TO THE BRINK

Political Tactics that Might Work

In my earlier postings, Part One and Part Two, I aimed to study an old – though successful – political tactic that was concocted and executed with great skill by a rather different version of Republicans. A tactic that later dissolved into a swill of broken promises, after achieving Power.

So, shall we wind this up with a shopping list of our own?  What follows is a set of promises – a contract of our own, aiming for the spirit of FDR’s New Deal – with the citizens of America. 

First, yes. It is hard to see, in today’s ruling coalition of kleptocrats, fanatics and liars, any of the genuinely sober sincerity than many Americans thought they could sense coming from Newt Gingrich and the original wave of “neoconservatives.”  Starting with Dennis Never Negotiate Hastert, the GOP leadership caste spiraled into ever-accelerating scandal and corruption.

Still, I propose to ponder what a “Democratic Newest Deal for America” might look like!  

–       Exposing hypocrisy and satirizing the failure of that earlier “contract” …

–       while using its best parts to appeal sincere moderates and conservatives …

–       while firmly clarifying the best consensus liberal proposals…

–       while offering firm methods to ensure that any reforms actually take effect and don’t just drift away.

Remember that this alternative “contract” – or List of Democratic Intents – will propose reforms that are of real value… but also repeatedly highlight GOP betrayals.

Might it be worth testing before some focus groups?

                  A Draft: Democratic Deal for America

As Democratic Members of the House of Representatives and as citizens seeking to join that body, we propose both to change its practices and to restore bonds of trust between the people and their elected representatives.  

We offer these proposals in sincere humility, aware that so many past promises were broken.  We shall foremost, emphasize restoration of a citizen’s right to know, and to hold the mighty accountable. 

Especially, we will emphasize placing tools of democracy, openness and trust back into the hands of the People. We will also seek to ensure that government re-learns its basic function, to be the efficient, honest and effective tool of the People.

Toward this end, we’ll incorporate lessons of the past and goals for the future, promises that were betrayed and promises that need to be renewed, ideas from left, right and center. But above all, the guiding principle that America is an open society of bold and free citizens. Citizens who are empowered to remind their political servants who is boss. 

PART I.   REFORM CONGRESS 

In the first month of the new Congress, our new Democratic majority will pass the following major reforms of Congress itself, aimed at restoring the faith and trust of the American people:

FIRST: We shall see to it that the best parts of the 1994 Republican “Contract With America” – parts the GOP betrayed, ignored and forgot – are finally implemented, both in letter and in spirit.  

Among the good ideas the GOP betrayed are these:

•   Require all laws that apply to the rest of the country also apply to Congress; 

•   Arrange regular audits of Congress for waste or abuse;

•   Limit the terms of all committee chairs and party leadership posts;

•   Ban the casting of proxy votes in committee and law-writing by lobbyists;

•   Require that committee meetings be open to the public;

•   Guarantee honest accounting of our Federal Budget.

…and in the same spirit…

•   Members of Congress shall report openly all stock and other trades by members or their families, especially those trades which might be affected by the member’s inside knowledge.

By finally implementing these good ideas – some of which originated with decent Republicans – we show our openness to learn and to reach out, re-establishing a spirit of optimistic bipartisanship with sincere members of the opposing party, hopefully ending an era of unwarranted and vicious political war.

But restoring those broken promises will only be the beginning.

SECOND: We shall establish rules in both House and Senate permanently allowing the minority party one hundred subpoenas per year, plus the time and staff needed to question their witnesses before open subcommittee hearings, ensuring that Congress will never again betray its Constitutional duty of investigation and oversight, even when the same party holds both Congress and the Executive.

As a possibly better alternative – to be negotiated – we shall establish a permanent rule and tradition that each member of Congress will get one peremptory subpoena per year, plus adequate funding to compel a witness to appear and testify for up to five hours before a subcommittee in which she or he is a member. In this way, each member will be encouraged to investigate as a sovereign representative and not just as a party member.

THIRD: While continuing ongoing public debate over the Senate’s practice of filibuster, we shall use our next majority in the Senate to restore the original practice: that senators invoking a filibuster must speak on the chamber floor the entire time. 

FOURTH: We shall create the office of Inspector General of the United States, or IGUS, who will head the U.S. Inspectorate, a uniformed agency akin to the Public Health Service, charged with protecting the ethical and law-abiding health of government.  Henceforth, the inspectors-general in all government agencies, including military judge-advocates general (JAGs) will be appointed by and report to IGUS, instead of serving at the whim of the cabinet or other officers that they are supposed to inspect. IGUS will advise the President and Congress concerning potential breaches of the law. IGUS will provide protection for whistle-blowers and safety for officials refusing to obey unlawful orders. 

In order to ensure independence, the Inspectorate shall be funded by an account to pay for operations that is filled by Congress, or else by some other means, a decade in advance. IGUS will be appointed to six-year terms by a 60% vote of a commission consisting of all past presidents and current state governors. IGUS will create a corps of trusted citizen observers, akin to grand juries, cleared to go anywhere and assure the American people that the government is still theirs, to own and control.

FIFTH: Independent congressional advisory offices for science, technology and other areas of skilled, fact-based analysis will be restored in order to counsel Congress on matters of fact without bias or dogma-driven pressure. Rules shall ensure that technical reports may not be re-written by politicians, changing their meaning to bend to political desires. 

Every member of Congress shall be encouraged and funded to appoint from their home district a science-and-fact advisor who may interrogate the advisory panels and/or answer questions of fact on the member’s behalf.

SIXTH: New rules shall limit “pork” earmarking of tax dollars to benefit special interests or specific districts. Exceptions must come from a single pool, totaling no more than one half of a percent of the discretionary budget. These exceptions must be placed in clearly marked and severable portions of a bill, at least two weeks before the bill is voted upon.  Earmarks may not be inserted into conference reports. Further, limits shall be placed on no-bid, crony, or noncompetitive contracts, where the latter must have firm expiration dates.  Conflict of interest rules will be strengthened. 

SEVENTH: Create an office that is tasked to translate and describe all legislation in easily understandable language, for public posting at least three days before any bill is voted upon, clearly tracking changes or insertions, so that the public (and even members of Congress) may know what is at stake.  This office may recommend division of any bill that inserts or combines unrelated or “stealth” provisions.

EIGHTH: Return the legislative branch of government to the people, by finding a solution to the cheat of gerrymandering, that enabled politicians to choose voters, instead of the other way around.  We shall encourage and insist that states do this in an evenhanded manner, either by using independent redistricting commissions or by minimizing overlap between state legislature districts and those for Congress.

NINTH: Newly elected members of Congress with credentials from their states shall be sworn in by impartial clerks of either the House or Senate, without partisan bias, and at the new member’s convenience. The House may be called into session, with or without action by the Speaker, at any time that a petition is submitted to the Chief Clerk that was signed by 40% of the members. 

TENTH: One time in any week, the losing side in a House vote may demand and get an immediate non-binding secret polling of the members who just took part in that vote, using technology to ensure reliable anonymity. While this secret ballot will be non-binding legislatively, the poll will reveal whether some members felt coerced or compelled to vote against their conscience. Members who refuse to be polled anonymously will be presumed to have been so compelled or coerced.

II.  REFORM AMERICA

 Thereafter, within the first 100 days of the new Congress, we shall bring to the House Floor the following bills, each to be given full and open debate, each to be given a clear and fair vote and each to be immediately available for public inspection and scrutiny. 

DB Note: The following proposed bills are my own particular priorities, chosen because I believe they are both vitally important and under-appreciated! (indeed, some of them you’ll see nowhere else.) 

Their common trait – until you get to #20 – is that they have some possibility of appealing to reasonable people across party lines… the “60%+ rule” that worked so persuasively in 1994.

#20 will be a catch-all that includes a wide swathe of reforms sought by many Democrats – and, likely, by many of you — but may entail more dispute, facing strong opposition from the other major party. 

In other words… as much as you may want the items in #20 – (and I do too: most of them!) — you are going to have to work hard for them separately from a ‘contract’ like this one, that aims to swiftly take advantage of 60%+ consensus, to get at least an initial tranche of major reforms done.

1. THE SECURITY FOR AMERICA ACT will ensure that top priority goes to America’s military and security readiness, especially our nation’s ability to respond to surprise threats, including natural disasters or other emergencies. FEMA and the CDC and other contingency agencies will be restored and enhanced, their agile effectiveness audited.

When ordering a discretionary foreign intervention, the President must report probable effects on readiness, as well as the purposes, severity and likely duration of the intervention, along with credible evidence of need. 

All previous Congressional approvals for foreign military intervention or declared states of urgency will be explicitly canceled, so that future force resolutions will be fresh and germane to each particular event, with explicit expiration dates. All Eighteenth or Nineteenth Century laws that might be used as excuses for Executive abuse will be explicitly repealed. 

Reserves will be augmented and modernized. Reserves shall not be sent overseas without submitting for a Congressionally certified state of urgency that must be renewed at six-month intervals. Any urgent federalization and deployment of National Guard or other troops to American cities, on the excuse of civil disorder, shall be supervised by a plenary of the nation’s state governors, who may veto any such deployment by a 40% vote or a signed declaration by twenty governors. 

The Commander-in-Chief may not suspend any American law, or the rights of American citizens, without submitting the brief and temporary suspension to Congress for approval in session. 

2. THE PROFESSIONALISM ACT will protect the apolitical independence of our intelligence agencies, the FBI, the scientific and technical staff in executive departments, and the United States Military Officer Corps.  All shall be given safe ways to report attempts at political coercion or meddling in their ability to give unbiased advice.  Whistle-blower protections will be strengthened within the U.S. government. 

The federal Inspectorate will gather and empower all agency Inspectors General and Judges Advocate General under the independent and empowered Inspector General of the United States (IGUS).

3. THE SECRECY ACT will ensure that the recent, skyrocketing use of secrecy – far exceeding anything seen during the Cold War – shall reverse course.  Independent commissions of trusted Americans shall approve, or set time limits to, all but the most sensitive classifications, which cannot exceed a certain number.  These commissions will include some members who are chosen (after clearance) from a random pool of common citizens.  Secrecy will not be used as a convenient way to evade accountability.

4. THE SUSTAINABILITY ACT will make it America’s priority to pioneer technological paths toward energy independence, emphasizing economic health that also conserves both national and world resources.  Ambitious efficiency and conservation standards may be accompanied by compromise free market solutions that emphasize a wide variety of participants, with the goal of achieving more with less, while safeguarding the planet for our children.

5. THE POLITCAL REFORM ACT will ensure that the nation’s elections take place in a manner that citizens can trust and verify.  Political interference in elections will be a federal crime.  Strong auditing procedures and transparency will be augmented by whistleblower protections.  New measures will distance government officials from lobbyists.  Campaign finance reform will reduce the influence of Big Money over politicians. The definition of a ‘corporation’ shall be clarified: so that corporations are neither ‘persons’ nor entitled to use money or other means to meddle in politics, nor to coerce their employees to act politically.

Gerrymandering will be forbidden by national law. 

The Voting Rights Act will be reinforced, overcoming all recent Court rationalizations to neuter it.

6.  THE TAX REFORM ACT will simplify the tax code, while ensuring that everybody pays their fair share.  Floors for the Inheritance Tax and Alternative Tax will be raised to ensure they only affect the truly wealthy, while loopholes used to evade those taxes will be closed. Modernization of the IRS and funding for auditors seeking illicitly hidden wealth shall be ensured by IRS draw upon major penalties that have been imposed by citizen juries. 

All tax breaks for the wealthy will be suspended during time of war, so that the burdens of any conflict or emergency are shared by all.[1]

7.  THE AMERICAN EXCELLENCE ACT will provide incentives for American students to excel at a range of important fields. This nation must especially maintain its leadership, by training more experts and innovators in science and technology.  Education must be a tool to help millions of students and adults adapt, to achieve and keep high-paying 21st Century jobs.

8. THE HEALTHY CHILDREN ACT will provide basic coverage for all of the nation’s children to receive preventive care and needed medical attention.  Whether or not adults should get insurance using market methods can be argued separately.

 But under this act, all U.S. citizens under the age of 25 shall immediately qualify as “seniors” under Medicare, an affordable step that will relieve the nation’s parents of stressful worry. A great nation should see to it that the young reach adulthood without being handicapped by preventable sickness.

9. THE CYBER HYGIENE ACT: Adjusting liability laws for a new and perilous era, citizens and small companies whose computers are infested and used by ‘botnets’ to commit crimes shall be deemed immune from liability for resulting damages, providing that they download and operate a security program from one of a dozen companies that have been vetted and approved for effectiveness by the US Department of Commerce. Likewise, companies that release artificial intelligence programs shall face lessened liability if those programs persistently declare their provenance and artificiality and potential dangers. 

10. THE TRUTH AND RECONCILIATION ACT:  Without interfering in the president’s constitutional right to issue pardons for federal offenses, Congress will pass a law defining the pardon process, so that all persons who are excused for either convictions orpossible crimes must at least explain those crimes, under oath, before an open congressional committee, before walking away from them with a presidential pass. If the crime is not described in detail, then any pardon cannot apply to any excluded portion. Further, we shall issue a challenge that no president shall ever issue more pardons thanboth of the previous administrations, combined.

Congress shall act to limit the effect of Non-Disclosure Agreements (NDAs)that squelch public scrutiny of officials and the powerful. With arrangements to exchange truth for clemency, both current and future NDAs shall decay over a reasonable period of time. Incentives will draw victims of blackmail to come forward and expose their blackmailers.

11. THE IMMUNITY LIMITATION ACT: The Supreme Court has ruled that presidents should be free to do their jobs without undue distraction by legal procedures and jeopardies. Taking that into account, we shall nevertheless – by legislation – firmly reject the artificial and made-up notion of blanket Presidential Immunity or that presidents are inherently above the law. 

Instead, the Inspector General of the United States (IGUS) shall supervise legal cases that are brought against the president so that they may be handled by the president’s chosen counsel in order of importance or severity, in such a way that the sum of all such external legal matters will take up no more than ten hours a week of any president’s time. While this may slow such processes, the wheels of law will not be fully stopped. 

Civil or criminal cases against a serving president may be brought to trial by a simple majority consent of both houses of Congress, though no criminal or civil punishment may be exacted until after the president leaves office, either by end-of-term or impeachment and Senate conviction. 

12. THE FACT ACT: The Fact Act will begin by restoring the media Rebuttal Rule, prying open “echo chamber” propaganda mills. Any channel, or station, or Internet podcast, or meme distributor that accepts advertising or reaches more than 10,000 followers will be required to offer five minutes per day during prime time and ten minutes at other times to reputable and vigorous adversaries. Until other methods are negotiated, each member of Congress shall get to choose one such vigorous adversary, ensuring that all perspectives may be involved. 

The Fact Act will further fund experimental Fact-Challenges, where major public disagreements may be openly and systematically and reciprocally confronted with demands for specific evidence.

The Fact Act will restore full funding and staffing to both the Congressional Office of Technology Assessment and the executive Office of Science and Technology Policy (OTSP). Every member of Congress shall be funded to hire a science and fact advisor from their home district, who may interrogate the advisory bodies – an advisor who may also answer questions of fact on the member’s behalf. 

This bill further requires that the President must fill, by law, the position of White House Science Adviser from a diverse and bipartisan slate of qualified candidates offered by the Academy of Science. The Science Adviser shall have uninterrupted access to the President for at least two one-hour sessions per month.4

13. THE VOTER ID ACT: Under the 13th and 14th Amendments, this act requires that states mandating Voter ID requirements must offer substantial and effective compliance assistance, helping affected citizens to acquire their entitled legal ID and register to vote. 

Any state that fails to provide such assistance, substantially reducing the fraction of eligible citizens turned away at the polls, shall be assumed in violation of equal protection and engaged in illegal voter suppression. If such compliance assistance has been vigorous and effective for ten years, then that state may institute requirements for Voter ID.      

In all states, registration for citizens to vote shall be automatic with a driver’s license or passport or state-issued ID, unless the citizen opts-out.

14. THE WYOMING RULE: Congress shall end the arrangement (under the  Permanent Apportionment Act of 1929) for perpetually limiting the House of Representatives to 435 members. Instead, it will institute the Wyoming Rule, that the least-populated state shall get one representative and all other states will be apportioned representatives according to their population by full-integer multiples of the smallest state. The Senate’s inherent bias favoring small states should be enough. In the House, all citizens should get votes of equal value. https://thearp.org/blog/the-wyoming-rule/

15:  IMMIGRATION REFORM: There are already proposed immigration law reforms on the table, worked out by sincere Democrats and sincere Republicans, back when the latter were a thing. These bipartisan reforms will be revisited, debated, updated and then brought to a vote. 

In addition, if a foreign nation is among the top five sources of refugees seeking U.S. asylum from persecution in their homelands, then by law it shall be incumbent upon the political and social elites in that nation to help solve the problem, or else take responsibility for causing their citizens to flee. 

Upon verification that their regime is among those top five, that nation’s elites will be billed, enforceably, for U.S. expenses in giving refuge to that nation’s citizens. Further, all trade and other advantages of said elites will be suspended and access to the United States banned, except for the purpose of negotiating ways that the U.S. can help in that nation’s rise to both liberty and prosperity, thus reducing refugee flows in the best possible way. 

16: THE EXECUTIVE OFFICE MANAGER: By law we shall establish under IGUS (the Inspectorate) a civil service position of White House Manager, whose function is to supervise all non-political functions and staff.This would include the Executive Mansion’s physical structure and publicly-owned contents, but also policy-neutral services such as the switchboard, kitchens, Travel Office, medical office, and Secret Service protection details, since there are no justifications for the President or political staff to have whim authority over such apolitical employees. 

With due allowance and leeway for needs of the Office of President, public property shall be accounted-for. The manager will allocate which portions of any trip expense should be deemed private and thereupon – above a basic allowance – shall be billed to the president or his/her party. 

This office shall supervise annual physical and mental examination by external experts for all senior office holders including the President, Vice President, Cabinet members and leaders of Congress.

Any group of twenty senators or House members or state governors may choose one periodical, network or other news source to get credentialed to the White House Press Pool, spreading inquiry across all party lines and ensuring that all rational points of view get access.

17: EMOLUMENTS AND GIFTS ACT: Emoluments and gifts and other forms of valuable beneficence bestowed upon the president, or members of Congress, or judges, or their families or staffs, shall be more strictly defined and transparently controlled. All existing and future presidential libraries or museums or any kind of shrine shall strictly limit the holding, display or lending of gifts to, from, or by a president or ex-president, which shall instead be owned and held (except for facsimiles) by the Smithsonian and/or sold at public auction. 

Donations by corporations or wealthy individuals to pet projects of a president or other members of government, including inauguration events, shall be presumed to be illegal bribery unless they are approved by a nonpartisan ethical commission.

18: BUDGETS: If Congress fails to fulfill its budgetary obligations or to raise the debt ceiling, the result will not be a ‘government shutdown.’ Rather, all pay and benefits will cease going to any Senator or Representative whose annual income is above the national average, until appropriate legislation has passed, at which point only 50% of any backlog arrears may be made-up. 

19: THE RURAL AMERICA AND HOUSING ACT: Giant corporations and cartels are using predatory practices to unfairly corner, control or force-out family farms and small rural businesses. We shall upgrade FDR-era laws that saved the American heartland for the people who live and work there, producing the nation’s food. Subsidies and price supports shall only go to family farms or co-ops. Monopolies in fertilizer, seeds and other supplies will be broken up and replaced by competition. Living and working and legal conditions for farm workers and food processing workers will be improved by steady public and private investments.

Cartels that buy-up America’s stock of homes and home-builders will be investigated for collusion to limit construction and/or drive up rents and home prices and appropriate legislation will follow. 

20: THE LIBERAL AGENDA: Okay. Your turn. Our turn. Beyond the 60% rule.

·      Protect women’s autonomy, credibility and command over their own bodies,

·      Ease housing costs: stop private corps buying up large tracts of homes, colluding on prices.

·      Help working families with child care and elder care.

·      Consumer protection, empower the Consumer Financial Protection Board.

·      At least allow student debt refinancing, which the GOP dastardly disallowed. 

·      Restore the postal savings bank for the un-banked,

·      Basic, efficient, universal background checks for gun purchases, with possible exceptions.

·      A national Election Day holiday, for those who actually vote.

·      Carefully revive the special prosecutor law. 

·      Expand and re-emphasize protections under the Civil Service Act.

·      Anti-trust breakup of monopoly/duopolies.

·       

….AND SO ON…

III.          Conclusion

All right.  I know this proposal – that we do a major riff off of the 1994 Republican Contract with America – will garner one top complaint: We don’t want to look like copycats!

And yet, by satirizing that totally-betrayed “contract,” we poke GOP hypocrisy… while openly reaching out to the wing of conservatism that truly believed the promises, back in 94, perhaps winning some of them over, by offering deliverable metrics to get it right this time…

…while boldly outlining reasonable liberal measures that the nation desperately needs.

I do not insist that the measures I posed — in my rough draft “Democratic Deal” — are the only ones possible! (Some might even seem crackpot… till you think them over.)  New proposals would be added or changed.  

Still, this list seems reasonable enough to debate, refine, and possibly offer to focus groups. Test marketing (the way Gingrich did!) should tell us whether Americans would see this as “copycat”……or else a clever way to turn the tables, in an era when agility must be an attribute of political survival.

A Space Comedy, by David Brin

The illustrated-serialized online chapter version

Previously… 

            When the landing Party from the Clever Gamble is ambushed in the sub-urbs of an Oxytocin city, Human Advisor-to-Demmies Alvin Montessori is separated from his crewmates, awakening in a dank basement to confront some locals who… well… have ample facial hair and fangs and tusks and a taste for beer and raw steaks. He’s sure, from past experience that his access to high tech can over-awe these fellows. And it starts to work… until it doesn’t.

                                                            ***

The next time I awoke, it was under a vast canopy of stars, damp, bruised, and in pain. Still, I gasped foremost in surprise at still being alive. My last recollected image hadn’t been all that promising.

After the ship didn’t answer, and the Lik’ems called my bluff, what else could I do but wing it? Starting with the very first thing to come to mind. The Colonel Bogie March was followed by a brief rendition of I got Rhythm, which segued into a blues version of that ancient, venerated Earth melody, Zippedee-doo-dah – attended by every sound effect I could muster with hand in armpit.

Slack-jawed, the four Lik’ems had stared in astonishment while I moved on through a half-dozen of my best animal calls, then a syncopated chant of The Ballad of Eskimo Nell – in some faint hope they’d like the raunchy bits. Or else, perhaps, that sheer tedium would put them to sleep.

No such luck. Of the four of them, the two laconic Lik’em henchlupines had simply stared with glazed expressions. And while Lorg seemed willing to give me points for effort, the giant leader simply glared.

At last, Besh told Lorg – “I guess you’re right, after all. This meat’s no good. I’ll help you throw it out.”

With that, four huge creatures – each about the size and density of a Harley space scooter – buried me under a blurry avalanche of hair and burlap.

In fact, I must have made a good account of myself during the brief fight, since it lasted longer and was even more painful than I expected. Finally, as the world spun and I blacked out, the last words I heard were – “Let’s’ toss him to the Zoomz, if they want him so bad.”

                                                ***

Pondering later as consciousness returned, I didn’t much like the sound of those words, even in recollection. At the moment, though, I had other worries as I lay in the dark, sprawled on my back on a cold, hard surface.

No bones seemed broken, but I hurt all over. Stars could be seen overhead – occulted by the outlines of clouds and tree branches. It was damn cold. Worse yet, my uniform was torn!

That was bad. Circuitry woven into the fibers was essential to communicating with my crewmates in orbit. Wincing at the effort, I pressed my collar tab anyway, and tried to transmit. My voice warbled and scritched like something made of tin.

“This is Ship’s Advisor Montessori, calling… calling Clever Gamble. Come in, Clever Gamble. Do you read?”

No answer. The nanos in my ears remained silent – though I couldn’t rule out the possibility that Besh and his boys had knocked them loose, along with half my fillings.

Maybe it would help if I sat up and smoothed some of the kinks out of my abused shirt. I pushed up to my elbows, and for the first time got a glimpse of my surroundings. My call to the ship trailed off as I made out rows of grayish white forms, mostly rectangular, arrayed in rows that vanished into the gloom in all directions. Some of the slabs stood upright. Others tilted awkwardly or had toppled on the ground. I now lay upon one of the latter kind.

An overturned grave stone.

Frissons of panic climbed my back while my gorge churned. It wasn’t just your typical queasiness, mixed with surprise. When you’ve spent as much time with demmies as I have, you can’t help picking up their penchant for superstition. Right then, my sepulchral surroundings didn’t make me any more appreciative of the direction life was heading.

Then I noticed something else that didn’t help my sense of well-being. Of the tombstones I’d thought “toppled,” several of those nearby seemed deliberately positioned on the ground, with metal fixtures along one side.

Hinges, I realized, unhappily, soon noting that the slab I lay upon came so equipped. Why would anyone put hinges on grave slabs?

As if that weren’t bad enough, it was about then that a voice murmured out of the darkness behind my back.

“There, you see, Sully? He got up. I told you he must be dead. You owe me five.”

Shivering, I turned to see two humanoids watching me. One leaned against a tall funerary monument, managing to look wryly dapper, despite missing an ear, an eye, and nearly half his scalp. The other one sat atop the same marble shrine, swinging her legs while regarding me with an amused expression on her waxy, overly made-up face. Above them both, a stone figure – both heroic and exaggeratedly masculine – stood frozen in the act of offering sage counsel, chiding with an outstretched finger.

Probably warning future generations never to stand still long enough to let birds roost on your head, I thought. Or so mused the part of me still capable of detached observation. Symptoms of incipient hysteria were evident. I was starting not to give a damn.

“I don’t think so, Moulder,” the woman answered her companion with a wry smirk. She slid off her perch to land beside him, and pointed at me. “He smells much too fresh. Besides, ever see Besh and his bunch leave their meat in such good shape?”

“Moulder” winced and touched the missing side of his face.

“Well, maybe it wasn’t Besh that left it here. Some of the other Lik’em bands are still living by the Old Code. Or maybe the Nomorts dumped him, after draining him.”

The female shook her head as she sauntered toward me. Her gait was strange, at once both graceful and somehow impaired – as if she were a dancer, struggling to disguise a progressive neurological disease. Underneath that casual pose, I thought I caught an attitude of intense concentration. She dropped to one knee next to me and reached out toward my neck. I flinched, and her fingers stopped short, then withdrew. She tilted her head, looking at me from both sides… and I caught a pungent, sweet scent, like a ten-times normal dose of tangy perfume.

“He’s not been sipped by Nomorts, either. He’s warm.” She rocked back on her haunches. “And I sense a normal pulse.”

“Ho, yes?” Moulder shambled closer, and I saw that one of his arms hung nearly useless at his side. He gave off a reek that made me quail back, breathing only through my mouth.

“You’re right, Sully,” he muttered, crouching over me. “Lookit him pant like a scared puppy!” Moulder guffawed so hard that something came loose from his mouth, flying past my left ear. A tooth, I suspected unhappily. “So, you’re still Standard, eh? Still among the true-living? Well enjoy it! For a while.”

I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. It seemed time that I took matters in hand. But as I was about to speak, I heard something I liked even less. A rumbling vibration that seemed to come from below my mortuarial platform. There was a scraping clatter, followed by a bang which jarred the stone from underneath.

Both Sully and Moulder stood up and stepped back. I quickly saw that the disturbance wasn’t limited to this area. On all sides, tombstones that lay flush with the ground were being nudged, then rocked… and then flung back, swiveling over their hinges to strike the abused earth with loud thuds, revealing yawning black cavities below.

I stared as more and more opened, the lids pivoting and banging into dirt, raising small dust clouds, until the cemetery hills were pocked with rectangular holes like a carcass pecked-over by neat ravens.

The nearest neighboring grave lay silent for an agonizing eternity that lasted all too briefly. Then a hand emerged… or something that may once have deserved the name.

While I stared, transfixed, the stone beneath me rocked once more, this time insistently.

“Well, bloodywarm?” Moulder sneered. “Gonna get out of the way? Or d’you want to join us the fast way?”

I turned to see that he and Sully had retaken their perches, climbing up the pedestal of the monument, more than two meters above the ground.

More hands were emerging from graves on all sides, followed by vague shapes that made me deeply grateful for the dark. The tombstone that I sat on received a bang from below that lifted one side several centimeters before slamming back down.

I suddenly found the will to move my arms and legs, scrambling to my feet and running past gaping crypts whose residents now emerged like implacable wraiths. Desperately, I dodged around crumbly, foul-smelling pits, evading clawlike hands that reached for me – whether in aggression or supplication I didn’t tarry to find out. I leaped for the pedestal and managed to get my arms over the stone lip, near the cold base of the statue. I was trying to swing my legs up when something brushed my left foot. I tried shaking it off, but a bony grip clamped down on my boot and began dragging me backward!

I seem to recall a sound leaving my throat. I would not be ashamed if anyone called it a whimper.

Suddenly, two pairs of chill hands seized my arms and yanked me upward. I felt a snap below, and soon thereafter found myself on my feet atop the pedestal, standing next to the statue itself, just under the benevolent arm of the sculpted eminence.

“Thank you,” I gasped, between hasty breaths.

This time, Moulder spilled no parts when he laughed. “Think nothing of it. That’s why the tribe has recents, like us, check out the surface before an advent. Older corpies don’t like surprises. Makes ’em grumpy.” He nodded downward, and I got an all-too good look at the entity who had tried to seize me, seconds before.

A zombie, I thought, subvocalizing a word that I’d been avoiding for some time. Shreds of former clothing still draped the cadaverous form, grinning liplessly as it cast about, left and right, searching for something it had lost. It never occurred to the wretched thing – thank God – to look up.

“S’cuse me,” Moulder said, in an amused voice. “I think you’ve got something our cousin wants back.”

As he crouched by my side, I looked down and must have yelped. The woman, Sully, steadied me as Moulder wrestled loose a severed hand that still clamped ahold of my service boot. With a grunting effort, he loosened its grip, holding it warily by the wrist as it slowly writhed, opening and closing clumsily.

“Hey, cuz! Here ya go. Wear it in health!”

He tossed the disembodied appendage down so that it struck the zombie in the chest. After a moment or two, the pathetic, horrible thing bent over to recover the member, fumbling and finally managing to re-attach the hand in some way. Backwards, I realized when it clenched. The poor creature didn’t seem to notice.

“Flshsh-shfleppp-ph-ph gr-gr-flph-ph-f,” it slobbered through a rictus grin… and I swear, the slavering sound seemed almost musical, in a strange, chilling way. I wouldn’t have expected my nanos to make sense of the noise, but the translator in my left ear offered a best-guess interpretation—

“Why thank you, kids, for finding what I had misplaced! How nice to see that courtesy is still extant among today’s youth.”

It was only a rough rendering. The original statement might have been bitterly sarcastic for all I knew. Still, I muttered, “You’re welcome,” almost involuntarily, as the corpambulist shuffled off to join a horde of risen forms, now shambling in unison through the gloom.

“Have a nice evening stroll,” I added.

The woman, Sully, let go of my arm and stared at me. I turned, and abruptly realized something I’d been too tense no notice before – that she was, without a doubt, the loveliest dead person who ever saved my life. To her surprised regard, I could only shrug and repeat what my own instructors used to teach, here at the academy, as good advice for any occasion.

“Well after all,” I told the beautiful zombie. “It never hurts a body to be polite.”

Cover art by Patrick Farley. Prompted interiors designed by Eric Storm

THE ANCIENT ONES continues online… in Part 6

or return to Chapter 1

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Comments welcome below. No seriously! Got some really bad puns of your own? Weird thought? Things I might improve? Don’t be shy!

A space comedy by David Brin

The illustrated – serialized online chapter version

Or Return to Chapter 1

Previously… 

Alvin Montessori and Captain Ohm are leading a landing party through a park near the city of Cal’Mari – now renamed “squid” — guided by a mysterious local named (according to the demmie-programmed translator device) “Earl Dragonlord.”

At dusk, when the demmies on the team seem most susceptible to superstitious imaginings, suddenly shapes loom upon them from the growing gloom…

             Montessori recounts:

            “As I turned, a horrific howl pealed. Then another, and still more from all sides, baying like hounds from hell. Before I could finish spinning about, a dark, flapping shape descended over me, enveloping my face in stifling folds and choking off my scream.”

---

Consciousness returned in fits and starts, accompanied by a rhythmic, irritating, “plinking” sound – the repetitive dripping of water into some pool. Even before I opened my eyes, mineral aromas and stony echoes told me that I must be underground, lying on some cold, gritty floor.

Spikes of yellow light stabbed when I cracked my eyelids, but I tried not to move or make a sound as blurry outlines gradually formed into steady images – a stretch of rocky wall; a smoldering torch set in an iron sconce; stacks of wooden crates covered with frayed tarps; a rough wooden table, where lay a platter, stacked with raw meat steaks. A glass tankard frothed with some kind of brownish ale.

A pair of pale, squinting eyes peered over the tankard’s rim as it rose to meet a broad face, nearly covered by a riot of dark fur.

The meniscus level of ale dropped swiftly, accompanied by slurping gulps as the tankard swung horizontal, draining down that hairy gullet. With a deep satisfied sigh, the furry one licked the goblet’s rim with a prodigious tongue. Overall, the shape of the skull was much like a person’s. The eyes, though recessed, were green and still somewhat humanoid. Only where Earl Dragonlord had possessed canine uppers even pointier than a demmy’s, this fellow had huge, heavy lower tusks, jutting up to graze his shaggy cheeks.

The flagon slammed down and he started toward the pile of steaks, salivating prodigiously… then he stopped, sniffing the air. A matched pair of splendidly huge eyebrows arched as he turned toward me, grinning impressively.

“Snarsh glimp? Naggle scraggle. Yowzuh nowzuh, whutchuh-briggle…”

My captor must not have come into contact with the translator-converter. Or else the device was knocked out during the ambush. No matter. I never believed in that method of dealing with language differences, anyway. “When in Rome…” begins an old human expression that’s good advice for any traveler.

I tongued one of my molars, turning on the interpreter nanos in my own ear canal.

“Grimble gramble gnash… so-o-o it’s no-o-o yoosh pretending-g-g,” rumbled the deep, slurred voice, which grew steadily easier to understand. “I ken when a man’s scannin’ me, though ’is gaze be narrow as a Nomort’s charity.”

I opened my eyes fully and sat up on one elbow, wincing just a little from sharp twinges.

“I suppose I’m your prisoner,” I said, subvocalizing first in my own language, then relaxing to let my laryngeal nano-woofers fashion the equivalent in local dialect.

The hirsute fellow replied with what I took to be a shrug, using shoulders the size of hamhocks. When he next opened his mouth, what emerged was a hearty, majestic belch.

I made certain to look impressed.

“Hm. Well said. I take it you are what they call a Lik’em.”

If he winced at my use of the term, it was hidden by the mat of hair covering all but his nose and eyes.

“This week I seek no relief, ’xcept to be what I be, and am what I am. You should see me elsetimes. Handsome bugger, or so says my mirror. An’ what about you? What’s your fate? To eat, or be ate?”

A queer question. It made me glance, against my better wishes, at the stack of bloody cutlets on his plate.

“My name is Dr. Alvin Montessori. And I’m not sure I understand what you mean. Someone recently told me that I looked like a… a Standard.”

My host grunted expressively. “So does a corpambulist, when he’s new an’ not too smelly. So’s a Nomort, in daylight. Heck-o, you should see me most days when there’s no moon in view. Smooth as a baby an’ don’t say maybe!” He guffawed heartily, a friendly sound that would have cheered me, were not beads of saliva running down his yellow tusks and pooling on his lower lip before they spilled on the deeply stained tabletop.

Questions had been swirling in my head ever since we met Earl Dragonlord, about the social class structure on this world. I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like the answers.

“Let’s say I am a Standard. Does that automatically mean I’m slated for somebody’s dinner table?”

My host sniggered, as if amused by my ignorance.

“In some measure that’s up to the Standard hisself.”

“And I suppose Lik’ems and corpsic—”

“Corpambulists,” he corrected. “Though they prefer bein’ called Zoomz. T’is easier to pronounce, especially in their condition.”

“Zooms?” I’m afraid I rolled my eyes. “Then Lik’ems and Zooms are devourers of—”

“Hey. Don’t pin the whole rap on us! There’s Nomorts, too, y’know.”

Nomorts… such as Earl Dragonlord. The native I last saw guiding my captain and crewmates toward his home. His lair.

I felt a chill that had little to do with the dank, underground cold. Turning toward the torch, I squinted so that its light pierced between my eyelids in sharp, diffracting rays. My nose began to tickle.

“So,” I asked. “What must a Standard do in order to keep from being someone’s dinner?”

The furry humanoid grinned, his tusks gleaming. “You mean you really don’t know? Then as we suspected—”

The tickling light beams struck a nerve at last. I gasped… then bellowed a ferocious sneeze.

The abrupt noise sent my captor toppling backward, off his chair. If my intent had been to jump him, that would have been the time. But I only took the occasion to gather myself up to one knee, pulling in my collar tab.

A fleecy, dark mane reappeared in view, rising above the table, followed by peering eyes.

“Wha… what was that?”

“Just a sneeze. It’s freezing down here, don’t you think? Doesn’t a solitary captive like me deserve a blanket, after being attacked on the darkened streets of your urb district, knocked out, and dragged underground, away from my friends?”

“That was a sneeze? It sounded like a cross ’tween a hellion howl and a razortooth’s roar.” He blinked some more. “I thought you said you was a Standard.”

I divided my attention, as another voice buzzed in my ears.

“Advisor Montessori, this is Commander Talon, on the bridge. Thank heavens you’re all right! I assume from your phrasing that you’re alone underground, under some type of coercion, and out of contact with the Captain. Is that correct?”

Demmies are sharp and quick, when they decide to focus, and Talon took focus seriously. I shivered to reinforce the impression that I must keep my hand on my collar. Facing the Lik’em, I spoke sharply, as if to answer his question.

“I never said I was a member of the planetwide social class that’s apparently preyed upon by three other sub-races of humanoids… those three groups being called the corpambulists, whom I’ve never seen; and the elegant Nomorts, one of whom I last saw guiding my comrades toward castle-like structures on a hill west of the park, presumably into a trap; or Lik’ems like you my captor, who seem to grow abundant lower bicuspids and facial fur during certain times of the month, and relish beer with their raw meat.”

The Lik’em stared at me, rising the rest of the way. “Uh, why are you talkin’ like that?”

“How should I talk to a fellow who has taken away my belt pouch and all my tools, and now holds me captive in a subterranean chamber, a little over two meters in height and roughly three meters long by four wide, with a tunnel exiting along the long axis? There you are, standing almost two meters tall, though in a bit of a forward-canine crouch, on the other side of a table piled high with raw steaks, and you have the nerve to ask—”

“We’re homing in on your signal now, Advisor. I don’t think we can read quite the kind of detail you’re giving us. Not through solid rock. But the room dimensions should help us track you down.”

“—have the nerve to ask why I’m talking like this? You really don’t know why I’m talking like this?”

The Lik’em shook his head vigorously, eyes betraying growing worry. “Look, Doc, maybe we got off to a bad start. My name’s Lorg.” He hurried over to a pile of tarps in the corner. “Here, let me get you that blanket—”

“Got it!” The voice of the ship’s exec cut in. “Hold on, Advisor, we’ve found your locus, in a cavity underneath one of their streets. I’m warming up the blasters right now. Just give us a few seconds. We’ll rip away thirty meters of rock and have you outta there in a jif—”

“No!” I cried out, leaping to my feet so fast that I lost contact with the throat mike. Lorg jumped back in dismay, yelping like a puppy with its tail caught in a door.

I pressed my uniform collar once more. “Don’t you dare!” I reiterated. My heartbeat raced, knowing how quickly demmies can work when they think they’re coming to the rescue of a friend. Any moment now, the planetary crust over my head might start boiling into the atmosphere, surgically peeled in molten sheets by a giga-terrawatt laser.

“Just… just hold it right there,” I added, in a lower tone. “Hold it and stay calm.”

Lorg stared at me, clutching the blanket in front of him, his jaw quivering, tusks and all.

“I’m calm. I’m calm!”

Commander Talon also replied – “Roger, Doctor Montessori. Understood. Standing by.”

I tried to think. So far I’d been improvising… a technique which isn’t taught much at Earth’s Advisor Academy, since that skill is usually left to demmies. (It is their strongest trait.) But sometimes a human has to do the demmiest things. At this point I had my captor intimidated, but I knew that would give way when he realized my loud bark wasn’t backed up with bite.

I took an assertive step towards him. “Where are we now? In the sub-urb?”

Lorg nodded. “Under my own place. You were closest to the manhole, so I grabbed you before the Renks snatched ever’body else.”

This confused me. “You mean the captai… my friends aren’t here too?”

“Naw. The Renks laid a trap for ’em. Me an’ my friends were lucky to get you.”

“Renks? Who are they? Are they Nomorts?” My suspicions of Earl Dragonlord flared. Had he led our party into an ambush?

But that didn’t make sense! We had been following Earl toward the hill of castles he called home. Why should he abduct victims who were already heading into his lair?

“Renks is a kind of Zoomz,” Lorg said, with a shiver and a shake of his head. “They swarmed over y’all. We hardly had time to—”

“Shut up, Lorg!”

A new, harsh voice cut in, making us both startle and turn. At the entrance to the underground chamber, three more Lik’ems had appeared, even larger than my host. Foremost among the newcomers was a giant figure, bulging out of his clothes, which resembled some kind of striped tracksuit, with a sweater draped over the shoulders. Pale yellow fur stood on end with rage, and his curling tusks made Lorg look like a poster boy for Orthodontia Monthly.

“Besh!”Lorg cried out. “I was just—”

“Playing with your food again, I know.” The bigger Lik’em sauntered in – if one can “saunter” with tree-like arms that almost brush the floor. “How many times do I haveta tell you? If you talk to it, that only makes it harder to eat.”

The other two Lik’ems leaned against the door and chortled, a sound vaguely like what an engine might say, after being fed a treat of corundum sand. Lorg turned red – in those few bare patches showing through his matted pelt.

“Uh, Besh, I don’t think this’s food at all. It… he ain’t like any Standard I ever seen.”

“Nonsense! Look at him! X’cept for that funny nose, and those flattish eyes, that silly chin, and smooth fore’ead—”

What funny nose? I thought, a bit put out.

“Besides, what were Renks doing out there? Hunting for partners in a game of spin the skull? They must want this meat pretty bad, risking a foray into our urb like that.”

“Exactly!” Lorg said, gaining some feeling in his voice. “You ever see that happen before? Or for that matter, you ever see Standards come strolling through the urb at night? With a moon full? I tell you, them Renks wanted somethin’ more’n just Standard flesh.”

Besh seemed torn between affront at Lorg’s daring to talk back, and interest in the possibilities he’d raised.

“Not a regular Standard, eh? Maybe something tastier?”

“Maybe something a whole lot more dangerous,” I interjected, speaking with more steadiness than I felt inside.

Besh looked me over, and barked a savage laugh. He ambled toward me with an air of relish… and mustard and mayonnaise, I’d wager.

“I don’t scare off easy, meat. I’m Besh, night-howler and hill-loper! Runner in the woods and bed-lover of all three moons! My yowl curdles milk in far counties. It shatters windows in the Standards’ armored high rises. Nomorts take a sunburn, before they face Besh. Little baldie, you dare try to out-bluff me?”

As he moved closer, flexing hands like the scoops at the end of a steam shovel, Lorg tugged at his sleeve.

“Watch out, Besh. He makes this noise.”

I had been getting ready for a fight, relaxing into Judo stance… as if that would help much against four such demons. But Lorg’s words gave me an idea. I pressed my collar again.

“Did that noise impress you, Lorg? Why, I wouldn’t insult Besh with anything so puny.”

This time the big Lik’em stopped, clearly intrigued.

“Oh yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah! Besh calls himself night-howler? Why, I can out-bellow him anytime, anywhere. I can make clamor that’ll rattle your gums and shake your teeth out of their sockets. I can make water rise up and stones fall from above. You want noise? I’ll give you noise!”

Would Commander Talon understand what I wanted? By sonic induction, it should be easy enough to transmit vibrations directly into the bedrock all around this chamber – something loud and awe-inspiring. It would only be a matter of timing, triggering it to coincide with my surreptitious cue. Just the sort of improvised trick I had seen the Captain pull, plenty of times.

I felt a moment’s triumph from the facial expressions of Besh and the others. Clearly, bravado and bluster were components of Lik’em character, part of how they sorted out their own pecking order. Now to back up my bravado with something that would turn them into jibbering converts, eager to help me any way they could.

“Right!” I took a step forward, brandishing a fist. “I’ll make these rock walls tremble with such a din, you’ll think the world is ending!”

The Lik’ems stared at me, wide-eyed and nervously expectant.

Seconds passed, measured by the slow plinking of condensation droplets, falling unhurriedly into a nearby puddle. With each “plunk” my heart sank. Where was Talon? Why didn’t he answer, to confirm my request?

Besh blinked once. Twice. Scratching his shaggy, blond mane, he ran his tongue back and forth a few times between his tusks, making a thoughtful clicking.

He glanced at Lorg, who looked back at him and shrugged.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Besh said, facing me once more. “What noise is it you were thinkin’ of impressin’ us with?”

“Yeah,” Lorg added, a little eagerly. “Will it hurt?”

I pressed the collar mike against my throat, with desperate urgency.

“Hurt? Why… I can make a racket that will shiver these chambers and rattle your soul! A cacophony to show you I’m nobody’s meat. It’ll petrify your very bones, shrivel your guts, shake your teeth—”

“We heard that part already,” Lorg complained, a little churlishly. I really was doing my best, under the circumstances.

“Enough!” Besh roared, setting off his own reverberations and sweeping the plate of cutlets off the table, crashing to the floor.

“Enough braggin’! Just do it, meat. Give it a shot.”

He crossed his arms, waiting.

My mind whirled. What had gone wrong? Was it a problem with my microphone or nanos? Or had something gone amiss with the Clever Gamble, in orbit?

The eyes of the Lik’em chieftain told me, I had but seconds left.

Improvise! Part of me insisted.

But I’m no demmie! Another part replied. I’m a logical Earthman!

That thought cheered me, just a little. Enough to find some saliva in my dry mouth, to wet my lips.

I brought them together… and blew.

This isn’t going to work, I thought, as I began a softshoe tap-shuffle, to my own whistling accompaniment.

I had never been so right in all my life.

=====================

---

Onward to Chapter 5! Or return to Chapter 1.

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Comments welcome below. And yes, contribute your OWN jokes and puns! Thjis is how Andy Weir turned a great draft into an epic novel!

===============

© 2019, 2024 David Brin. Cover & interiors prompt-designed by Eric Storm. More interiors by Patrick Farley

A Space Comedy by David Brin

The illustrated – serialized online chapter version

Or…. Return to Chapter 1.

PREVIOUSLY… Alvin Montessori, ‘human advisor’ aboard the exploration vessel Clever Gamble, has slurried down to planet Oxytocin with a landing team of demmie crewmates. Impulsive, mercurial beings, infuriating but… brilliant and kind of lovable, despite all that, A bit excitable and jumpy, the security officer fires a stun gun at a local native.  Fortunately, this particular kind of stun gun is non-lethal in… unique ways. But unfortunately…

Reprise: 

  The native – pinned to the ground like Gulliver by the stun nanos — was now much calmer, prattling at a slower pace while I set up the universal translator on its tripod. Our captain dropped to one knee, preparing for that special moment when true First Contact could begin. Colored buttons flickered as the machine scanned, seeking meaning in the slur of local speech. Abruptly, all lights turned green. The translator swiveled and fired three more nanos at the native, one for each ear and another that streaked like a smart missile down his throat.

It isn’t painful, but startlement made him stop and swallow in surprise.

“On behalf of the Federated Alliance of—” Captain Ohm began, expansively spreading his arms. Then he frowned as the impudent creature interrupted, this time speaking aristocratically-accented Demmish.

“…I don’t know who you people are, or where you come from, but you must get out of the park, quickly! Don’t you know it’s dangerous?”

Part Three

While I vaporized the rest of the stun-ropes, Guts (our medical officer) helped the poor fellow back to his feet.

I was about to resume questioning him when Nuts squeezed between us, giving me a sharp swipe of her elbow. I rubbed my ribs as she brushed leaves and sticks off the native gentleman’s clothing, getting his measure with a few demure, barely noticeable gropes.

That was when the security leader Lieutenant Gala Morrell came with bad news.

“Captain, I’m sorry to report that Crewman Wems has disappeared.”

Ohm gave an exasperated sigh. “Wems, eh? Missing, you say? Well, hm.”

He glanced at the other security men. “I guess we could send Jums and Smet to look for him.”

The two greenies paled, cringing backward two paces. I cleared my throat. The captain looked my way.

“No?”

“Not if you ever want to see them again, sir.”

The captain may be impulsive, but he’s not stupid.

“Hmm, yeah. Better save ’em for later.”

He shrugged. “Okay, we all go. Form up everybody!”

Each of us was equipped with a locator, to find the spigot in case we got separated. I tried scanning for Wems, but could pick up no sign of his signal. Either something was jamming it or he was out of range. Or the transmitter had been vaporized – and Wems along with it.

We scoured the area for the better part of an hour, while our former captive grew increasingly nervous, sucking on his lower lip and peering toward the bushes. Finally, we decided to let him choose our direction of march, flanked on one side by the captain and the other by our chief artificer, Commander-Engineer Nomlin, – or “Guts’ – who gripped his arm like a tourniquet, batting her eyes so fast the wind might have mussed his hair again, if it weren’t already coifed and greased back from a peaked forehead.

Aside from several teeth even more pointy than a demmie’s, our guide had pasty skin that he tried to keep shaded with his cloak. Taking readings, I found that the sun did emit high ultraviolet levels. Moreover, the air was laced with industrial pollutants and signs of a degraded ozone layer – fairly typical for a world passing through its Level Sixteen crisis point. If proper relations were established, we might help the natives with such problems. Perhaps enough to make up for contacting them in the first place.

The native informed Nuts that his name was “Earl Dragonlord” – at least that is how the nano in his throat forced his vocal apparatus to pronounce it, in accented demmish. He seemed unaware of any change in speech patterns, since other nanos in his ears re-translated the sounds back into his native tongue. From his perspective, we were all miraculously speaking the local lingo.

The master translator unit followed our party, watching out for more aliens to convert in this way. A typically demmie solution to the inconvenience of a polyglot cosmos.

Our chief artificer swooned all over Earl, asking him what the name of that tree was, and how did he ever get such dark eyes, and how long would it take to have a local tailor make another cape just like his. Fortunately, Nuts had to pause occasionally to breathe. During one of these intermissions, Captain Ohm broke in to ask about the “danger” Earl spoke of earlier.

“It’s become a nightmare in our city!” he related in hushed tones, glistening eyes darting nervously. “The Lik’ems are breaking their age-old vows. They no longer cull only the least-deserving Standards, but prey on anyone they wish! Why, they’ve even taken to pouncing on Nomorts like you and me! Then there’s the ongoing strike by the corpambulists…”

It sounded awfully complicated already, and we’d only gone fifty meters from the spigot. I interrupted.

“I’m sorry. Did you say – ‘like you and me?’ What do you mean by that?”

He glanced at me, noticing my human features. “I was referring to your companions and me. No offense meant. Although you are clearly a Standard, I can tell that your lineage is strong, and your bile is un-ripe. Or else, why would you mingle with these Nomorts in apparent friendship? True, your kind is used to being hunted. Nevertheless, you must realize the rules are drastically changed here. Traditional restraints no longer hold in our poor city!”

I shared a glance with the Captain. Clearly, the native thought we were visitors from another town, and that the demmies were fellow “Nomorts”… his own kind of people. Perhaps because of the similarity in dentition. In his hurry, he seemed willing to overlook our uniforms and strange tools.

The afternoon waned as our path climbed a tree-crested hill. Suddenly, spread before us, there lay the city proper… one of the more intriguing urban landscapes I ever saw.

Some skyscrapers towered eighty or more stories, with cantilevered decks protruding into a gathering mist. Many spires were linked together by graceful sky-bridges, arching across open space at giddy heights. Yet none of these towers compared with a distant edifice that shone through the sunset haze. A gleaming pyramidal structure whose apex glittered with jeweled light.

“Cal’mari!” Earl announced, gesturing with obvious pride toward his city.

“What?” blurted Nuts, briefly taking her hand from his arm. “You mean squid?”

“Yes… Squid.” Earl said with sublime dignity, as the translator took its cue from Nuts, automatically replacing one word with another. Earl seemed blithely unaware that two entirely different sounds had emerged from his voicebox.

“Squid it is,” Ohm nodded, regarding the skyscrapers. And that was that. From now on, any demmie, and any speech-converted local, would use that word to signify this town.

I sighed. After all, it was only a city. But you students should take note that several civilizations have made the mistake of declaring war on demmies, over the insult of changing their planet’s name without asking. Not that it ever did any good.

“Squid” was impressive for a pre-starflight city. At one time, it must have been even more grand. The metropolis clearly used to surround the park on all sides, though now many quarters seemed empty, devoid of life. Once-proud spires were abandoned to the ravages of time, with blank windows like blind eyes staring into space. But straight ahead, the burg still thrived – a noisy, vibrant forest of tall buildings draped in countless sheets of colored glass, resembling 20th century New York, dressed-up with ostentatious, spiral minarets.

Skeins of filmy material, like mosquito netting, spanned the spaces between most buildings. Many windows and balconies were also covered with a gauzy, sparkling sheen – screen coverings that I later learned held bits of sharp metal or broken glass. As the sun sank, Squid resembled a maze of glittering spiderwebs, festooned with drops of dew.

Broad roadways were congested with cyclopean motor cars and lorries, all jostling for space and revving their engines before racing at top speed for an open parking space. I saw that every fourth avenue was a canal carrying boats of all description. My sinuses stung at the smell of ozone and unburnt hydrocarbons.

“Well, will you looka that!”

Our doctor pointed beyond the downtown area, to where jagged terrain rose steeply toward a rocky hill, its summit topped by striking silhouettes, totally unlike the metropolitan center. Scores of midget castles stood on those heights, with dark battlements and towers jutting from every slope. Earl Dragonlord sighed with gladness to see them, and motioned for us to follow.

“Come along, cousins. Sunshine is bad enough, but we definitely should not be out by moonlight! At home I’ll fit you with more appropriate clothes. Then we can go to the Crown.”

“Uh, is that where we’ll speak to your government leaders?” Captain Ohm asked. “We do have work to do, y’know.”

The last part was directed at Nuts. Her resumed grip on our guide’s elbow might force a lesser fellow to cry uncle. Earl was clearly a man of stamina and patience, all the more alluring to a demmie female.

“Government?” he answered. “Well, in a manner of speaking. Along the way, I’ll introduce you to our local council of Nomort elders. Unless… do you actually wish to meet the mayor of Squid? A Standard?” He glanced at me. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I assured. “Actually, I think our capt… our leader refers to government on a planetary scale. Or, in lieu of a world government, then some international mediation body—”

Earl’s look of puzzlement was followed by a dawning light of understanding. But before he could speak, a low groaning sound interrupted from the city, rising rapidly to become an ululating wail. Our greenies drew their weapons. Earl’s dusky eyes darted nervously.

“The sunset siren! A welcome sound to our kind, in most cities. But alas, not in poor Squid. We must go!”

“Well then, lead on MacDuff,” Ohm said, nearly as eager to be moving along. Earl looked baffled for a moment. Then, with a swirl of his cape, he hurried east with our ship’s engineer clinging like a happy lamprey, pushing on toward the pile of gingerbread palaces that now seemed aglow against a swollen reddish sun.

“It’s lay on, Captain,” I muttered to Ohm as we hurried along. “If you fancy quoting Shakespeare, you might try to get it right.”

Lieutenant Morell chirped a chuckle from her guard position, covering our rear. Ohm winced, then ruefully grinned.

“As you say, Advisor. As you say.”

From the park, we dropped toward a dim precinct of low dwellings that lurked between us and yonder hilltop castles. I glanced back at the downtown area, noting with surprise that the streets and canals no longer thronged with traffic. In a matter of moments they had become completely, eerily, deserted.

Dusk deepened and the largest of three moons rose in the east, about two thirds the size of Luna and almost as bright. Its phase was almost full.

In order to reach the elegant towers where Earl lived, we first had t2o cross a sprawling zone of dark roofs and small, overgrown lots, laid along an endless series of curvy lanes and cul-de-sacs.

“Urbs,” Earl Dragonlord commented with apparent distaste.

“Hold on a minute,” offered Guts, rummaging through his medical bag. “I think I’ve got some bicarbonate for that.”

“No, no.” The native grimaced. “Urbs. These are the surface dwellings where Lik’ems make their homes for the greater part of each month, feigning to live as Standards used to, long ago, before the Great Change, in tacky private dwelling places, depressingly alike. All blissfully equipped with linoleum floors and formica counter tops, with doilies on the armrests and bowling trophies on the mantelpiece. And never forget a lawn mower in the garage, along with the hedge trimmer, weed-eater, automatic mulcher, leaf blower, snow blower, and razor edged pole-pruner…”

Of course these terms were produced in demmish by the translator in his throat. They might only approximate the actual meanings in Earl’s mind.

“Sounds awful,” Guts commiserated, patting the arm not held in a hammerlock by Nuts.

“Yes. But that is just the beginning. For under the floor of each innocent-looking house, there lurks—”

He paused as the demmies all leaned toward him, wide-eyed.

“Yes? Yes? What lurks!”

Earl’s voice hushed.

“There lurks a trap door…”

“A secret entrance?”Captain Ohm asked in a whisper.

Our guide nodded.

“…leading downward to catacombs below the urb. In other words, to the sub-urbs, where…”

I cut in, coughing behind my hand. I did not want my crewmates slipping into a storytelling trance right then.

“Hadn’t we better move on then, while there’s still light?”

Earl cast me a sour glance. “Right. Follow me this way.”

Soon we passed down an avenue lined by bedraggled trees. No light shone from any of the rusty lampposts onto narrow ribbons of buckled sidewalk bordering small fenced lots. Most of the houses were dark and weedy, with broken tile roofs and missing windows, but one in four seemed well-tended, with flower beds and neatly edged lawns. Dim illumination passed through drawn curtains. Once or twice, I glimpsed dark silhouettes moving within.

The demmies, their eager imaginations stirred by Earl’s testimony, kept swiveling nervously, peering into the darkness, shying away from the gaping storm drains. Our greenies, especially, looked close to panic. They kept dropping back from their scout positions, trying to get as close to the captain as possible, much to his annoyance. At one point, Ohm dialed his blaster and shot Corporal Jums with a dose of itch-nanos. The poor fellow yelped and immediately ran back to position, scratching himself furiously, effectively distracted from worrying about spooks for a while.

I admired how efficiently Earl had accomplished this transformation. His uninformative hints managed to put my crewmates into a real state. I wondered – did he do it on purpose?

Remember, students, almost anything can set off demmie credulity. Once, during an uneventful voyage, I read aloud to the crew from Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Telltale Heart.”

Mistake! For a week thereafter we kept getting jittery reports of thumping sounds, causing Maintenance to rip out half of the ship’s air ducts. The bridge weapons team vaporized nine or ten passing asteroids that they swore were “acting suspicious,” and the infirmary treated dozens for stun wounds inflicted by nervous co-workers. Actually, if truth be told, I never had a better time aboard the Clever Gamble, and neither did the demmies. Still, Healer Paolim took me aside afterward and demanded that I never do it again.

The urb became a maze. Few of the streets were straight, and most terminated in outrageously inconvenient dead-ends that the translator described as culled-socks – an uninviting and unappetizing name. Even in better days, it must have been a nightmare journey of many kilometers to travel between two points only a block apart.

I felt as if we had slipped into a type of warped space, like a fractal structure whose surface is small, but whose perimeter is practically infinite – a true nightmare of insane urban planning. We might march forever and never get beyond this endless tract of boxlike houses. Captain Ohm shared my concern, and while the other demmies peered wide-eyed at shadows, he kept his sidearm nonchalantly poised toward Earl’s back, in case the native showed any sign of bolting.

I scanned selected dwellings with my multispec. Blurry infrared signals indicated humanoid forms within. From carbon scintillation counts, it seemed this part of the city must be as old as the downtown area. I wondered about the apparent fall in population. Were things like this planetwide? Or did these symptoms relate particularly to the local crisis our guide had mentioned?

Surreptitiously, I pressed my uniform collar, turning it into a throat microphone to call the ship with an info-quest. Soon, the nanos in my ear canal whispered with the voice of Ensign Nota Taken, now on duty at the Clever Gamble’s sensor desk.

“Planetary surface scanning underway, Advisor Montessori. Preliminary indications show that paved cities comprise over six percent of total land area, an unusually high proportion, even for a world passing through stage eighteen, though much contraction appears to have occurred recently. Gosh, I wish I was down there exploring with you guys, instead of stuck up here.”

“Ensign Taken,” I murmured firmly.

“Um… survey also shows considerable environmental degradation in agricultural zones and coastal waters, with twenty-eight percent loss of topsoil accompanied by profound silting. Say, will you bring me back a souvenir? Last time you promised you’d—”

“Ensign—”

“All right, so you didn’t exactly promise, but you didn’t say no either. Remember the party in hydroponics last week? You were talking about detection thresholds for supernova neutrinos, but I could tell you kept looking down my—”

“Ensign!”

“The worst environmental damage seems to have occurred about a century ago, with gradual reforestation now underway in temperate zones. Um, I’ve just been handed a preliminary estimate of the decline in the humanoid population. Approximately sixty percent in the last century! Now that’s puzzling, I see no sign of major warfare or disease. And there are some other anomalies.”

“Anomalies?”

“Bio section urgently asks that you guys send up some live samples of the planet’s flora and fauna. Two of every species will do, if that won’t be too much trouble. Male and female, they say… as if a brilliant man like you would ever forget a detail like that.”

Exerting patience, I sighed. Subvocalizing lowly, I repeated—

“Anomalies? What anomalies are you talking about?”

“It’s got me worried. I admit it. I haven’t seen you since the party. You don’t answer my calls. Doctor… was I too forward? Why don’t you come to my quarters after you get back and I’ll make it up to—”

I let go of my collar. The connection broke and my ear-nanos went quiet, letting night sounds float back… including a faint rustling that I hadn’t noticed before. A creaking… then a scrape that might have been leather against pavement.

The captain halted abruptly and I collided with his back. Through his tunic I felt the tense bristles of demmie hackle-ridges, standing on end. Ohm’s pompadour just reached my eyes, so I couldn’t see ahead. But a glance left showed the ship’s healer also stopped in his tracks, staring, utterly transfixed by something.

Lieutenant Morell hurried forward and gasped, fumbling the dial of her blaster.

A sudden, grating sound echoed behind me, followed by a clang of heavy metal on concrete.

As I turned, a horrific howl pealed. Then another, and still more from all sides, baying like hounds from hell.

Before I could finish spinning about, a dark, flapping shape descended over me, enveloping my face in stifling folds and choking off my scream.

***

====

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A Space Comedy by David Brin

The illustrated online chapter version

Chapter 2.5

PREVIOUSLY: Alvin Montessori, the human advisor aboard the demmie-crewed stellarship Clever Gamble, advised Captain Ohm (the Irresistible) against leading a party down to the surface of planet Oxytocin without taking time to assess. But demmies are demmies – bless (and cuss) ‘em! So, the ship has deployed a humungously long HOSE from a giant reel. (Why else would the whole front of a starship be a great big disk?)

Now, with Ohm and Engineer Nuts and Doctor Guts and a team of greenie security guards, Alvin enters the prep room and prepares to…

For those of you who’ve never slurried, there can be no describing what it’s like to have a beam zap through you, reading the position of every cell in your body. Then comes the rush of solvent fluid, flooding in through a hundred vents, filling the transport chamber, rising from your boots to your thighs to your neck faster than you can cry, I’m melting!

It doesn’t hurt. Really. But it is disconcerting to watch your hands dissolve right in front of you. Closing your eyelids won’t help much, since they go next, leaving a dreadful second or two until your entire skull – brain and all – crumbles like a sugar confection in hot water.

Ever since it was proved – maybe a century ago – that the mind exists independent from the body, philosophers have hoped to tap marvelous insights or great wisdom from the plane of pure abstraction. Some try to do this by peering into dreams. Others hope to sample the filtered essence of thought from people who are in a liquid state.

Oh, it’s true that something seems to happen – thoughts flow – during that strange time when your nervous system isn’t solid anymore, but a churning swirl of loose neurons and separated synapses, gurgling supersonically down a narrow pipe two hundred miles long. Giving new meaning to “brain drain.”

But in my experience, these stray thoughts are seldom anything profound. On that particular day – as I recall – my focus was on the job. The most fundamental underpinning of my task as Earthling Advisor.

Maybe they will grow up.

After all, we did, eventually.

It’s the hope we all cling to.

Or so one part of me told the rest of my myriad selves, during that timeless interval when I had no solid form. When “me” was many and a sense of detachment seemed to come naturally.

Which just goes to show you that it never pays to do any deep thinking when you’re in a slurry.

I regained full consciousness on a strange new world, watching my hands reappear in front of me as the reconstructor at the nozzle end of the Hose re-stacked my cells, one by one, in the same (more or less) relative positions they had been in, aboard ship.

Did I have that mole on my hand, before? Isn’t it a lot like one I saw on the back of Ohm’s neck…

But no. Don’t go there.

Still, while dismissing that spurious thought, I resisted the urge to shake my head or shrug. Best to let ligaments and things congeal a few extra seconds, lest something jar loose and roll away.

I did shift my eyes a bit to look through a window of the Nozzle Chamber. Overhead, the Hose stretched upward into a cloud-flecked sky, cleverly rendered invisible to radar, sonar, infrared, and most visible light. (I could see it, of course. But then, demmies are always amazed by our human ability to perceive the mystical color, “blue.”)

A final word about slurrying. In its way, it is an efficient mode of transport, and I’m not complaining. Things might have been worse. I’m told that true matter teleportation – where an object is read and replicated or “beamed,” atom-by-atom, instead of cell-by-cell, is a ridiculous impossibility. Quantum uncertainty and all that. Won’t ever happen.

Nevertheless, there is a demmie research center that refuses to give up on the idea… and demmies never cease to surprise us.

(Impossibility be damned. I recommend secretly blowing up the place, just to be sure.)

Stumbling out of the Nozzle, we retrieved our tools from container-tubes and proceeded to look around the place. We appeared to have de-licquesced behind some boulders and shrubbery in an uncrowded portion of the park. Tall buildings could be seen jutting skyward beyond a surrounding copse of trees. Vehicle sounds of a bustling city drifted toward us.

So far, so good. The greenies fanned out, very businesslike, covering all directions with their tidy blasters. I took out my scanner and surveyed various sensor bands.

“Life forms?” Ohm said, peering around my shoulder, speaking loud enough to be heard over the traffic noise.

“Yes, Captain,” I replied, patiently. “Many life forms.”

“Many,” Nuts repeated, morosely.

“Many,” Guts added, eyes filling with eagerness while he stroked his vivisection kit.

“Let’s go see,” Ohm commanded, as I counted the seconds till something happened.

Something always happens.

Sure enough, at a count of eight, we heard a scream and hurried toward the source, which turned out to be Lieutenant Morell. She panted, with one hand near her throat, pointing her blaster toward a set of bushes.

“I shot first!”

“What?” Ohm demanded, shoving others aside to charge forward. “What was it?”

She came to attention. “I don’t know, sir. Something was spying on us. I saw the weirdest pair of eyes. Whatever it was, I think I got it.”

“Um,” I stepped forward, reluctant to point out the obvious. “The rule of Simplest Hypothesis might suggest, in a calm city park, that your something just might have been… well… perhaps a local citizen?”

Lieutenant Morell gulped, looking at that moment just like a young human who had made a nervous mistake.

“Of all the damn foolishness,” Guts grumbled, hastening through the undergrowth, drawing his medical kit while I hurried after. Behind me, I heard the Lieutenant sob an apology.

“There now,” Captain Ohm answered. “I’m sure he… she… or it is just stunned. You did use stun-setting, yes?”

“Sir!”

When I glanced back, he was leading her with one arm, his other one sliding around her shoulder. I should have known.

Guts shouted when he found our prowler. A humanoid, of course, like ninety percent of Class M sapients. The poor fellow had managed to crawl a few meters before the stun nanos got organized enough to bring him down. Now he lay sprawled on his back, spread-eagled, with his arms and legs pinned by half a million microscopic fibers to the leaf-strewn loam. He strained futilely till we emerged to surround him. Then he stared with large, dark eyes, gurgling slightly behind the nano-woven gag in his mouth.

Nanomachines are often too small to see, but those that are fired at high speed by a stun blaster can be larger than an Earthling ant. At medium range, only a dozen might hit a fleeing target, and they need several seconds to devour raw matter, duplicating into thousands, before getting to work immobilizing their quarry.

There are quicker ways of subduing someone, but none quite as safe or sure. Anyway, a gulliver-gun is usually swift enough.

By now, a veritable army of little nanos swarmed over the captive, inspecting their handiwork, keeping the tiny ropes taut and jumping up and down in jubilation. Some, for lack of anything else to do, appeared to be hard at work sewing rips in the native’s dark, satin-lined cloak and black, pegged pants. Others re-coifed his mussed hair.

(Just because someone is a prisoner, that doesn’t mean he can’t look sharp.)

Guts pushed his bio-scanner toward the humanoid, having to fight through a tangle of tiny ropes while muttering something about how “…nanos are the winchers of our discontent,” in a Shakespearean accent.

Enough, I thought, drawing my blaster, flicking the setting, then sighting on the victim’s face. He cringed as I fired—

—a stream of tuned microwaves set to turn all nano fibers into harmless gas. The gag in his mouth vanished and he gasped, then began jabbering frightfully in a tongue filled with moist sibilants.

I heard a hiss as Guts injected our captive with a hypo spray, using an orange vial marked ALIEN RELAXANT #1. The native tensed for a moment, then sagged with a sigh.

Remember, students, always inspect your ship’s supply of Alien Relaxant Number One! Make sure of its purity.

Very few sentient life forms have fatal allergic reactions to 100 percent distilled water.

Nevertheless, most will respond quickly to being injected, as if a potent, local narcotic were suddenly flowing through their veins. Bless the placebo effect. Its near universality is among the few reassuring constants in an uncertain cosmos.

Guts gave me a sly wink. He knows what’s going on, so I no longer have to mix batches of “ol’ Number One” all by myself. But don’t assume your ship’s doctor will understand. Call it an “ancient human recipe” until you’re sure your medico can be trusted with the truth.

The native was much calmer, prattling at a slower pace while I set up the universal translator on its tripod. Our captain dropped to one knee, preparing for that special moment when true First Contact could begin. Colored buttons flickered as the machine scanned, seeking meaning in the slur of local speech. Abruptly, all lights turned green. The translator swiveled and fired three more nanos at the native, one for each ear and another that streaked like a smart missile down his throat.

It isn’t painful, but startlement made him stop and swallow in surprise.

“On behalf of the Federated Alliance of—” Captain Ohm began, expansively spreading his arms. Then he frowned as the impudent creature interrupted, this time speaking aristocratically-accented Demmish.

“…I don’t know who you people are, or where you come from, but you must get out of the park, quickly! Don’t you know it’s dangerous?”

THE ANCIENT ONES continues online… in Part 3

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=================

Art & prompted interiors designed by Eric Storm & Patrick Farley

A Space Comedy by David Brin

The illustrated online chapter version

Chapter 2

PREVIOUSLY… we met Commander Alvin Montessori, ‘human advisor’ aboard the exploration vessel Clever Gamble, a mighty ship crewed mostly by demmies, a species who learned star travel from Earthlings – for which the galaxy is having some trouble forgiving us.

In orbit above a new world, the demmie commander – Captain Ohm – demands “Are they over 16 on the Turgenev Scale?”

When Alvin nods, Ohm cries out:

“Then we’re going down!  Let’s slurry!”

**

Alliance spacecraft look strange to the uninitiated.

Till recently, most starfaring races voyaged in efficient, globelike vessels, with small struts symmetrically arranged for the hyperdrive anchors. Transport to and from a planetary surface took place via orbital elevator at advanced worlds, or else by sensible little shuttles.

Like any prudent person, I’d be far happier traveling that way, but I try to hide the fact, and you students should too. Demmies cannot imagine why everyone doesn’t love slurry transport as much as they do. So, you can expect it to become the principal short-range system near all Alliance worlds.

It’s not so bad. After the first hundred or so times. Trust me. You can get used to anything.

As a demmie-designed exploration ship, the Clever Gamble looks like nothing else in the known universe. There are typically garish dem-style drive struts, looking like frosting swirls on some manic baker’s confection. These are linked to a surprisingly efficient and sensible engineering pod, which then clashes with a habitation module resembling some fairytale castle straight out of Hans Christian Andersen.

Then there is the Reel.

The Reel is a gigantic, protruding disk that takes up half the mass and volume of the ship, all in order to lug a prodigious, unbelievable hose all over the galaxy, frightening comets and intimidating the natives wherever we go. This conduit was already half-deployed by the time the ship’s artificer and healer met us in the slurry room. Through the viewer, we could see a tapering line descend toward the planet’s surface, homing in on a selected landing site.

The captain hopped about, full of ebullient energy. For the record, I reminded him that, contrary to explicit rules and common sense, the descent party once again consisted of the ship’s top four officers, while a fully-trained xenology team waited on standby, just three decks below.

“Are you kidding?” he replied. “I served on one of those teams, long ago. Boringest time I ever had.”

“But the thrill of contacting alien…”

“What contact? All’s we did was sit around while the top brass went down to all the new planets and did all the fighting and peacemaking and screwing. Well, it’s my turn now. Let ’em stew like I did!” He whirled to the reel operator. “Hose almost ready?”

“Aye sir. The Nozzle End has been inserted behind some shrubs in what looks like a park, in their biggest city.”

I sighed. This was not an approach I would have chosen. But most of the time you just have to go with the flow. It really is implacable. And things often turn out all right in the end. Surprisingly often.

The Captain rubbed his hands, raising visible sparks of static electricity. “Good. Then let’s see what’s down there!”

What can I say? Enthusiasm always was his most compelling trait. Ohm truly is hard to resist. Resignedly, I followed my leader to the dissolving room.

We were met outside by Ensign Nota Taken, who offered Ohm a tube to hold his non-organic tools. While the captain handed over his laser pistol and communicator, I was assisted by my own deputy – apprentice-advisor Frieder Koch – fresh out of Earth’s Academy and one of only ten humans aboard the Clever Gamble.

“Stay close to Commander Talon,” I murmured to Frieder, referring to the demmie officer left in charge.

“I will, Advisor,” he assured, both in words and with a moment of eye contact, conveying determination not to let me down. And, like any worried parent, I resigned myself to letting go.

You won’t hear much about Ensign Taken and Frieder for a while, but they figure later in my story.

Ohm and I entered the transporter room to join other members of the landing party. And at this point I suppose I should introduce Guts and Nuts.

Those are not their formal names, of course. But, as a demmie would say, who cares? On an Alliance ship, you quickly learn to go by whatever moniker the captain chooses.

Commander-Healer Paolim – or “Guts” – was the ship’s surgeon, an older demmie and, I might add, an exceptionally reasonable fellow. It is always important to remember that both humans and dems produce individuals along a wide spectrum of personality types, and the races do overlap! While some Earthling men and women can be as flighty and impulsive as a demmie adolescent, the occasional demmie can, in turn, seem mature, patient, reflective.

On the other hand, let me warn you right now – never get so used to such a one that you take it for granted! I recall one time, on Sepsis 69, when this same reasonable old healer actually tried to persuade a mega-thunder ameboid to stop in mid-charge for a group photo…

But save that story for another time. If there’s another time.

Commander-Artificer Nomlin – or “Nuts” – was the ship’s chief engineering officer. A female demmie, she disliked the slang term, “fem-dem,” and I recommend against ever using it. Nuts was brilliant, innovative, stunningly skilled with her hands, mercurial, and utterly fixated on making life miserable for me, for reasons I’d rather not go into. She nodded to the Captain and the doctor, then curtly at me.

“Advisor.”

“Engineer,” I replied.

Our commander looked left and right, frowning. “How many green guys do you think we oughta take along, this time? Just one?”

“Against regulations for first contact on a planet above tech level eight,” Guts reminded him. “Sorry, sir.”

Ohm sighed. “Two then?” he suggested, hopefully. “Three?”

Nuts shook her head. “I gotta bad feelin’ this time, Captain,” she said.

Melodramatic, yes, but we had learned to pay attention to her premonitions.

“Okay, then,” Captain Ohm nodded. “Many. Dial ’em up, will you, doc?”

Guts went over to a cabinet lining the far wall of the chamber, turning a knob all the way over to the last notch on a dial that said 0, 1, 2, 3, M.

(One of the most remarkable things noted by our contact team, when we first encountered demmies, was how much they had already achieved without benefit of higher mathematics. Using clever, hand-made rockets, their reckless astronauts had already reached their nearest moon. And yet, like some early human tribes, they still had no word for any number higher than three! Oh, today some of the finest mathematical minds in the universe are from Dem. And yet, they cling – by almost-superstitious tradition – to a convention in daily conversation… that any number higher than three is – “many”.)

There followed a hum and a rattling wheeze, then a panel hissed open and several impressive figures, emerged from a swirling mist, all attired in lime-green jump suits. They were demmie shaped, and possessed a demmie’s delicately pointy teeth, but they were also powerfully muscled and tall as a human. Across their chests, in big letters, were written.

JUMS

SMET

WEMS

KWALSKI

They stepped before the captain and saluted. He, in turn, retreated a pace and curtly motioned them to step aside. One learns quickly in the service, never make a habit of standing too close to greenies.

When they moved out of the way, it brought into view a smaller figure who had been standing behind them, also dressed in lime green. Her crisp salute tugged the tunic of her uniform, pulling crossed bandoliers tightly across her chest, a display which normally would have put the captain into a panting sweat, calling for someone to relieve him at the con. Here, the sight rocked him back in dismay.

“Lieutenant Gala Morell, Captain,” she introduced herself. “You and your party will be safe with us on the job.” Snappily, she saluted a second time and stepped over to join her team. Along the way, her gaze swept past me.

“Advisor,” she said. And I nodded back. “Lieutenant.”

“Aw hell,” Ohm muttered to me as the security team took up stations behind us. “A girl greenie. I hate it when that happens!”

On that occasion, I silently agreed. This particular young officer had spent much of the voyage out from Nebula Base Twelve pestering me with questions – one of those intellectually voracious demmies you’ll meet who are fascinated by all things human. Once, she even brought me a steaming bowl of our Earthling indispensable camb’l leek soup. Standing there, with her commanding a security detail that was about to land on an alien world, I had to admit that I would kind of miss the attention.

All I could do is shrug and share a brief glance with Nuts. I already agreed with her dour feeling about this mission.

The dissolution techs finished gathering any metal or mechanical objects from us, to be put in pneumatic tubes. Guts made sure – as always – that his medical kit went into the tube last, so it would be readily available upon arrival…

…a bit of mature, human-style prudence that he then proceeded to spoil by saying “Always try to slurry with a syringe on top.”

“Yup.” The captain nodded, perfunctorily. “In case of post-nozzle drip.” But at that moment he was more interested in guns than puns, checking to make sure that there were fresh nanos loaded in a formidable backup blaster before sliding it into a tube.

Time for a brief formality. Into the chamber trooped a trio of figures wearing dark cloaks with heavy cowls almost completely covering their faces. Priests of yah-tze… practitioners of what passes for religion among demmies… which amounts to a mélange of ancient, pre-contact mythologies and whatever alien belief system happens to suit their fancy, at any moment. Mostly recruited from the kitchen staff, these part-time clerics knew better than to delay the captain very long, when he was eager to lead an away-team, so they kept it short.

Ohm and the others bowed their heads, pressing the heels of both hands against their temples while I – politely – folded mine in front of me as the three hooded Ecclesiasts performed their minimal blessing: shaking at each of us a can containing six dice and invoking the name of the Great Lady of Luck in unison, spilling the dice onto a tray.

Three ones and three sixes. My crewmates shivered and even I felt a brief, superstitious chill. But our captain grinned as the priests exited, stripping off their robes and hurrying to back to the galley. Ohm summarized his interpretation of the augury.

“A rough beginning followed by a triumphant ending. Sounds like a perfect adventure, eh Advisor?”

Unless it’s the other way around. I could not help but roll my eyes, as the door to the chamber sealed with a loud hiss.

“Ready, sir?” Ensign Taken asked from the control room, her voice transmitting through the transparent window. Another humanophile, but less intellectually inclined than Lieutenant Morell, she tried to catch my gaze, even as she addressed the captain. Her nickname, “Eyes,” came from big, doe-like irises that she flashed whenever I looked her way. She was very pretty, as demmies go… and they will go all the way at the drop of a boot-lace.

“Do it, do it, do it!” Ohm urged, rocking from foot to foot, his patience at an end.

She turned a switch and I felt a powerful tingling sensation.

                                                                        ***

THE ANCIENT ONES continues online… in Part Two and a half!

Impatient to read the rest?  Order The Ancient Ones

Comments welcome below.

======================================

© 2019, 2024 David Brin. Cover art by Patrick Farley. Prompted interior illustrations by Eric Storm.

A space comedy by David Brin

The illustrated online chapter version

Dedicated to You-Know-Who.

Seriously, you know who you are,

and what you did.

***

Part One Chapter 1

So, you’ve decided to come down here, slumming. Almost finished with your Academy training and raring to go hit the old galaxy, squeezing it for adventure, right?

And you heard about a senior class tradition. Head down to a spaceport bar where retired characters hang out, with implausible stories to tell. Things never taught to human cadets. Not in formal class, that is.

Did they also tell you Academy administrators don’t approve? That you may get docked pay or pick up a demerit from Old Gasbag? Or that Professor-Admiral Bloodsucker might do something even more painful to your tender, human necks, if she catches you down here?

Don’t care? Well, well. Such a daring lot of eager lasses and lads. And you bought the first of several rounds. So…

All right then. You’re paying. I’ll drink n’ tell.

And if you snicker at my professorial tone, well I was a lecturer up there on the hill, for many years. Not that you shavetails are in any position to judge. So just shut up and listen while this old brain calls up those ancient tracks…

Only a few human beings qualify for this job. You students, the elite of our race – (may Yah-Tze pity us) – are being trained for a difficult and dangerous task vital to the survival of our world and many others.

For those finally chosen to serve, the demands will be heavy and unending.

First – above all other requirements – you have to like demmies.

I mean really like them.

Try to imagine spending a voyage of several years crammed in tight quarters with over two hundred of those brash, rambunctious, impulsive, affectionate, abrasive and maddening creatures, sharing constant peril while daily enduring their puckish, brilliant, idiotic, mercurial, and always astonishing natures. It would drive any normal man or woman to gibbering distraction.

Against such pressures, the Human Advisor aboard a demmie ship must always display the legendary Earthling traits of calmness, reason and restraint. Plus – heaven help us – genuine affection for the impossible creatures.

At times, this fondness may be your only anchor. Your sole hope.

Everyone knows that love and hate are cousins. And so, while I remain loyal – even now – to my demmie captain and crewmates, there were days when some infuriating antic left me frazzled to the bone. Times when I found that I could fathom the very different attitude chosen by our Spertin foes, who wish to roast every demmie slowly, over a neutron star.

When such moments come, you must take a deep breath, count to ten, and find reserves of patience deeper than a nebula. More often than not, it’s worth it.

Demmies love nicknames. They have one for the human race, calling us “the Ancient Ones.”

From their point of view, it’s obvious. Not only do we live much longer as individuals, with lifespans of a hundred or more Earth years, but from the demmie perspective, our people have been roaming the galaxy since time immemorial.

Well, after all, most member-races of the Federated Alliance learned starflight from us… as demmies did, when we contacted their world, fifty-eight years after our first ships departed the Solar System.

That’s how much longer we roamed the star lanes. Fifty-eight years. And for this they deferentially call us Ancient Ones.

Sure. Why not?

The first rule to remember, you youngsters – a rule even more important than the Choice Imperative – is to let demmies have it their way.

But you came down here to patronize an old man, pretending to learn from his experience. So. Keep my glass full. And don’t snicker when I slip into present-tense. The memories are that strong.

Let me tell you about the time our good ship – Clever Gamble – entered orbit above a planet of the system, Oxytoxin 41.

I was at my science station, performing routine scans, when Captain Ohm inquired about signs of intelligent life.

“There is a technic civilization,” I explained…

***

Chapter 2

“There is a technic civilization, Captain. Scanners reveal a sophisticated network of roads, moderate electromagnetic activity, indicative of…”

“Never mind the details, Doctor Montessori,” our commander interrupted, leaping out of his slouch-chair and bounding over to my station. At five and a half feet, he was tall for a demmie. Still, I made certain to stoop a little, giving him the best light.

“Are they over sixteen on the Turgenev Scale?” he asked urgently. “Can we make contact?”

“Contact. Hm.” I rubbed my chin, a human mannerism that our crew expected from their Earthling advisor. “I would say so, Captain, though to be precise…”

“Great! Let’s go on down then.”

I tried entreating. “What’s the hurry? Why not spend a day or two collecting data? It never hurts to know what we’re stepping into.”

The captain grinned, belying his humanoid likeness by exposing twin rows of brilliant, pointy teeth.

“That’s all right, Advisor, I’ve had slippery boots before. Never stopped me yet!”

The crude witticism triggered laughter from other demmies in the command center. They often find my expressions of caution amusing, even when I later prove to be right. Fortunately, they are also fair-minded, and never confuse caution with cowardice.

Remember students, around demmies feel free to act “prudently wise.” Go ahead and urge restraint, since this is true to the image they have of us.

But never display outright fear. They find it upsetting. And we don’t want them upset.

“Break out the hose!” Captain Ohm commanded, rubbing his hands. “Tell Guts and Nuts to meet us at the spigot. Come on, Doc. We’re going down!”

***

THE ANCIENT ONES continues online… in Part Two

Impatient to read the rest?  Order The Ancient Ones.

Comments welcome below.

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© 2019, 2024 David Brin. Cover & interiors prompt-designed by Eric Storm. More interiors by Patrick Farley

A What-If Scenario Database: using Science Fiction to Save the World

TASAT is here!  Are you a sci fi nerd who remembers lots of old stories, plot twists and such? Ever wish you could apply all that expertise to something useful?

How about a project that leverages your memory bank of old stories, toward a slim but real chance of saving the world?  

We’re spinning out (at last!) a beta version of TASAT or There’s A Story About That, a community where scifi plot-geeks like you — (or maybe (one day) some desperate government agency!) — get to ask: 

“What if this particular strange thing ever happens? (Maybe something like it is happening now!) Has anyone ever thought it through, in a story, across the last century of science fiction tales?”

We’ve designed TASAT with that question in mind. Want to see how it works? Visit TASAT.org… and maybe sign on to be one of the beta members. (We’ve designed it to be a minimal use of time!) And maybe – just maybe – your recollection of that obscure Andre Norton or Frederick Pohl or Nancy Kress plot twist might someday save the world!

== The Goal of TASAT! ==

Envision: You work at an agency, corporation, or NGO… and you’ve come across an unusual problem. Might someone have thought about this very situation in the past? Developed a thought experiment – with possible solutions? Perhaps with an alternative idea that you – or your team – have missed? What if, already in some archive, There’s A Story About That?

Consider the vast library of science fictional scenarios that have been published since Mary Shelley first wrote about the creation of new kinds of life — an endeavor that is now coming true in dozens of ways. Shelley explored how that daring venture might be mishandled — a warning that found new variants in tales such as Planet of the Apes, Jurassic Park, I Robot, and Ex Machina. These famous stories already influence discussions about ethics and public policy. Indeed, some science fiction tales help us avoid mistakes — self-preventing prophecies like Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, Soylent Green, Dr. Strangelove, or Silent Spring. A few such projections come true. Far more of them say: “a time may come when you’d better think about this!”

Alas, for every SF thought experiment that achieves renown, hundreds molder in back issues of Astounding or Galaxy, or some novel only recalled now by a dozen fan readers out there — tales that have worked through some way for the world to veer in unexpected directions. Shouldn’t those concepts also be available, as a background library of worked-out scenarios, in case the universe chooses to confront us with some sudden choice?

We hope this site will be a reservoir of insights into where we are heading and how we can design our way to a better future.

Please visit https://tasat.org/ to join and contribute your ideas.

Author of the Singularity

It is with sadness – and deep appreciation of my friend and colleague – that I must report the passing of fellow science fiction author – Vernor Vinge. A titan in the literary genre that explores a limitless range of potential destinies, Vernor enthralled millions with tales of plausible tomorrows, made all the more vivid by his polymath masteries of language, drama, characters and the implications of science.

Accused by some of a grievous sin – that of ‘optimism’ – Vernor gave us peerless legends that often depicted human success at overcoming problems… those right in front of us… while posing new ones! New dilemmas that may lie just ahead of our myopic gaze. He would often ask: “What if we succeed? Do you think that will be the end of it?”

Vernor’s aliens – in classic science fiction novels such as A Deepness in the Sky and A Fire Upon the Deep – were fascinating beings, drawing us into different styles of life and paths of consciousness.

His 1981 novella “True Names” was perhaps the first story to present a plausible concept of cyberspace, which would later be central to cyberpunk stories by William Gibson, Neal Stephenson and others. Many innovators of modern industry cite “True Names” as their keystone technological inspiration, though I deem it to have been even more prophetic about the yin-yang tradeoffs of privacy, transparency and accountability.  

Another of the many concepts arising in Vernor’s dynamic mind was that of the “Technological Singularity,” a term (and disruptive notion) that has pervaded culture and our thoughts about the looming future.

Others cite Rainbows End as the most vividly accurate portrayal of how new generations will apply onrushing cyber-tools, boggling their parents, who will stare at their kids’ accomplishments, in wonder. Wonders like a university library building that, during an impromptu rave, stands up and starts to dance!

Vernor had been – for years – under care for progressive Parkinsons, at a very nice place overlooking the Pacific in La Jolla. As reported by his friend and fellow San Diego State professor John Carroll, his decline had steepened since November, but was relatively comfortable. Up until that point, I had been in contact with Vernor almost weekly, but my friendship pales next to John’s devotion, for which I am – (and we all should be) – deeply grateful.

I am a bit too wracked, right now, to write much more. Certainly, homages will flow and we will post some on a tribute page. I will say that it’s a bit daunting now to be a “Killer B” who’s still standing. So, let me close with a photo that’s dear to my heart.

We spanned a pretty wide spectrum – politically! Yet, we Killer B’s (Vernor was a full member! And Octavia Butler once guffawed happily when we inducted her) always shared a deep love of our high art – that of gedankenexperimentation, extrapolation into the undiscovered country ahead.

And – if Vernor’s readers continue to be inspired – that country might even feature more solutions than problems. And perhaps copious supplies of hope.

The ultimate answer to “government is useless.”

The hypnotic incantation that all-government-is-evil-all-the-time would have bemused and appalled our parents in the Greatest Generation – those who persevered to overcome the Depression and Hitler, then contained Stalinism, went to the moon, developed successful companies and built a mighty middle class, all at high tax rates.  The mixed society that they built emphasized a wide stance, pragmatically stirring private enterprise with targeted collective actions, funded by a consensus negotiation process called politics.  The resulting civilization has been more successful – by orders of magnitude – than any other.  Than any combination of others.

So why do we hear an endlessly-repeated nostrum that this wide-stance, mixed approach is all wrong? That mantra is pushed so relentlessly by right-wing media — as well as some on the left — that it came as no surprise when a recent Pew Poll showed distrust of government among Americans at an all-time high. This general loathing collapses when citizens are asked which specific parts of government they’d shut down.  It turns out that most of them like most specific things that their taxes pay for.

In a sense, this isn’t new. For a century and a half, followers of Karl Marx demanded that we amputate society’s right arm of market-competitive enterprise and rely only on socialist guided-allocation for economic control.  Meanwhile, Ayn Rand’s ilk led a throng of those proclaiming we must lop off our left arm – forswearing any coordinated projects that look beyond the typical five year (nowadays more like one-year) commercial investment horizon. 

Any sensible person would respond: “Hey I need both arms, so bugger off!  Now let’s keep examining what each arm is good at, revising our knowledge of what each shouldn’t do.”

Does that sound too practical and moderate for this era? Our parents thought they had dealt with all this, proving decisively that calm negotiation, compromise and pragmatic mixed-solutions work best.  They would be stunned to see that fanatical would-be amputators are back in force, ranting nonsense.

Take for example Matt Ridley’s recent article in the Wall Street Journal, deriding government supported science as useless and counter-productive — a stance dear to WSJ’s owner, Rupert Murdoch.  Ridley’s core assertion? That the forward march of technological innovation and discovery is fore-ordained, as if by natural law. That competitive markets will allocate funds to develop new products with vastly greater efficiency than government bureaucrats picking winners and losers. And that research without a clear, near-future economic return is both futile and unnecessary.     

 == The driver of innovation is… ==

Former Microsoft CTO and IP Impressario Nathan Myhrvold has written a powerful rebuttal – Where does technological innovation come from? – to Ridley’s murdochian call for amputation. Says Myhrvold: “It’s natural for writers to want to come out with a contrarian piece that reverses all conventional wisdom, but it tends to work out better if the evidence one quotes is factually true. Alas Ridley’s evidence isn’t – his examples are all, so far as I can tell, either completely wrong, or at best selectively quoted. I also think his logic is wrong, and to be honest I don’t think much of the ideology that drives his argument either.”  Nathan’s rebuttal can be found here, along with links to the original, and Ridley’s response.

Myhrvold does a good job tearing holes in Ridley’s assertion that patents and other IP do nothing to stimulate innovation and economic development. Only he does not go far enough or present a wide perspective. He fails, for example, to put all of this into the context of 6000 years of human history.  So let me try.

During most of that time, innovation was actively suppressed by kings and lords and priests, fearing anything (except new armaments) that might upset the stable hierarchy. Moreover, innovators felt a strong incentive to keep any discoveries secret, lest competitors steal their advantage. As a result, many brilliant inventions were lost when the discoverers died. Examples abound, from Heron’s steam engines and Baghdad Batteries to Antekythera-style mechanical calculators and Damascus steel — from clear glass lenses to obstetric forceps – all lost for millennia before being rediscovered after much unnecessary pain. Staring across that vast wasteland of sixty feudal and futile centuries — comparing them to our dazzling levels of inventive success, especially since World War II — slams a steep burden of proof upon someone like Ridley, who asserts we are the ones doing something wrong.

In fact, though well-nurtured and tended markets are remarkably fecund, they are anything but “natural.” Show us historical examples! Kings, lords, priests and other cheaters always — always — warped and crushed market competition, far more than our modern, enlightenment states do.  Indeed, owner-oligarchy was the villain in Adam Smith’s call for a more “liberal” form of capitalism. Compared to those competition-ruining feudalists, Smith had little ire for socialists.  In fact, his liberal approach calls upon the state to counter-balance oligarchy, in order to keep capitalism flat-open-fair. 

Our maligned democratic states — while imperfect, always in need of criticism and fine tuning — engendered revolutions in mass education, infrastructure and reliable law that unleashed creative millions, maximizing the raw number of eager competitors — exactly the great ingredient that Friedrich Hayek recommended and that Adam Smith prescribed for a healthy, competitive market economy. 

To be clear, those who rail against 200,000 civil servants – closely watched and accountable – “picking winners and losers” have a reasonable complaint… but not when their prescription is handing over the same power to 5000 secretive and unaccountable members of a closed and incestuous oligarchic caste.  Smith and Hayek both had harsh words for that ancient and utterly bankrupt approach.

(Question: who actually de-regulates, when appropriate? When certain government interventionswere ‘captured” by anti-competitive oligarchs, it was Democrats who erased the Interstate Commerce Commission (ICC), restoring price competition to railroads (the bête noir of Ayn Rand) and the Civil Aeronautics Board (CAB: price-fixing for airlines). AT&T was broken up, and the Internet was unleashed by Al Gore’s legislation. Add in Gore’s Paperwork limitation act and Bill Clinton’s deregulation of GPS and one has to ask a simple question. Does anti-regulatory polemic matter more… or effective action?)

Yes, amid those horrific 6000 years of dismally lobotomizing feudal rule, history does offer us a few, rare examples when innovation flourished, leading to spectacular returns.  In most such cases, state investment and focused R&D played a major role. One can cite the great Chinese fleets of Admiral Cheng He or the impressive maritime research centers established by Prince Henry the Navigator, that made little Portugal a giant on the world stage. Likewise, tiny Holland became a global leader, stimulated by its free-city universities. England advanced tech rapidly with endowed scientific chairs, state subsidies and prizes. 

Those rare examples stand out from the general, dreary morass of feudal history. But none of them compare to the exponential growth unleashed by late-20th Century America’s synergy of government, enterprise and unleashed individual competitiveness, the very thing that all those kings and priests and lords used to crush, on sight. One result was the first society ever in the shape of a diamond, instead of the classic, feudal pyramid of privilege – a diamond whose vast and healthy and well-educated middle class has proved to be the generator of nearly all of our great accomplishments.

It is this historical perspective that seems so lacking in today’s political and philosophical debates — shallow as they are.   It reveals that the agenda of folks like Matt Ridley – and Rupert Murdoch – is not to release us from thralldom to shortsighted, oppressive civil servants and snooty scientist-boffins.  It is to discredit all of the modern expert castes that we have established, who serve to counterbalance (as Adam Smith prescribed) the feudal pyramids under which our ancestors sweltered in constraint.  Their aim – the evident goal of all “supply side” upward wealth transfers – is a return to those ancient, horrid ways.

==  Before our very eyes ==

I believe one of our problems is that the Rooseveltean reforms – which historians credit with saving western capitalism by vesting the working class with a large stake, something Marx never expected – were too successful, in a way. So successful that the very idea of class war seems not even to occur to American boomers. This, despite the fact that class conflict was rampant across almost every other nation and time.  But as boomers age-out is that grand time of naïve expectation over?

Forbes recently announced that just 62 ultra-rich individuals have as much wealth as the bottom half of humanity. Five years ago, it took 388 rich guys to achieve that status.  Which raises the question, where the heck does this rising, proto-feudal oligarchy think it will all lead? 

To a restoration of humanity’s normal, aristocratic pyramid of power (with them staying on top)?  Or to radicalization, as a billion members of the hard-pressed but highly skilled and tech-empowered middle class rediscover class struggle? To Revenge of the nerds?

The last time this happened, in the 1930s, lordly owner castes in Germany, Japan, Britain and the U.S. used mass media they owned to stir populist rightwing movements that might help suppress activity on the left. Not one of these efforts succeeded. In Germany and Japan, the monsters they created rose up and took over, leading to immense pain for all and eventual loss of much of that oligarchic wealth.

In Britain and the U.S., 1930s reactionary fomenters dragged us very close to the same path… till moderate reformers did what Marx deemed impossible – adjusted the wealth imbalance and reduced cheating advantages so that a rational and flat-open-fair capitalism would be moderated by rules and investments to stimulate a burgeoning middle class, without even slightly damaging the Smithian incentives to get rich through delivery of innovative goods and services.  That brilliant moderation led to the middle class booms of the 50s and 60s and – as I cannot repeat too often – it led to big majorities in our parents’ Greatest Generation adoring one living human above all others: Franklin Delano Roosevelt. (The next living human Americans almost universally adored was named Jonas Salk.)

There are some billionaires who aren’t shortsighted fools, ignorant of the lessons of history.  Bill Gates, Warren Buffet and many tech moguls want wealth disparities brought down through reasonable, negotiated Rooseveltean-style reform that will still leave them standing as very, very wealthy men.

The smart ones know where current trends will otherwise lead. To revolution and confiscation. Picture the probabilities, when the world’s poorest realize they could double their net wealth, just by transferring title from 50 men. In that case, amid a standoff between fifty oligarchs and three billion poor, it is the skilled middle and upper-middle classes who’ll be the ones deciding civilization’s course. And who do you think those billion tech-savvy professionals – so derided and maligned by murdochian propaganda — will side with, when push comes to shove?

== Back to innovation ==

Oh, for an easy-quick and devastating answer to the “hate-all-government” hypnosis! How I’d love to see a second “National Debt Clock” showing where the U.S. deficit would be now, if we (the citizens) had charged just a 5% royalty on the fruits of U.S. federal research. We’d be in the black! How effective such a “clock” would be. We deserve such a tasty piece of counter propaganda.

Then there is the ‘government research’ that has had spactacular effects that were not obviously fungible. Like solving horrors of smog (as a kid I felt it hurt to breathe!) and acid rain, poisoned/burning rivers, brain-killing leaded gas… and the hugely expensive project of deterring a third world war, allowing the world – and our own entrepreneurs – to endeavor without being crushed under either tyrant boots or mushroom clouds.

See:  Eight causes of the fiscal deficit cliff.

Closer to the point, consider this core question: how have we Americans been able to afford the endless trade deficits that propel world development? And make no mistake; two-thirds of the planet developed in one way: by selling Americans (under hugely indulgent US trade policies) trillions of dollars worth of crap we never needed. How did we afford this flood of world-stimulating red ink for 70 years?

Simple. Science and technology.  Each decade since the 1940s saw new, U.S.-led advances that engendered enough wealth to let us pay for all the stuff pouring out of Asian factories, giving poor workers jobs and hope.  Our trick was to keep the wonders coming — jet planes, rockets, satellites, electronics & transistors & lasers, telecom, pharmaceuticals… and the Internet.

Crucially, the world needs America to keep buying, so that factories can hum and workers send their kids to school, so those kids can then demand labor and environmental laws and all that.  The job of George Marshall’s brilliant trade-policy plan is only half finished. Crucially, the world cannot afford for the U.S. consumer to become too poor to buy crap.

Which means we must protect the goose that lays golden eggs – our brilliant inventiveness. Our ability to keep benefiting from enlightenment methods that stimulate creativity. And that will not happen if the fruits of creativity are immediately stolen.  There is a bargain implicit in today’s rising world.  Let America benefit from innovation, and we’ll buy whatever you produce. 

Foreign leaders who ignore that bargain, seeking to eat the goose, as well as its eggs, only prove their own short-sighted foolishness… like our home-grown fools who rail against all government investment and research.

It is time to have another look at the most successful social compact ever created – the Rooseveltean deal made by the Greatest Generation, which we then amended and improved by reducing race and gender injustice and discovering the importance of planetary care. Throw in a vibrantly confident and tech-savvy wave of youth, and that is how we all move forward. Away from dismal feudalism.  Toward (maybe) something like Star Trek.

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A version of this article ran as a special report in the January 2016 newsletter of Mark Anderson’s Strategic News Service. The SNS Future In Review (FiRe) conference will be held November 7-10 2023 at the Terranea Hotel.