Bruce Sterling - Distraction

“We can’t afford thousands of nonpaying guests,” Pelicanos said.

“Yosh, just forget the red ink for a minute. We don’t have to ‘afford them.’ They are affording us. They can feed and clothe us, and all we have to do is share our shelter and give them a political cover. That’s the real beauty of this Emergency, you see? We can go on here indefinitely! This is the apotheosis of the Strike. During the Strike, we were all refusing to do anything except work on science. Now that we have an Emergency, the scientists can continue their science, while the Moderators will assume the role of a supportive, sympathetic, civil population. We’ll just ignore everyone else! Everything that annoyed us in the past simply falls off our radar. All those senseless commercial demands, and governmental oversight, and the crooked contrac-tors… they’re all just gone. They no longer have any relevance.”

“But nomads don’t understand science,” Gazzaniga said. “Why would they support scientists, when they could just loot the place and leave?”

“Hey,” said Burningboy. “I can understand science, fella! Wernher von Braun! Perfect example. Dr. von Braun lucked into a big ugly swarm of the surplus flesh, just like you have! They’re heading for Dachau anyway if he don’t use ’em, so he might as well grind some use out of ’em, assembling his V-2 engines.”

“What the hell is he talking about?” Gazzaniga demanded. “Why does he always talk like that?”

“That’s what science is!” Burningboy said. “I can define it. Science is about proving a mathematical relationship between phenome-non A and phenomenon B. Was that so hard? You really think that’s beyond my mental grasp? I’ll tell you something way beyond your mental grasp, son — surviving in prison. You fair-haired folks might have, like, a bruising collision with nonquantum reality if somebody drove a handmade shiv right through your physics book.”

“This just isn’t going to work,” Greta said. “We don’t even speak the same language. We have nothing in common.” She pointed dramatically. “Just look at that laptop he’s carrying! It’s made out oj straw.”

“Why am I the only one who sees the obvious here?” Oscar said. “You people have amazing commonalities. Look at all that no-mad equipment — those leaf grinders, and digesters, and catalytic cracking units. They’re using biotechnology. And computer networks, too. They live off those things, for heaven’s sake.”

Greta’s face hardened. “Yes but … not scientifically.”

“But they live exactly like you live — by their reputations. You are America’s two most profoundly noncommercial societies. Your socie-ties are both based on reputation, respect, and prestige.”

Gazzaniga frowned. “What is this, a sociology class? Sociology’s not a hard science.”

“But it’s true! You scientists want to become the Most Fre-quently Cited and win all the honors and awards. While Moderators, like the Captain here, want to be streetwise netgod gurus. As a further plus, neither of you have any idea how to dress! Furthermore, even though you are both directly responsible for the catastrophe that our society is undergoing, you are both incredibly adept at casting your-selves as permanent, misunderstood victims. You both whine and moan endlessly about how nobody else is cool enough or smart enough to understand you. And you both never clean up your own messes. And you both never take responsibility for yourselves. And that’s why you’re both treated like children by the people who actu-ally run this country!”

They stared at him, appalled.

“I am talking sense to you here,” Oscar insisted, his voice rising to an angry buzz. “I am not ranting. I possess a perspective here that you people, who are locked in the ivory basements of your own sub-cultures, simply do not possess. It is no use my soft-pedaling the truth to you. You are in a crisis. This is a crux. You have both severed your lifelines to the rest of society. You need to overcome your stupid prejudice, and unite as a powerful coalition. And if you could only do this, the world would be yours!”

Oscar leaned forward. Inspiration blazed within him like Platonic daylight. “We can survive this Emergency. We could even prevail. We could grow. If we handled it right, this could catch on!”

“All right,” Greta said. “Calm down. I have one question. They’re nomads, aren’t they? What happens after they leave us?”

“You think that we’ll run away,” Burningboy said.

Greta looked at him, sad at having given offense. “Don’t you always run away? I thought that was how you people survived.”

“No, you’re the gutless ones!” Burningboy shouted. “You’re sup-posed to be intellectuals! You’re supposed to be our visionaries! You’re supposed to be giving people a grasp of the truth, something to look up to, the power, the knowledge, higher reality. But what are you people really? You’re not titans of intellect. You’re a bunch of cheap geeks, in funny clothes that your mom bought you. You’re just an-other crowd of sniveling hangers-on who are dying for a government handout. You’re whining to me about how dirty morons like us can’t appreciate you — well, what the hell have you done for us lately? What do you want out of life, besides a chance to hang out in your lab and look down on the rest of us? Quit being such a pack of sorry weasels — do something big, you losers! Take a chance, for Christ’s sake. Act like you matter!”

“He’s really lost it,” Gazzaniga said, goggling in wounded amazement. “This guy has no grasp of real life.”

Flagboy’s phone rang. He spoke briefly, then handed the phone to his leader.

Burningboy listened. “I gotta go,” he announced abruptly. “There’s been a new development. The boys have brought in a prisoner.”

“What?” Kevin demanded. As the new police chief, Kevin was instantly suspicious. “We already agreed that you have no authority to take prisoners.”

Burningboy wrinkled his large and fleshy nose. “They captured him in the piney woods east of town, Mr. Police Chief, sir. Several kilometers outside your jurisdiction.”

“So then’s he’s a Regulator,” Oscar said. “He’s a spy.”

Burningboy put his notes and laptop in order, and nodded at Oscar reluctantly. “Yup.”

“What are you going to do to this captured person?” Greta said.

Burningboy shrugged, his face grim.

“I think this Committee needs to see the prisoner,” Oscar said.

“Oscar’s right,” said Kevin sternly. “Burningboy, I can’t have you manhandling suspects inside this facility, just on your own recog-nizance. Let’s interrogate him ourselves!”

“What are we, the Star Chamber?” Gazzaniga said, aghast. “We can’t start interrogating people!”

Kevin sneered. “Okay, fine! Albert, you’re excused. Go out for an ice cream cone. In the meantime, us grown-ups need to confront this terrorist guerrilla.”

Greta declared a five-minute break. Alerted by the live coverage over the loudspeakers, several more Committee members showed up. The break stretched into half an hour. The meeting was considerably enlivened by an impromptu demonstration of the prisoner’s captured possessions.

The apprehended Regulator had been posing as a poacher. He had a pulley-festooned compound bow that would have baffled Wil-liam Tell. The bow’s graphite arrows contained self-rifling gyroscopic fletching and global-positioning-system locator units. The scout also owned boot-spike crampons and a climber’s lap-belt, ideal for exten-sive lurking in the tops of trees. He carried a ceramic bowie knife.

These deadly gizmos might have passed muster on a standard hunter, but the other evidence cinched the case against him: he had a hammer and a pack of sabotage tree-spikes. Tree-spikes, which ruined saw blades, were common enough for radical Greens; but these spikes contained audio bugs and cellphone repeaters. They could be hammered deep into trees, and they would stay there forever, and they would listen, and they would even take phone calls. They had bizarre little pores in them so that they could drink sap for their bat-teries.