Robert Wilson - Julian Comstock - A Story of 22-nd Century America

Sam had not told me when the meeting between Julian and Lampret was set to take place, however, and as I waited I was tempted again by sleep, for the day was warm, and so was my uniform, and a barrel of salt pork nearby had drawn a crowd of flies whose droning became a kind of lullaby, and the resinous boxboards sweating in the sunlight gave off a dolorous perfume. My chin dipped from time to time; and I was afraid I would be found here, hours later, dreaming contentedly, only to discover on waking that Julian had been shipped off to Schefferville or points north. I used this unpleasant prospect to torture myself into alertness; nevertheless I was relieved when I caught sight of Julian approaching across the parade ground, his head erect and his uniform clean and square.

“Reporting as ordered,” Julian said when he arrived, and although I could no longer see him his voice was as crisply audible as if he had spoken into my ear.

“Julian Commongold,” said Major Lampret said. “Private Commongold—or should I call you Pastor Commongold?”

“Sir?” Julian asked.

“I understand you’ve been lecturing the troops on religious subjects.”

Since I was unable to see either party to this conversation I mean to transcribe it as if it were dialogue in a Play: that is, without benefit of observation, for that is how I experienced it, thus: J ULIAN : “I’m not sure I know what you mean, sir.”

LAMPRET : “Let’s be straightforward with one another. I’ve had my eye on you for a while now. You’re not like the other men, are you?”

JULIAN (hesitating): “No two of us are alike, as far as I can see.”

LAMPRET : “You’re literate, for one thing, and obviously well-read. You have opinions on current events. And I’ve been a few places, Private Commongold, and I know a Manhattan accent when I hear one.”

JULIAN : “Is that so uncommon?”

LAMPRET : “Quite the opposite. One of your type turns up in every regiment sooner or later—if not a Manhattan cynic, then a barracks lawyer from Boston or a would-be Senator with a rural address. I’m just trying to sort out which kind of problem you are. Raised in New York , and you had a comfortable life there, by the look and bearing of you… Who was your father, Julian Commongold? Some up-and-coming rag merchant? A mechanic with enough money to buy the illusion of prosperity and a storefront education for his son? Toadying before his betters by day and cursing them at night in the privacy of his kitchen? Is that why you decided to leave your family and join the Army? Or did you just get drunk and end up on the wrong train, like a lost schoolboy?”

JULIAN (coolly): “The Major is very perceptive.”

LAMPRET : “Or if not that, something similar… I suppose you were the sort of boy who always had his way on the playground? A few impressive words and everyone wants to be your friend?”

JULIAN : “No, sir—not everyone.”

LAMPRET : “No—there’s always the inconvenient few who see through the charade.”

JULIAN : “The Major is surprisingly well-informed about life in New York City. I was under the impression that he had spent most of his time in Colorado Springs.”

That was a daring and dangerous thing for Julian to say. The Dominion Academy in Colorado Springs had produced some fine Strategists and Tacticians; it had also produced, and in greater abundance, a legion of spies and informers. According to Sam the Dominion Military College was once an authentic Military Academy , back when the Union still operated an Air Force—that is, a battalion of Airplanes, and Air-Men to fly them. [This is the sort of thing I would once have dismissed as another of Julian’s historical fantasies, except that the Dominion History of the Union made passing reference to it. War in the Air!—another of the unimaginable pastimes of the Secular Ancients.]

But that institution declined with the End of Oil, although strategic stockpiles, it’s said, kept the Air Force flying a few years into the False Tribulation. After that the Air Force Academy came increasingly under the sway of the Dominionist center of power at Colorado Springs—became, ultimately, a sort of institutional liaison between the Dominion and the Generals.

Dominion men are full officers, and entitled to issue orders. But their real power is disciplinary. Unlike other COs , a Dominion Officer can bring up a man on charges of Impiety or Sedition. A soldier convicted of those crimes might face anything from Dismissal with Prejudice to ten years in a stockade.

It was a power seldom exercised, for the relationship between the Army and the Dominion had always been a delicate one. Dominion Officers were generally not well-liked, and were often regarded as priggish and potentially dangerous interlopers. A good Dominion Officer, from the point of view of the men of the line, was one who would do his share of the work, who would foster piety by example rather than punishing its absence, and whose Sunday sermons were brief and to the point. Major Lampret was well-enough liked by the men, for he seldom threatened them. But he was aloof in their company, and watched them carefully from a distance. There was about Major Lampret something of the aspect of a well-fed Colorado Mountain Lion: lethargic, but muscular, and ready to pounce the moment his appetite revived.

Had Julian whetted Major Lampret’s appetite for apostates and contrarians? That was the question I asked myself as I listened from my nest of ropes and boxes.

LAMPRET : “You might want to consider your tone of voice, Private Commongold. May I offer you a lesson in Civics? There are three centers of power in the modern Union , and only three. One is the Executive Branch, with its supporting host of Owners and Senators. One is the Military. And the last is the Dominion of Jesus Christ on Earth. They’re like the tripod feet of a stool: each supports the other, and they work best when they’re equal in reach. But you’re not a propertied person, Mr. Commongold, as far as I know; and you’re certainly not a Clergyman; and the Army in its wisdom has put you in the lowest possible rank. Your position doesn’t entitle you to an opinion, much less the loose expression of it.”

JULIAN : “There is proverb, sir, that opinions are like—like—”

LAMPRET : “Say noses.”

JULIAN : “ Noses, in the sense that everyone has one.”

LAMPRET : “Yes, and like noses, some opinions are less noble than others, and some are thrust in where they don’t belong. You may have all the opinions you want, Mr. Commongold, but you may not share them if they undermine the piety or preparedness of American troops.”

JULIAN : “I have no love for the Dutch, sir, or any intention of undermining American soldiers.”

LAMPRET : “That’s a guarded denial! Do you think I’m a bully, Private Commongold, looking for an excuse to exercise my authority? On the contrary. I’m a realist. By and large, the men under my command are untutored and ignorant. I understand that and I accept it. For these men religion is little more than their mothers’ half-forgotten admonitions and the promise of a better world to come. But that’s what serves them, and I expect that’s how the Lord intended it. I don’t want my men to go into battle harboring doubts about their personal immortality—it makes them poorer soldiers.”

JULIAN : “Not in my experience. I fought beside those men, and they gave exemplary service. The Major may not have noticed, since he wasn’t there.”

That was a gauntlet thrown at Lampret’s feet, and my concern for Julian escalated to real fear. It was one thing to argue with the Major, it was another thing to bait him. Dominion Officers were traditionally excused from combat. They carried pistols, not rifles, and they were more useful behind the lines, where they ministered to the spiritual needs of the troops. The commonest slur made against Dominion men was that they were cowards, hiding behind their angel’s-wing badges and their big felt hats. I could not, of course, see the Major’s reaction to Julian’s statement; but a kind of steely silence radiated from the tent like the heat from a smoldering coal-pile.