The Super Man and the Bugout by Cory Doctorow (best e ink reader for manga .txt) π
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harlequin-dressed anarchists; high-school students
with packsacks who industriously commed their browbeaten classmates who'd
elected to stay at their desks; "civilians" who'd seen a notice and come out,
and tried gamely to keep up with the chanting.
The chanting got louder as they neared the security cordon around the Convention
Centre. The different groups all mingled as they massed on the opposite side of
the barricades. The Quakers and the vets sang "Give Peace a Chance," while
Thomas and his cohort prowled around, distributing materiel to various trusted
individuals.
The students hollered abuse at the attendees who were trickling into the
Convention Centre in expensive overcoats, florid with expense-account breakfasts
and immaculately groomed.
Hershie's appearance silenced the crowd. He screamed in over the lake, banked
vertically up the side of the CN Tower, and plummeted downward. The
demonstrators set up a loud cheer as he skimmed the crowd, then fell silent and
aghast as he touched down on the _opposite_ side of the barricade, with the
convention-goers. A cop in riot-gear held the door for him and he stepped
inside. A groan went up from the protestors, and swelled into a wordless,
furious howl.
#
Hershie avoided the show's floor and headed for the green room. En route, he was
stopped by a Somali general who'd been acquitted by a War Crimes tribunal, but
only barely. The man greeted him like an old comrade and got his aide to snap a
photo of the two of them shaking hands.
The green room was crowded with coffee-slurping presenters who pecked furiously
at their comms, revising their slides. Hershie drew curious stares when he
entered, but by the time he'd gotten his Danish and coffee, everyone around him
was once again bent over their work, a field of balding cabbages anointed with
high-tech hair-care products.
Hershie's palms were slick, his alien hearts throbbing in counterpoint. His
cowlick wilted in the aggressive heat shimmering out of the vent behind his
sofa. He tried to keep himself calm, but by the time a gofer commed him and
squirted directions to the main ballroom, he was a wreck.
#
Hershie commed into the feed from the demonstration in time to see the Quakers
sit, en masse, along the barricade, hands intertwined, asses soaking in the
slush at the kerbside. The cops watched them impassively, and while they were
distracted, Thomas gave a signal to his crew, who hastily unreeled a
stories-high smartscreen, the gossamer fabric snapping taut in the wind as it
unfurled over the Convention Centre's facade.
The cops were suddenly alert, moving, but Thomas was careful to keep the screen
on his side of the barricade. Tina led a team of high-school students who spread
out a solar collector the size and consistency of a parachute. It glinted in the
harsh sun.
Szandor hastily cabled a projector/loudhailer apparatus to the collector.
Szandor's dog nipped at his heels as he steadied and focused the apparatus on
the screen, and Szandor plugged his comm into it and powered it up.
There was a staticky pop as the speakers came to life, loud enough to be heard
over the street noise. The powerful projector beamed its image onto the screen,
bright even in the midday glare.
There were hoots from the crowd as they recognised the feed: a live broadcast of
the keynote addresses in the Centre. The Patron Ik'Spir Pat's hoverchair
prominent. The camera lingered on the Patron's eyes, the only part of him
visible from within the chair's masking infrastructure. They were startling,
silvery orbs, heavy-lidded and expressionless.
The camera swung to Hershie. Szandor spat dramatically and led a chorus of
hisses.
Hershie hastily closed his comm and cleared his throat, adjusted his mic, and
addressed the crowd.
#
"Uh. . ." he said. His guts somersaulted. Time to go big or go home.
"Hi." That was better. "Thanks. I'm the Super Man. For years, I worked alongside
UN Peacekeeping forces around the world. I hoped I was doing good work. Most of
the time, I suppose I may have been."
He caught the eye of Brenda, the cheerful Texan who'd booked him in. She looked
uneasy.
"There's one thing I'm certain of, though: it's that the preparation for war has
never led to anything _but_ war. With this show, you ladies and gentlemen are
participating in a giant conspiracy to commit murder. Individually, you may not
be evil, but collectively, you're the most amoral supervillain I've ever faced."
Brenda was talking frantically into her comm. His mic died. He simply expanded
his mighty diaphragm and kept on speaking, his voice filling the ballroom.
"I urge you to put this behind you. We've entered into a new era in human
history. The good Patron here offers the entire Universe; you scurry around,
arranging the deaths of people you've never met.
"It's a terribly, stupid, mindless pursuit. You ought to be ashamed of
yourselves."
With that, Hershie stepped away from the podium and walked out of the ballroom.
#
The camera tracked him as he made his way back through the Convention Centre,
out the doors. He leapt the barricade and settled in front of the screen. The
demonstrators gave him a standing ovation, and Thomas gravely shook his hand.
The handshake was repeated on the giant screen behind them, courtesy of the
cameraman, who had gamely vaulted the barricade as well.
The crowd danced, hugged each other, laughed. Szandor's dog bit him on the ass,
and he nearly dropped the projector.
He recovered in time to nearly drop it again, as the Patron Ik'Spir Pat's
hoverchair glided out the Centre's doors and made a beeline for Hershie.
Hershie watched the car approach with nauseous dread. The Patron stopped a few
centimetres from him, so they were almost eyeball-to-eyeball. The hoverchair's
PA popped to life, and the Patron spoke, in the bugouts' thrilling contralto.
"Thank you for your contribution," the bugout said. "It was refreshing to have
another perspective presented."
Hershie tried for a heroic nod. "I'm glad you weren't offended."
"On the contrary, it was stimulating. I shall have to speak with the
conference's organisers; this format seems a good one for future engagements."
Hershie felt his expression slipping, sliding towards slack-jawed incredulity.
He struggled to hold it, then lost it entirely when one of the Patron's silvery
eyes drooped closed in an unmistakable wink.
#
"Hi, Mama."
"Hershie, I just saw it on the television."
He cringed back from his comm as he shrank deeper into the corner of the
Belquees that he'd moved to when his comm rang.
"Mama, it's all right. They've signed me for the full six months. I'll be fine
--"
"Of course you'll be fine, bubbie. But would it kill you to brush your hair
before you go on television in front of the whole world? Do you want everyone to
think your mother raised a slob?"
Hershie smiled. "I will, Mama."
"I know you will, bubbie. You're a very good-looking man, you know. But no one
wants to marry a man with messy hair."
"I know, Mama."
"Well, I won't keep you. Do you think you could come for dinner on Friday? I
know you're busy, but your old mother won't be here forever."
He sighed his father's sigh. "I'll be there, Mama."
--
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Imprint
with packsacks who industriously commed their browbeaten classmates who'd
elected to stay at their desks; "civilians" who'd seen a notice and come out,
and tried gamely to keep up with the chanting.
The chanting got louder as they neared the security cordon around the Convention
Centre. The different groups all mingled as they massed on the opposite side of
the barricades. The Quakers and the vets sang "Give Peace a Chance," while
Thomas and his cohort prowled around, distributing materiel to various trusted
individuals.
The students hollered abuse at the attendees who were trickling into the
Convention Centre in expensive overcoats, florid with expense-account breakfasts
and immaculately groomed.
Hershie's appearance silenced the crowd. He screamed in over the lake, banked
vertically up the side of the CN Tower, and plummeted downward. The
demonstrators set up a loud cheer as he skimmed the crowd, then fell silent and
aghast as he touched down on the _opposite_ side of the barricade, with the
convention-goers. A cop in riot-gear held the door for him and he stepped
inside. A groan went up from the protestors, and swelled into a wordless,
furious howl.
#
Hershie avoided the show's floor and headed for the green room. En route, he was
stopped by a Somali general who'd been acquitted by a War Crimes tribunal, but
only barely. The man greeted him like an old comrade and got his aide to snap a
photo of the two of them shaking hands.
The green room was crowded with coffee-slurping presenters who pecked furiously
at their comms, revising their slides. Hershie drew curious stares when he
entered, but by the time he'd gotten his Danish and coffee, everyone around him
was once again bent over their work, a field of balding cabbages anointed with
high-tech hair-care products.
Hershie's palms were slick, his alien hearts throbbing in counterpoint. His
cowlick wilted in the aggressive heat shimmering out of the vent behind his
sofa. He tried to keep himself calm, but by the time a gofer commed him and
squirted directions to the main ballroom, he was a wreck.
#
Hershie commed into the feed from the demonstration in time to see the Quakers
sit, en masse, along the barricade, hands intertwined, asses soaking in the
slush at the kerbside. The cops watched them impassively, and while they were
distracted, Thomas gave a signal to his crew, who hastily unreeled a
stories-high smartscreen, the gossamer fabric snapping taut in the wind as it
unfurled over the Convention Centre's facade.
The cops were suddenly alert, moving, but Thomas was careful to keep the screen
on his side of the barricade. Tina led a team of high-school students who spread
out a solar collector the size and consistency of a parachute. It glinted in the
harsh sun.
Szandor hastily cabled a projector/loudhailer apparatus to the collector.
Szandor's dog nipped at his heels as he steadied and focused the apparatus on
the screen, and Szandor plugged his comm into it and powered it up.
There was a staticky pop as the speakers came to life, loud enough to be heard
over the street noise. The powerful projector beamed its image onto the screen,
bright even in the midday glare.
There were hoots from the crowd as they recognised the feed: a live broadcast of
the keynote addresses in the Centre. The Patron Ik'Spir Pat's hoverchair
prominent. The camera lingered on the Patron's eyes, the only part of him
visible from within the chair's masking infrastructure. They were startling,
silvery orbs, heavy-lidded and expressionless.
The camera swung to Hershie. Szandor spat dramatically and led a chorus of
hisses.
Hershie hastily closed his comm and cleared his throat, adjusted his mic, and
addressed the crowd.
#
"Uh. . ." he said. His guts somersaulted. Time to go big or go home.
"Hi." That was better. "Thanks. I'm the Super Man. For years, I worked alongside
UN Peacekeeping forces around the world. I hoped I was doing good work. Most of
the time, I suppose I may have been."
He caught the eye of Brenda, the cheerful Texan who'd booked him in. She looked
uneasy.
"There's one thing I'm certain of, though: it's that the preparation for war has
never led to anything _but_ war. With this show, you ladies and gentlemen are
participating in a giant conspiracy to commit murder. Individually, you may not
be evil, but collectively, you're the most amoral supervillain I've ever faced."
Brenda was talking frantically into her comm. His mic died. He simply expanded
his mighty diaphragm and kept on speaking, his voice filling the ballroom.
"I urge you to put this behind you. We've entered into a new era in human
history. The good Patron here offers the entire Universe; you scurry around,
arranging the deaths of people you've never met.
"It's a terribly, stupid, mindless pursuit. You ought to be ashamed of
yourselves."
With that, Hershie stepped away from the podium and walked out of the ballroom.
#
The camera tracked him as he made his way back through the Convention Centre,
out the doors. He leapt the barricade and settled in front of the screen. The
demonstrators gave him a standing ovation, and Thomas gravely shook his hand.
The handshake was repeated on the giant screen behind them, courtesy of the
cameraman, who had gamely vaulted the barricade as well.
The crowd danced, hugged each other, laughed. Szandor's dog bit him on the ass,
and he nearly dropped the projector.
He recovered in time to nearly drop it again, as the Patron Ik'Spir Pat's
hoverchair glided out the Centre's doors and made a beeline for Hershie.
Hershie watched the car approach with nauseous dread. The Patron stopped a few
centimetres from him, so they were almost eyeball-to-eyeball. The hoverchair's
PA popped to life, and the Patron spoke, in the bugouts' thrilling contralto.
"Thank you for your contribution," the bugout said. "It was refreshing to have
another perspective presented."
Hershie tried for a heroic nod. "I'm glad you weren't offended."
"On the contrary, it was stimulating. I shall have to speak with the
conference's organisers; this format seems a good one for future engagements."
Hershie felt his expression slipping, sliding towards slack-jawed incredulity.
He struggled to hold it, then lost it entirely when one of the Patron's silvery
eyes drooped closed in an unmistakable wink.
#
"Hi, Mama."
"Hershie, I just saw it on the television."
He cringed back from his comm as he shrank deeper into the corner of the
Belquees that he'd moved to when his comm rang.
"Mama, it's all right. They've signed me for the full six months. I'll be fine
--"
"Of course you'll be fine, bubbie. But would it kill you to brush your hair
before you go on television in front of the whole world? Do you want everyone to
think your mother raised a slob?"
Hershie smiled. "I will, Mama."
"I know you will, bubbie. You're a very good-looking man, you know. But no one
wants to marry a man with messy hair."
"I know, Mama."
"Well, I won't keep you. Do you think you could come for dinner on Friday? I
know you're busy, but your old mother won't be here forever."
He sighed his father's sigh. "I'll be there, Mama."
--
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nebbish from Toronto, from the short story collection "A Place So Foreign and
Eight More," published by Four Walls Eight Windows press in September, 2003
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Publication Date: 06-24-2010
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