David Brin - The Postman

That is, it was always our way until men were perverted, the strong sapped by the whimpering propaganda of the weak.

Think back to how things were when the Nineteenth Century was just dawning in America, Back then the opportunity stood stark and clear to reverse the sick trends of the so-called “Enlightenment.” The victorious Revolutionary War soldiers had expelled English decadence from most of the continent. The frontier lay open, and a rough spirit of individualism reigned supreme throughout the newborn nation.

Aaron Burr knew this when he set out to seize the new territories west of the original thirteen colonies. His dream was that of all natural males — to dominate, to conquer, to win an empire!

What would the world have been like if he had won? Could he have prevented the rise of those mis-born twin obscenities, socialism and capitalism?

Who can tell? I will tell you, though, what I believe. I believe the Era of Greatness was at hand, ready to be born!

But Burr was brought down before he could accomplish much more than the punishment of that tool of traitors, Alexander Hamilton. Superficially, his chief foe would seem to have been Jefferson, the conniver who robbed him of the Presidency. But in fact the conspiracy went far, far deeper than that.

That evil genius, Benjamin Franklin, was at the heart of it — that cabal to kill the Empire before it could be born. His instruments were many, too many even for a man as strong as Burr to fight.

And the chiefest of those instruments was the Order of Cincinnatus…

Gordon slammed the book facedown on the ground beside the straw tick. How could anyone have read crap like this, let alone published it?

It was still light enough to read after the evening meal, and the sun was out for the first time in days. Nevertheless, a crawling chill ran up and down his back as the mad dialectic echoed within his head.

That evil genius, Benjamin Franklin …

Nathan Holn did make a good case that “Poor Richard” had been much more than a clever printer-philosopher, who played ambassador in between scientific experiments and wenching. If even a small fraction of Holn’s citations were correct, Franklin certainly was at the center of unusual events. Something odd did happen after the Revolutionary War, something that somehow thwarted the men like Aaron Burr, and brought about the nation Gordon had known.

But beyond that, Gordon was impressed mostly with the magnitude of Nathan Holn’s madness. Bezoar and Macklin had to be completely crazy if they thought these ravings would convert him to their plans!

The book had, in fact, just the opposite effect. If a volcano were to go off right here in Agness, he felt it would be worth it to know this nest of snakes would go to Hell along with him.

Not far away, a baby was crying. Gordon looked up but could barely make out shabby figures moving beyond the nearby copse of alders. New captives had been brought in last night. They moaned and huddled close around the small fire they had been allowed, not rating even the shelter of a roofed pen.

Gordon and Johnny could be joining those miserable serfs soon if Macklin did not get the answer he wanted. The “General” was losing patience. After all, from Macklin’s point of view his offer to Gordon must have seemed quite reasonable.

Gordon had only a little while left in which to make up his mind. The Holnist offensive would begin again with the first thaw, with or without his compromised cooperation.

He did not see where he had much choice.

Unbidden, a memory of Dena came to mind. He found himself missing her, wondering if she was still alive, wishing he could touch her and be with her… pestering questions and all.

By now, of course, it was probably too late to stop whatever crazy scheme she and her followers had dreamed up. Gordon frankly wondered why Macklin had not already gloated to him, over yet another disaster to the hapless Army of the Willamette.

Perhaps it’s only a matter of time, he thought gloomily.

Johnny finished rinsing out the nub-worn toothbrush that was their sole common possession. He sat next to Gordon and picked up the Burr biography. The youth read for a while, then looked up, clearly puzzled.

“I know our school at Cottage Grove wasn’t much by prewar standards, Gordon, but Grandfather used to give me lots to read, and talked to me a lot about history and stuff. Even I know this guy Holn is making up half this junk.

“How did he get away with pushing a book like this? How is it anyone ever believed him?”

Gordon shrugged. “It was called ‘the Big Lie’ technique, Johnny. Just sound like you know what you’re talking about — as if you’re citing real facts. Talk very fast. Weave your lies into the shape of a conspiracy theory and repeat your assertions over and over again. Those who want an excuse to hate or blame — those with big but weak egos — will leap at a simple, neat explanation for the way the world is, Those types will never call you on the facts.

“Hitler did it brilliantly. So did the Mystic of Leningrad. Holn was just another master of the Big Lie.”

And what about you? Gordon asked himself. Did he, inventor of the fable of the “Restored United States,” collaborator in the hoax of Cyclops, have any right to cast stones?

Johnny read on for a few minutes more. Then he tapped the book again. “Who was this Cincinnatus guy, then? Did Holn make him up too?”

Gordon lay back on the straw. His eyes closed. “No. If I remember right, he was a great general of ancient Rome, back in the days of the Republic. According to the legend, he got sick of fighting one day, and retired from the army to farm his land in peace.

“One day though, emissaries came out from the city to see him. Rome’s armies were in rout; their leaders had proven incompetent. Disaster seemed inevitable.

“The delegation approached Cincinnatus — they found him behind his plow — and they pleaded with him to take command of the last defense.”

“What did Cincinnatus tell the guys from Rome?”

“Oh, well,” Gordon yawned. “He agreed all right. Reluctantly. He rallied the Romans, beat the invaders, and drove them all the way back to their own city. It was a great victory.”

“I’ll bet they made him king or something,” Johnny suggested.

Gordon shook his head. “The army wanted to. The people, also… But Cincinnatus told them all they could go chase themselves. He returned to his farm, and never left it again.”

Johnny scratched his head. “But… why did he do that? I don’t get it.”

Gordon did though. He understood the story completely, now that he thought about it. He had had the reasons explained to him, not so very long ago, and he would never forget.

“Gordon?”

He did not answer. Instead he turned over at a faint sound from outside. Looking through the slats, he saw a party of men approaching up the trail from the river docks. A boat had just come ashore.

Johnny seemed not to have noticed yet. He persisted in his questions, as he had ever since they had recovered from their capture. Like Dena, the youth never seemed willing to lose any opportunity to try to improve his education.

“Rome was a long time before the American Revolution wasn’t it, Gordon? Well then, what was this—” He picked up the book again. “—this Order of Cincinnatus Holn talks about here?”

Gordon watched the procession approach the jail pen. Two serfs labored with a stretcher, guarded by khaki-clad survivalist soldiers.

“George Washington founded the Order of the Cincinnati after the Revolutionary War,” he said absently. “His former officers were the chief members—”

He stopped as their guard stepped over and unlocked the gate. They both watched as the serfs entered and laid their burden on the straw. They and their escorts turned and left without another word.