A World Between (42 page)

Cut to a two-shot on Roger Falkenstein and Mike Lumly sitting in a viewing balcony at the Institute, with the Godzillaland jungle in the background.

Falkenstein (shaking his head in bemusement): “Can
you,
as a native Pacifican, explain the antics of your two leading politicians? Their serious political discourse seems to consist of soft pom, pie-throwing, and ... uh, talking to dumb animals. Is
this
the traditional Pacifican way of choosing a government? Have our psychohistorians missed something?”

Lumly (righteously): “They’ve got nothing serious to say, so they’re reduced to making public asses of themselves.”

Falkenstein:
“Nothing serious to say?
In the face of an impending Femocrat coup? With the existence of this Institute at stake? The Chairman of Pacifica can contribute nothing more to the political debate than low humor, pretty pictures of the landscape, and xenophobic rantings about ‘Pacifica for the Pacificans’?”

Lumly: ‘There’s only one issue in this campaign: whether or not Pacifica is going to become a Femocrat dictatorship. Any Femocrat is going to vote for her own kind, and any real bucko knows that the only alternative is to support Bucko Power all the way. So who’s left to Vote for crypto-supporters of Madigan? Just a handful of fools who don’t take the real threat seriously. So Madigan’s campaign theme is nothing but honest: a vote for a Madigan supporter is a pie in your own face.”

A triple split-screen shot. On the right, a long shot of the Parliament chamber, filled with female Delegates, sprinkled with armed female troops. On the left, the shot of Royce and Carlotta as clowns, heaving pies and squirting seltzer. In the center of the screen and dominating the shot, a rapidly cut montage of the wonders of Transcendental Science—buildings springing up instantly, an artificial sun transforming the icy wastes of Thule into a green garden, an ancient man blossoming forth with new youth and vigor.

Singing male chorus to the beat of marching feet:

“Which side are you on?

“WHICH SIDE ARE YOU ON?”

Two shots alternating with each other again and again: Nero playing his violin on a balcony while Rome bums below him and hairy barbarians pillage and rape in the flaming streets; Carlotta Madigan on a similar balcony overlooking Gotham, kissing Royce while a similar horde of barbarians—Neanderthals stuffed into black military tunics—rape women in the streets below and wave “Bucko Power” placards.

Female voiceover (sardonically): “Pacifica for the Pacificans !”

Ancient film footage of Nazi stormtroopers smashing windows and beating Jews with truncheons, Adolf Hitler addressing a frenzied Nuremburg rally, tanks rolling through the ruined streets of a city.

Female voiceover: “Germany for the Germans!”

A long shot on an altar atop a great stone pyramid. The steps are lined with bound captives, and at the pinnacle, an Indian priest rips out a beating human heart with an obsidian knife.

Female voiceover: “Mexico for the Aztecs!”

A rapidly cut series of shots of tremendous nuclear explosions vaporizing Paris, New York, London, Peking, Moscow.

Female voiceover: “Earth for machismo!”

Cut to a closeup on Susan Willaway, looking straight into the camera with righteous indignation.

Susan Willaway: “Throughout human history, rabid ap-287

peals to irrational nationalism have always been the last desperate resort of ideologically bankrupt demagogues. It took Femocracy to put a stop to it on Earth, sisters, and now that Pacifica is about to be liberated from fascho-chauvinism, why of course our own little tinhorn demagogue, Carlotta Madigan, dredges up this filthy jingoistic slime from the atavistic past and attempts to hide her treason behind a shit-smeared screen of nationalistic muck!
^#
It can’t happen here... ?”

A series of shots of Bucko Power demonstrations— marching men, waving fists, distorted shouting faces—all to the terrible music of stomping jackboots.

Susan Willaway’s voiceover: “But it
is
happening here!
Pacifica for the Pacificans!
But what kind of Pacifica for which Pacificans is Carlotta Madigan ranting for? Who is responsible for the continued existence of an Institute metastisizing its foul poison through the body politic like a loathsome cancer! Carlotta Madigan! Who sold out her sisters to Transcendental Science? Carlotta Madigan! Who is therefore responsible for the faschochauvinist animals rioting in our streets? Carlotta Madigan, and her Machiavellian breeder, Royce Lindblad!”

Cut to a closeup on Susan Willaway.

Susan Willaway: “Why has Carlotta Madigan failed to answer the charge of treason against her? Because she
has
no answer! Instead, she gives us circuses, the Madigan Plan, an Institute, outmoded nationalistic chauvinism, and calls it Pacifica for the Pacificans! And what kind of Pacifica will that be if she succeeds? Just what we have now— a Pacifica ruled by Falkenstein through Madigan’s breeder, where Bucko Power fanatics are allowed to run riot in the streets, where democratic strikes by Sisterhood are broken by blackmail or force, where the beast reigns supreme! Pacifica for the Pacificans? Pacifica for faschochauvinist swine and their lackeys and dupes!”

A panoramic shot of a huge and orderly Femocratic League of Pacifica rally, in which the camera first focuses on a section of the crowd, and then slowly reverse-zooms upward and outward, so that the army of women seems to expand toward the horizon in all directions, filling the field of vision to infinity as if it covered the world.

Female voiceover: “But Sisterhood is strong, Sisterhood is united, and Sisterhood will not be fooled by meaningless slogans. Pacifica for the Pacificans... ?”

A tremendous amplified shout from the crowd: “
SIS
-
TERHOOD FOR PACIFICA
/ PACIFICA FOR
SISTERHOOD!”

A closeup of Carlotta Madigan seated in front of a large hologram of Pacifica, looking cool, tranquil, humbly satisfied with herself.

Carlotta Madigan: “Tomorrow you will vote, my fellow Pacificans, and thereby consign to well-earned oblivion the most vicious and un-Pacifican campaign in the history of our planet.”

Behind her, a montage of Bucko Power demonstrations, striking workers, Femocratic League rallies, angry, animalistic, shouting male and female faces.

Carlotta Madigan: “Where once our political differences were economic and philosophical and settled in the democratic spirit of compromise, now they seem to revolve around the nature of our genitals and are not to be compromised at all. The Femocrats accuse Transcendental Science of subversion, and Transcendental Science accuses Femocracy of plotting a coup, and they both accuse
me
of treason and atavistic nationalism, and
I
accuse
them
of interference in our way of life, and, my fellow Pacificans,
all of us are right!”

Behind her now, a shot of Pacifica as seen from far off in space, a luminous marble alone in the darkness.

Carlotta Madigan: “I rue the day that these off-worlders insinuated themselves into this solar system by lies, deceit, and trickery. If what they have both done to shatter our harmony is not subversion,
what is?
If what they have done is not interference in our way of life,
how much further must they go?
Were I not a traitor to both Femocracy and Transcendental Science, could I be true to the planet I love, could I sleep at night?
And with whom?
If an overriding faith in our own people, in what we’ve built together, in who we are, is chauvinistic nationalism, I say let us wave that flag and wave it proudly!”

Behind her, the camera zooms in on Pacifica till it becomes a huge globe. The planet stylizes into a circle of green, brown, white, and blue in the center of a black flag of space, waving in the breeze behind Carlotta against an azure sky.

Carlotta Madigan: “For while the gross excesses of this campaign must fill every reasonable Pacifican with disgust and loathing, I say we have much to be proud of, too. Without our total devotion to free media access, none of this vicious propaganda would have disturbed our tranquility. Were we not first, last, and always a democratic society, the government of Pacifica would have long since crushed this off-worlder subversion with an iron hand. Did we not still believe in our democratic instincts, in our planet, and in ourselves, this putrid mess would not exist.”

The camera moves in for an extreme closeup on Carlotta Madigan, as she shrugs and smiles ruefully.

Carlotta Madigan: “Our apparent weakness is our greatest strength, and we all know it in our hearts. A great man said it all centuries ago: ‘Democracy is the worst of all possible political systems—excepting all the others!’ ”

The camera pulls back for a longer shot on Carlotta as images fade into each other behind her—bustling Gotham streets, sailboats riding the breezes of the Island Continent, mano lumberjacks scampering up giant trees in their Su-perigs, men and women working together in a Valhalla machine shop, Columbians harvesting golden fields of grain*

Carlotta Madigan: “And I believe that this too shall pass. When the votes have been counted, and the shouting has died, men and women alike will have united to preserve Pacifican democracy. I think I know my own people better than any off-worlder ideologue can. I understand. You understand. Beyond
any
momentary issue, beyond any bug-brained ideology, you believe that in the end, reason, sanity, love, compromise, the spirit of our democracy— these must be preserved, and these shall prevail.”

An extreme closeup on Carlotta Madigan as she cocks her head at the camera and grins.

Carlotta Madigan: “Femocrats and Transcendental Scientists alike will say that my people believe this because they are stupid. I believe it, too.”

As evening moved toward midnight and the running vote tallies swiftly firmed up into certainties, a gloomy silence descended upon the Institute’s main staff lounge. Soon no one was talking to anyone else, and least of all were any of the psychopoliticians daring to venture any opinion to Dr. Roger Falkenstein.

Their analyses had been useless, their strategy had failed, and not even the Arkmind had predicted
this
. Late returns might switch a close race here or there, but the shape of the new Parliament was now a certainty: thirty-one seats for Femocratic Delegates, twenty-nine or thirty Bucko Power seats, and something over forty for the loose coalition of independents backed by Royce Lindblad and Carlotta Madigan.

Sitting in front of the big net console, his depression and displeasure wrapped around him like a cloak of isolation, Falkenstein tried to understand what had happened, what had gone wrong, and he was in no mood to listen to any of the experts who had failed him.

One thing, at least, was clear—trying to paint Madigan as a dupe of the Femocrats had been a dismal tactical error, a stupid reflex-action to the Femocrats’ attempt to portray her as a traitor controlled by Transcendental Science. Had we gone along with
their
gross error and
accepted
support for Madigan as support for us, he thought, the dominant Madigan faction might now be something of an ally. Instead, she’s made it clear that this victory is going to be seen as a rejection of
all
off-world influence, a triumph of Pacifican nationalism. We were too ambitious, Falkenstein thought. We shouldn’t have contested this election as an independent force, we should have let the Femocrats isolate themselves and quietly cooperated with Carlotta Madigan.

But we didn’t, he thought, rising and raking the room with his gaze. That’s the past, and it can’t be changed. He noticed that the staff people were averting their eyes defensively, as if anticipating deserved recrimination. Recrimination might be deserved, but it was useless as well.

Falkenstein grimaced. The staff would be useless at least until tomorrow, when they would have digested the sour meal of failure and be ready once more to face the future.

Without a word to anyone, he left the lounge, walked down a series of empty brooding hallways, and stood in one of the viewing balconies overlooking the black Pacifican night. Beyond the electronic barrier, dark shapes thrashed and moved amid the deeper darkness of the jungle. Overhead, the stars were mere pinpoint abstractions, unreal and very far away. Somewhere up there the
Heisenberg
would be moving grandly across the impassive firmament, but now it was invisible, and Falkenstein could not remember ever feeling so isolated and alone. Only the ghost of Maria stood at his side, like the phantom presence of a freshly amputated limb, palpable only through the pain of its absence.

Since that day when she had left his bed for the dormitory, even the time they did spend together had become an unreal dull torment, filled at first with arguments, and then with a forced and artificial normalcy that, under the circumstances, seemed like the most painful sort of madness.

They were strangers to each other now—worse, the pain of that estrangement was made more poignant by the memory of what had been for so very long, and the conviction of each that the other was to blame widened the abyss with every passing hour.

Falkenstein longed to be with Maria in this moment of total loneliness, but the Maria he longed for was the Maria that had been. The Maria that was would only exacerbate his loneliness with the triumphant vindication of her emotionalism over his logic. Were it rationally possible to hate an entire planet, Falkenstein thought, I would hate Pacifica with the passion of an outraged cuckold.

He sighed, moved closer to the transparent wall of the viewing balcony, and collapsed into a chair. Such thoughts only divert my attention from the problem at hand, he told himself firmly. Hate, rage, emotion itself are hardly what’s called for now. I’m faced with a situation, and I must think it through logically.

And things could be worse, he told himself, reaching for optimism. The
Femocrats
could be in control of the new Parliament. Instead, Carlotta Madigan is in effective control, and she’s at least committed to keeping the Institute open for the whole trial period. The new student body is installed, the Institute is functioning, and the crunch won’t come until the trial period is up, three-and-a-half months from now. The only operative question is the matter of a scenario for the interval between.