past aisles in which customers were crouching with frightened eyes.

On his way past rows of wine bottles, Robert heard a child sobbing in the aisle next to the frozen food, and a man speaking in a low voice. "Shh, Billy, be quiet now," the man said in a British accent. Robert went around the end of the aisle to where the man crouched, comforting his grandson. He was about to speak when a red-shirted young woman appeared from the other end of the aisle, beckoning to them. They followed the Bullseye employee – her name tag said "Glenda" – to a door near the frozen food, and went into the food cooler. Glenda found some frozen blueberries, and they sat on the floor, feeding Billy blueberries to keep him quiet while they waited for the police. Robert tried one – a bit tart, but not bad. He winked at Billy, who winked back.

"I thought this was a safe place," remarked Billy's grandfather. "I'm just here visiting my son, you see, and I thought, well, it isn't New York..." Robert nodded in understanding.

There was one more shot. The gunman, ordered by the police to disarm, turned the gun on himself. The sound was muffled in the cooler, and Billy only blinked. Then his grandfather took him home, and Robert went out, answered a few police questions, and made his way to his car. On the way back to the house, he stopped at the Wallaby steakhouse for some take-out before going home to a joyful Obadiah.

Eating steak from someone else's "barbie", Robert surfed the web for explanations. Nobody knew why the man had driven all the way from California to shoot the cashier, whom he knew. Later, the man's daughter informed the police that her father had learned he had a terminal illness. This explained very little. Robert was not surprised that it was a personal matter. He hadn't expected Al-Qaeda to strike in Acme.

Robert was sorry for the people involved, but more interested in learning what had happened to the several hundred panicked customers who had hot-footed it out the front exits, jamming the doors in the process. Several broken bones had been reported. Apparently, there had been some vandalism, as 60 of his fellow-townspeople, convinced that they were under terrorist attack, ripped out some fencing behind the Bullseye and escaped across a neighbouring property.
The best bit was the blog put up by one of the television stations. There, an outraged customer expressed herself:

"I am scarred for life by this horrible experience. Me and my three-year-old quadruplets, Clio, Calliope, Erato, and Terpsichore, were all stuck in that store. They have PTSD and won't eat. I will never forget this."

Robert was sure he would never forget this letter.

"Well, Obadiah, what do you think? Are we all the stuff that heroes are made of?" As usual, Obadiah replied with a tail-wag that was suggestive of another suggestion, so Robert gave up his musing on local ladies who name their children after muses and picked up the leash.

It took a good, long walk before Robert and Obadiah were satisfied with their take on the day.

The Goth War with the Romulans - An Ongoing Conflict

Not everyone is thrilled by the
Galactovision Song Contest.

A minor fracas erupted recently at the Galactovision Song Contest, usually a hotbed of barely suppressed tedium, concerning the Romulan entry.
Our militaristic friends had done it again, entered the latest hit from the Homeworld, Tomorrow the Galaxy.

Neighbouring planets were not amused, and this revived rumours concerning the state of war between Gotha and Romulus, now in its fifth decade, with no sign of weakening on either side.

Well, it depends on who you talk to. According to a Goth spokesperson, the enemy 'is all but annihilated on all fronts, especially in the area of psy-ops'. According to a Romulan spokesdrone, 'those bl****d Goths are trying to pull the wool over your eyes again. They haven't even got an army! There is no war!', followed by incoherent spluttering.

Like I said...

The first problem is basically one of definition. According to the Goths, who have, with typical verve and considerable elan, taken it upon themselves to relieve the rest of us of the chore of dealing with the quadrant's biggest blowhards ("WE invented the wheel! AND we decided what colour it should be!), the Goth-Romulan War is a relentless and all-consuming conflict fraught with perils, deep strategy, and deeds of incredible daring (on the part of the Goths).

According to the Romulans, it is pure bunkum.

The second problem is one of stellar cartography. You see, it is hard, some would say impossible, for the Romulans to launch an attack against an enemy whose home territory lies at right angles to reality. If you can't find it, you can't bomb it. Or invade it.

Which, wiser heads opine, is why the Goths started the whole thing.

Of course, the Goths could easily find Romulus - the Empire is hard to miss, even if you discount their disputed territorial claims, the settlement of which takes up so much of the Galactic Council's time. It's just that the Goths don't actually bother invading the Romulans.

It's much more fun to pretend to invade them. Drives 'em nuts.

And that brings us to the third problem, from the Romulan point of view, that of credibility. And press control.

What the Goths save in ordnance, they spend on propaganda. And they are winning the propaganda war, with a combination of pertinacity, inventiveness, and sheer bloodymindedness that would boggle the mind of a litigious Venusian.

The Pan-Galactic Herald Centurion, a wholly Goth-owned and operated homeopape, regularly announces, in thrilling detail, complete with photos and sidebar interviews, accounts of truly amazing, daredevil raids into Romulan territory that did not take place.

Of course, they will deny this. They have an entire department whose only job it is to deny this. They say that Romulan denials are mere war propaganda from the other side, that lack of evidence simply proves how determined the enemy is to cover up his losses, and that, besides, everybody knows the Romulans are a bunch of joyless spoilsports, so there.

The Romulans, of course, are furious. They are beside themselves. They are frequently rendered speechless by this effrontery.

Speechlessness in a Romulan is a good thing.

In response to the recent Galactovision dustup, the Goths have launched a new assault. This time, they have published an entire book of anti-Romulan war songs, with titles such as We'll Hang Out Our Washing on the Horsehead Line, Praise Odin, and Pass the Ammunition, and, particularly galling, I'm a Frothy Old Goth, in a Sloppy Old Moth, on the Streets of Old Ra'tleifi, with My Auntie and My Nephie, Doing Those Blear-o Blear-o Can't See Too Clear-oh, Zero Gravity Blues.

Which immediately went into the Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster Book of Useless Records as the most ridiculous song title in sidereal history.

Of course, the Goths do attack from time to time, at a spacetime locus of their own choosing. But even this affords their bellicose opponents no comfort, no release. Their latest foray was into the capital itself, where they used strategically placed, and well-cloaked, transporters to simultaneously beam 499,999 teddy bears, all in Goth native costumes, and all terminally cute, to every public building in the city.

The diabolically cunning part was the number of bears. The obsessive-compulsive (and ursophobic) Romulans went crazy trying to find that last bear.

The Romulans continue to gnash their teeth, faced with the horror of an enemy who refuses to take war seriously. In the meantime, a grateful galaxy has now voted the entire Goth nation the Supernobel Prize, in a special category: Peace Through Perpetual Warfare.

May all your conflicts be humorous ones.

Jakobsson's Ark

The journey by icebreaker was pretty hair-raising, but the last 100 miles over the icy tundra took the last nerve I had. By the time we pulled up in front of Frøhvelv I, all I could think of was hot chocolate.

I suppose that was why I wasn't in the mood to register the barbaric beauty of the gigantic metal wedge protruding from the mountain, its forbidding grey contrasting starkly with the snow-covered granite – if I had, I would have made that note in my blog earlier, the one about how it looked like an ancient hard drive out of the Archaeological Museum. As I climbed slowly out of the heated jeppi, expecting my reluctant breath to turn to icicles the moment it left the safety of my nostrils, I just had time to notice the orange klieg lights that provided the only colour in this black-and-white twilight snowscape, when Jósef Jakobsson himself came bounding out the entrance, mittened hand outstretched in greeting, perfect white teeth recklessly exposed to the elements in that world-famous grin.

"Bródir Caoinan," he greeted me – getting my name right first try, a surprise. Most people don't realise how much that means to a minority. "You made good time from the ship. I am so glad to be able to show you around our little facility."

To my relief, he hustled me inside, remarking that the evening was "a bit crisp", and while we stripped off our thermal onesies in the first airlock, and I presented my credentials to the more suspicious-looking security guard (I supposed it was his job, after all), the globally-respected Chairman of NarthGen proceeded to hold forth on his pet project, just as if I were a Really Important Person, and not merely the stringer who drew that short straw when the boss of Twittweet – the planet Narthex's cheapest newstream agency – wanted filler. I didn't care. I might have been too ethnic for the podcasts (and, yes, I admit I've got the stereotypic speech defect), but hey, I had admired Jakobsson for years, ever since he'd turned down the vice presidency of world power Synthion to accept a post with the Federated Nations. That was before he won the Humanity Prize, of course. The fact that most of the planet thought he was a nutty genius with a bee in his bonnet didn't alter the fact that I – biologist manqué– was in awe of him. Meeting him was a dream come true.

"You see, Bródir Caoinan," the genial giant was saying while the security guard gave me a subdermal hand stamp, "We take our security precautions very seriously. What is down in our mountain is precious cargo, indeed." I murmured agreement, covertly studying the man. Even out of his onesie, Jakobsson was huge – six-foot-four at least, with nothing of the reclusive scientist about him. Heavily muscled and tanned (tanned? Oh, well, these alpha Synthians probably had a tanning bed tucked in behind the sauna), wild strawberry hair, the picture of rude health. I felt even more insignificant than usual as I trotted beside him to the next airlock, trying to keep up with the conversation, physically and metaphorically.

I cleared my throat and tried to make journalist noises. "The collection is how far inside the mountain, exactly?"

"Half a mile inside the mountain itself," he replied, glancing around professionally at the titanium walls as we headed for the next airlock. Noticing that I was out of breath, he shortened his stride. "Here in the permafrost, we are free from contamination. And we can withstand a 100 megaton nuclear blast." The guards at the next set of doors stepped aside, and Jakobsson grinned as he pushed the doors open with a flourish.

I should not have been surprised at the subway car, but I was. As we rode the rest of the way to the central Frøhvelv, I tried to get the preliminary yadda-yadda of the interview out of the way.

"This impressive facility is the FN's response to the climate-change problem?" I ventured. Jakobsson waved a broad hand dismissively.

"Climate change, yes, but we can deal with that. I am more interested in the problem of GenCorp." My ears pricked up at that – there might be a scoop here, after all.

I cleared my throat. "You don't agree with Chairman Olafsson's assessment that the new maize strains are pure and pose no threat to world crops?" At this, Jakobsson looked as if he were about to expostulate about "blue food" – I remembered his speech on the subject – but the subway ride came to an abrupt end, and he took me by the arm, merely remarking that we would "get to that" soon enough. In the meantime, he had something to show me.

It was something, all right. You've all seen it now – at least on your podscreens – but it was the first time for me, and I was impressed.

We stood on a catwalk, high in a cavernous space. Below us, walkways stretched like spokes in a wheel, lined with glass-covered cells whose side panels glowed with digital information. I caught my breath. "It's a panopticon," I blurted, then blushed.

Jakobsson chuckled. "A panopticon, yes. One in which our "prisoners" are quite safe." He gestured below. "Even if the refrigeration were to go out, it would take three days before the temperature in the units rose to -3°. That would be enough time, I think. Here inside the mountain, we are safe from water – even should the polar ice caps melt – from war, and from idiots who make genetic mistakes." A worker in a crisp white jumpsuit wheeled a trolley past us on the way to the lift. Jakobsson stopped her and took something from the trolley. "Would you like to see?" he asked. I nodded.

He held out the packet almost reverently. I hesitated, but took it. There, in clear plastic, vacuum-sealed, was a piece of the future of Narthex: perhaps a quarter pound of seeds. I read the label. "Malus domesticus, Sample #RD4201." I smiled. "So the apples are safe."

Jakobsson grinned as he replaced the seed packet. "Not only the apples, Bródir Caoinan. There are 1.5 million varieties down there. All safe." He took me by the elbow. "Come, let us go to my office. I can answer your questions about the blue corn there. And I will tell you why I wanted you to come."

I don't know what troubled me more at that moment – the fact that Jakobsson was hinting that he, and not my editor, had originated this interview (me? I'm nobody, a shanty kid from Equatorial Arran), or that the lift we were heading for went up for a very long way into the mountain. I thanked my miner ancestors that I was not prone to claustrophobia, and kept my questions to myself until we had landed safely in Jakobsson's suitably plush office.

While Jakobsson, the attentive host, made us drinks, I looked around at the array of vidscreens on the wall – the usual newsfeeds from around the globe, what looked to be closed-circuit images from inside Frøhvelv I itself, a variety of other facilities including safari parks, and the auditorium of the FN Assembly (surprise). Even more surprising, I noticed a screen devoted to Twittweet. Alongside the current podcast – an interview with Bjørk Tinnjedóttir, the latest rad singer – there was a sidebar containing, of all things, my blog.

My blog. The one I had written feverishly for the last year, all through the Synthian winter and spring, collating newsbit after newsbit from the tech-poor northern hemisphere, desperately trying to get twitters and tweeters to listen, trying from my poky little office in Rasmussen City to reach out to the pod audience and tell them what I suspected was behind the alarming agricultural news trickling down across the equator. The stupid blog that got relegated to the bottom corner of the front page as "not sexy, a downer", while the editors concentrated on fashionistas who sent a few creds northward for famine relief, or adopted stray Arrani babies. I shrugged. Maybe the great man had too much free time.

Jakobsson handed me a tall glass with some expensive nectar in it (I had forgotten about hot chocolate by now), and folded his tall frame into a leather swivel chair, motioning me to do the same. "I asked for you," he said simply.
I must have gawked – I distinctly remember gawking – as he went on: "I could tell you were trying to get the word out about the disaster last spring." He scowled. "The harvest figures were even worse than the ones the local governments released. The famine is widespread. But I could not act. Not yet."

The drink was better than anything I'd ever tasted, but I almost choked on it. I tried for an even tone. "You were waiting for what, sir?"

As if he had not heard the reproach in my voice, Jakobsson pointed his remote at a screen and went into brisk lecture mode. The screen showed a green plant, rather common. "A. Syriaca," he intoned. "When in contact with Bacillus thuringiensis, causes significant death among Danaus plexippus L., or the monarch butterfly. Ever hear of the butterfly effect, Bródir Caoinan?" He did not wait for an answer. "That is not all the pollen can do. It kills insects, yes, that is bad enough. But..." he turned in his chair to glare at me, "It has mutated on this planet."

I flinched, almost expecting a personal attack, but his anger was not directed at me. "GenCorp," he hissed between those perfect teeth, "GenCorp has been covering up the catastrophe, shipping all the food it can buy to the northern hemisphere for six months, buying out the media chains, waiting for the southern harvest. They swore they had contained the evil. They swore they had fixed the problem. But I can read weather patterns, Bródir Caoinan, and so can they." He clicked the remote again, and the image changed.

I saw the Narthex map, with prevailing wind patterns. I saw the animation that indicated how climate change had shifted them. I saw how the winds had shifted south, carrying the pollen, carrying it toward the breadbaskets of Synthion and Arkady. I gulped alcohol and fruit juice.

Jakobsson pointed to another screen. "Today is the first day of autumn. It is traditionally the day when the harvest figures are announced by the major food-producing nations. It is time," he glanced at his watch, "to see what GenCorp has wrought." We turned to ZBF, the most reliable news source in Rasmussen City.

The figures were grim. I wasn't surprised, after what Jakobsson had told me. What most of the audience would not have appreciated was what I already knew – the planet was two months from starvation, even without the added burden of the humanitarian relief that had already been sent northward. Winter coming on, and soon we would be eating – what? Emergency rations from the FN? Each other? I looked at Jakobsson in dumb horror.

To my surprise, Jakobsson seemed almost cheerful. "That is why I sent for you, Bródir Caoinan. We have work to do, and I will need someone to help me tell the story. You see those screens? Those are the nature preserves of the FN. We have stockpiled food, enough for the animals, enough – within reason – to get us through the next harvest. We have a plan for combating the mutated, and inedible, vegetation. We have the seed bank for the future." He rubbed his hands together, as if eager to get to work. "But there will need to be...changes. I think you understand."

I nodded, slowly. In the last few minutes, my mental world had been turned upside down. But I understood. My mouth was dry. I sipped my drink, and then said, "Nothing will be the same." Privately, I hoped that GenCorp's executive would be tried for crimes against humanity, that maybe Equatorial Arran would get independence, that maybe my fourteen cousins would get jobs for the first time in their lives... But there were more pressing issues. "I will draft the statement immediately," I said.

Jakobsson's eyes twinkled. "What will you tell them?" he asked.

I thought about that old book on my dresser at home – the one my granny had pressed into my hand the day I got on the plane for Rasmussen City, saying, "Never forget where you come from". I thought about everything she'd read to me from that book.

"I think Genesis 47:20 will do for a start," I said.

And Jósef Jakobsson smiled. To someone like me, it was a reassuring smile.