Enewetak. Rough landing, but I guess I’ve lived through worse. Took us a few minutes to get cleared for the Recovery Area. Might be here a couple of days. Might be a blessing in disguise.
There’s no preparing for this. I can get my rap down for the Intergalactic, but it’s like going to a conference on another planet. We were hardly into our descent before I could feel the ocean and, frankly, I’m freaked the f*ck out.
THE WATER: “Looks like piss. Tastes like paradise.” Not exactly the most couth of slogans, but whatever works. A dirty joked, passed around, and waterbars are packing ‘em in in no time flat. It’s a good joke, a
FourieristFreeFor joke, teasing and sly. “From the Sea of Lemonade” would hardly have hooked anyone over the age of about seven. “Gimme a pint of the Wondrous” on the other hand. . .
THE CAMPAIGN: Worth thinking about, here on the Free Fourierists' doorstep. With Nato and the Bloc doing their level bests to contain whatever is brewing out here, I would have bet on real urine getting by the FDA before “the wondrous.” But, sell it to the Japanese, always ready to buck the trend for risky eats. No amount of negative propaganda could make Isles water look half as dangerous as, say, fugu. Then sell the idea to all the alternatechs, hemp farmers flush from legalization, the natural health crowd, anti-genies, and to the free traders. Smuggle a bottle or two in a diplomatic pouch, and make sure the right folks get a taste. It doesn’t hurt if, like the FreeFors, you’re not averse to a little urine-drinking, assuming the passions lead that way. It doesn’t hurt if, like the FreeFors, you seem to be sitting at the heart of some sort of miracle. Brash is good. Kink is good. The bloggers love it, and the surfers love the bloggers when they latch onto something good. And suddenly it’s like the gov’t is holding back the water of the Fountain of Youth (not that there’s any scientific evidence for that yet) and something gives way in Washington and the President is talking about turning WTO rules on the FDA. Wham-bam, Congress authorizes the WATER talks, and it’s no time before the GATI initiative is hammered out, and the alternatechs suddenly take all the stock markets on a rocket ride. It’s on! The Isles weren’t starving anyway, but they were isolated. Now it seems like everybody’s in the game. And when folks stop to think about that, it isn’t clear who exactly is likely to be served. Which makes the 2005 Intergalactic, out here on Toupki-Ameeko (Kwajalein, for you Old Nomenclature types), about the least likely must-attend summit imaginable. What does it all mean? Why the sudden reversal on the part of The Established Powers?
MY GUESS: If you can’t beat ‘em, eat ‘em.
The Network needs to get it’s stuff together. I need to get used to this crazy place. The test craters bubble and glow. That tingle you feel when you drink your “pint of wondrous” is a force out here, and whatever is happening out around the craters feel like some epic, manichaean struggle. Coming down in the dusk I think i had a bit of a panic attack. The whole scene took on a rather Lovecraftian cast. “Too much life,” the pilot said. Too much fecundity, maybe, which is just a little different.
I won’t say that I’m used to the feeling here, all static electricity and technicolors, but it helps to walk around in it. I met a traveller kid at the canteen, wearing a “Tom Paine died for your sins” T-shirt. Patriot art, horrible stuff, with the mob scene like something out of Goya. Not exactly the way I remember the story being told. But he was willing to show me around a bit. Walked out to where we could see the big crater clearly, and the cement dome on Runit. The colors are disorienting, and the air seems to sizzle slightly, particularly down by the water, but it’s less of an assault on the senses. “Too much life,” the kid said, when I mentioned the effect. Apparently, that’s the standard line. “The Har-Mats loved it when we bombed this place,” he said. “Settled some old scores.” Then he drifted back to “work” around the canteen, which didn’t seem to amount to much, but prevented any further discussion. I made arrangements to go out tomorrow to one of the marine arcologies, which glint in the distance, and got a short tour from one of the radiological abatement officers. “Abatement,” he said. “It’s not entirely in our hands at this point.” And he headed back to the canteen for a beer.
There’s a part of a story here, something about the Free Fourierists, the Harmonian Materialists, and the Bomb. Either that, or the kid is leading me on. Not unlikely, but still. The big Encuentro is here, or just a couple of atoll-hops away, in the midst of the “wondrous isles,” in the tropical paradise of the Free Fourierists, in the midst of the Golden Seas. And here I am, by the side of a bubbling bomb crater. Free Fourierists: hippy-dippy infantile disorder? Hell, nobody took any of the Fourierists seriously until after the Revolution.
But the Harmonian Materialists were always shrewd, always emphasizing the orderly elements of Fourierist doctrine, always capitalizing without looking like they were poised to spring. In the International, when Marx’s machinations threw everything into jeopardy, they were ready to take the initiative, finding allies among the libertarians and individualists, fending off the obvious authoritarians, talking harmony. By the 1890s, of course, all such alliances were cashed in, dissolved, but by then Fourierism had made its transformation. Fundamentalists, Reunionites, and Godinists could complain all they wanted. Nobody was listening. As far as the world was concerned, like it or not, the Butterfly had hatched, and change was upon everyone. After then Revolution, when the People traded the Winter Palace for a multitude of social palaces, the tale was almost believable. When it grew thin, when the mixed economy and “work palaces” appeared, the doctrines still had their apologists in the West. Internal histories became masterpieces of the opportunistic interpretation of “signs,” with the distributive passions trotted on and off stage as required. Which meant the Russians were about like the rest of us, justifying each twist and turn of policy with our various national myths. Death or glory. . . just another story. I don’t have to tell you.
If Harmonian Materialism ever had a sense of humor, it lost it, along with so much else, in the Second World War. Canny politics or opportunistic amoralism, the Nonaggression Pact was hardly sustainable, as the rest of the world was drawn into the conflict. When the Confederated Territories finally agreed to follow the lead of Washington and the States, the Russian Union was about the only player not in the game. Perhaps Hitler thought “harmonians” would make poor soldiers. Clearly he, like most of the rest of the world, was unaware of what the Etzler-engines had become in a hundred years of development. The Japanese learned early on, when they tried to claim the Marshalls, only to find them awash in strange tech and stranger refugees, missionaries from the West. Free-Fors, who fought as lean and smart as the Russians fought hard. The Russian engines were quaint compared to the German panzers, but there was nothing quaint about the power of the phalanx-turned-war-machine, with every member, even the “little hordes” committed to a role in the combat. They bled and drew blood, fought and died, with a frightening efficiency and passion.
By the end of the war, the Butterfly had pretty well been displaced by the Bear, as bizarre a metamorphosis as you could ask for. But the party was over. Harmony from now on meant the lock-step. The phalanx never recovered, and remained, through the Cold War and on until the fall, first and foremore a vast war machine, a modernization machine. The Etzler paradigm gave way to conventional western industrial models, and with economic liberalization, the “shopping palaces” began to sprout like toadstools. Nuclear technology became the chief military-industrial priority, even before the war’s end, and we all know how close the race for the bomb ultimately was. Joe One, on the eve of Operation Crossroads, was a technological leapfrog move that took everyone by surprise. But the Russians raised no objection to Western development at that stage, even after the A-tests scared the pants off nearly everyone. “Pay the price of change,” said Dzhugashvili, in a speech invoking the Butterfly. And the people of the world paid and paid in the decade that followed, at Bikini and Rongelap, at Cheliabinsk and all across the South Urals, in Alaska and in the deserts of Nevada.