Marc Estrin

GEKO AT PLAY

 Julius has a front story -- his failed attempt to evade GEKO’s pre-emptive revenge -- and a back story -- his childhood, education, and path to inventing the Doodad. (That term, by the way, sounds over-cute to some. But recall that the plutonium bomb was called “the Gadget” by the Manhattan Project.) The first writing complication arose in that the meeting at which GEKO acquired the Doodad takes place very late in the backstory. And without knowing what happened there, a reader would not appropriately understand the “Rapture”. So I had to take it out of chronological sequence, and place it at the beginning. 

 But the details of GEKO’s plan came about at a subsequent party in Georgetown. The question then was where to put that scene without interrupting the momentum of the front story.

 The answer? Just cut it out -- thought it contained a Gilbert & Sullivan parody I liked. We could gather all the information we needed from that meeting’s effects, and the little bit we couldn’t, I rewrote into the early GEKO chapter.

 I went to a couple of Georgetown parties when I was a fellow at the Institute for Policy Studies in Washington. Even this broad satire is not far from what actually goes on!

MODIFIED RAPTURE

"So mon ami," Thorn asked, "What would you say are the most pressing crises?"

He was sitting with Julius on a Duncan Phyfe love-seat, in an elegantly appointed Georgetown room, at an impromptu celebration of the Doodad deal, to be followed by another important event, as yet unspoken.

"Probably ecological -- pollution, greenhouse effect, ozone depletion..." the scientist answered.

"Population problem?

"Definitely. Cause of all the others."

"Right. Population up, crop yields down, parched lands, excess UV..." 

"Either this pattern goes or we do."

Carolyn Worthington, the hostess, approached with a margarita for each of them.

"Here's to the Master." Thorn clinked his glass on Julius's. "Only kidding. So what's behind the downhill spiral?" Thorn asked.

"Capitalism, of course..."

"Nothing wrong with Capitalism," Carolyn put in, always the perfect hostess, aware of her guests. "It's greed that's the problem. Greedy Capitalism. It's a heart problem. The human heart." She continued on her hermetic rounds, libation bearer to the gods.

"Jesuitical thinking," Thorn remarked. "Julius, what's your

 religious persuasion?" he asked. "Your denomination. What are you?"

"Jewish."

Why did he say that? Animosity? Passive aggression? Wrapping himself in old childhood protection?

"Ah, I thought so!" said the priest. "Practicing?"

"Yes," Julius said, to further flim the flam.

"In that case, you'll likely admit that if people accepted the teachings of one Jewish carpenter, or even of his Church, things could be different?"

"Well, I...

"Love thy neighbor? Give what you have to the poor? Turn the other cheek? -- That means no more War, mon chou, a drastic cut in defense budgets, in pollution and death..."

"That's all very well and good, but as Nietzsche said 'The last Christian died on the Cross.'"

"The last Christian did not die on the cross!", Thorn shrieked. The room chatter stopped, and all eyes were on the Duncan Phyfe. "Excuse me." He continued, more quietly, "There are many people who take seriously, and literally, what he said. Enough people, for instance, to get us all elected and appointed soon, if you take my meaning." The others turned back to their conversations. "Let's not get into this now," Thorn continued. "The point is -- and I think we can agree? -- that without a substantial change in human consciousness, we have very little chance of turning things around."

The Vice-President-To-Be's friend walked by, chip in hand, searching for the guacamole. An alarmingly pretty young man.

"Amen to that!" he threw in, and Julius agreed.

"All right, then," Thorn went on, "population. Ozone Depletion. The Greenhouse Effect. The Human Heart. Don't you see that your machine will solve all these problems at the same time?"

"The Big Fib."

"Precisely. And wouldn't you agree that sometimes we have to lie for the sake of a larger truth?

"Sure -- like Santa Claus..."

"Or the Maccabean miracle?"

"But this is more dangerous."

"All right, but you agree in principle that sometimes lying is sometimes necessary for the Greater Good."

"I suppose. Keep talking."

"Wouldn't you say that ameliorating the population problem, the ozone hole, the greenhouse effect and humanizing the human heart would be a Greater Good, an overwhelming good? A good worth lying to achieve?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Probably. It depends."

"Depends on what?"

Julius couldn't say.

"We're only proposing that kind of a lie, to save the planet, save the earth, save humanity. Can you conceive how big this is?"

"So we do this harebrained Rapture Act."

"It's not so crazy, Julius. These are the End Days. All this has been predicted in the Bible. Everything that's been happening for the last 20 years -- more -- since the Jews returned to Israel...It's all there..."

"So how come no one has been raptured already?

"They will be -- soon. But maybe not soon enough to save the Planet. Why should all those innocent people and animals and plants be consumed in flames, just because of bad timing? We can save them. You can save them."

The Vice-President-To-Be swept by them with a samurai sword ripped from the wall. His friend followed close behind.

"Wuzzat? Huh? He gettin violent?" Daryl Plunk asked.

"Daryl, hush up now," his wife drawled. Or we'll have to be goin'..." 

The hostess looked upset.

 "Aren't you going to stay for the Inaugural? Plan A?"

 "Ohhhhh, Plan A. S'a good one." Daryl Plunk was more than slightly slushed.

 WHONG!

The Vice-President-To-Be appeared at the top of the stairs, a Chinese gong in his left hand, still ringing from the whack he had given it with his tsurugi. There he stood, wrapped in one of Carolyn Worthington's kimonos, his head encased in a primped-up purple Sierra backpack. His friend looked on admiringly.

Descending the stairs slowly, à la Mifune, he looked about to commit some crazed and savage act. Midway, he unsheathed his sword in a alarming manner -- and began to sing -- slurring occasional words, and pausing unpredictably to stare into space:

As someday it may happen

That a victim must be found

I've got a little list,

I've got a little list

Of folks that are expendable

But might be used "Fine-Ground"

Oh wouldn't they be pissed!

They'd certainly be pissed!

He continued, descending a step at a time, stumbling once, but rescued by his friend.

We'll send them up in Rapture

To the great Van Allen Belt

Their lung sacs will all rupture

And their nervous systems melt

Their bodies we will shatter

Just to populate the sky

With small organic matter

Which around the earth will fly

Effecting greenhouse gases

And the ultraviolet mist...

Oh wouldn't they be pissed!

They'd certainly be pissed!

Reaching bottom, he lobbed the gong to Thorn, who tossed it, hot-potato-wise, to Julius.

First we'll concentrate on leftists

Who just might destabilize...

Then Third World Men of Colored Hue

And those with slanty eyes,

And people who are poor enough

To take but never give -- 

If they think that their lives are rough

Then let them cease to live!

He placed the swordpoint at Julius's chest. Playacting? One would hope so.

And finally some rich men who

At us have sometimes hissed...

Just let them all be pissed!

Too late if they're all pissed!

His friend provided the final chorus:

He's got them on his list,

He's got them on his list,

And too bad if they're all pissed,

They'll none of them be missed.

A great and well-deserved round of applause.

"He's done that before," Thorn commented, "but he's always got new verses ex tempore."

"I'm impressed," Julius said, "That was -- wow!"

"University of Wyoming Gilbert and Sullivan Society. He was quite the hit." 

Carolyn Worthington, Friend of the Earth, secretary of the Sierra Club, and hostess extraordinaire, began clinking a silver spoon against a crystal glass.

"It's the witching hour, comrades, almost nine, so gather ye round, gather ye round." 

She switched on the wall-size Panasonic, yet another accoutrement japonaise left behind by her late husband, the ambassador. The Salvadoran maid picked up plates from the emptying portion of the living room. Cosma McMoon said "Muchas gracias" in impeccable debutante Spanish.

The House Chamber was fitted out much like Madison Square Garden during a convention, with three huge screens behind the speaker's platform. On the raised dais behind the lectern sat the Democratic leadership, their corporate sponsors beneath their logos, and various plebeians to be called upon for show and tell. The stars and stripes abounded -- in bunting, and pennants and on lapel pins seen in telephoto closeups. 

Al Gore entered the packed chamber. One half whistled and cheered, while the other sat on its hands. Monophonia in stereo. The new president advanced slowly down the aisle, shaking hands to his left, nodding, smiling, to his right, and took his place at the lectern. The room quieted as Tom Brokaw, hushed and reverent, announced

"President Albert A. Gore is about to begin his inaugural address."

The Georgetown gathering watched with bated breath.

"Eight years of Clinton-Gore", the president began. "Eight glorious years. 'Clinton-Gore Forevermore', right? And what did we accomplish? The camera crews are outside this very building tonight to show you."

While the center screen glowed with gargantuan face, the screens left and right switched to live cinema verité.

"Universal Health Care breeds long life, right? -- too much

 life."

On the left screen -- sardine-like white crowds on Dupont Circle. On the right -- sardine-like black crowds on Georgia Ave. On the left, skinheads beating a black interloper. On the right, someone is hit by a car. Sirens wail, but ambulances can't get through. 

"Yes, we created a Youth Police Corps, and now everyone is either cop or robber, and many are both. And everywhere, everybody is sick, coughing up lungs, scratching skin disease and nursing cancers."

Screen left: sick street people ignored among crowds.

"Remember beautiful Rock Creek Park?" 

Screen right: a wasteland of dead trees in a sludge-filled ravine. Garbage everywhere.

"Check it out, as they say on North Capitol, check it out. Know what, gang? This all makes me sick. It makes Tipper sick, and Bill and Hilary, and Buffy and Ashley and Chipper and Tigger and Chelsea -- it makes us all sick. Want to know how sick of it I am? Want to know?"

For the first time in history, a democratically-elected president of the United States vomited on television. Yup. Upchucked right on the front of the dais.

"That's how sick of it I am!"

"Great Goddess," Carolyn said, "this is unbelievable. I can't believe it. . ." 

"I can," replied the Vice-President-To-Be, and burst out laughing.

Cosma stared at the screen with twenty-something amazement.

"Oh, look, look. There's barf on his arm. Oh, this is precious." 

"What a pig he is," was Mrs. Plumpe's reaction.

The President wiped his mouth with a handkerchief offered by his American Sign Language Interpreter, who signaled "You're welcome."

"Our people are dying," the president continued. "Our infrastructure is collapsing...

As if on cue, a large piece of plaster fell from the ceiling just to Gore's right, and Secret Service charged on stage to protect him. There was bipartisan laughter at the coincidence.

"... collapsing under our feet and over our heads.

A huge block of ceiling came crashing down, burying Gore and most of the VIPs on the dais. Bipartisan pandemonium in the House Chamber...

"Fuckin A," said Daryl Plunk, ex-DOD.

"There has been an accident in the Capitol," bellowed Tom Brokaw, blowing his usual cool. "The ceiling above the dais in the great House Chamber has collapsed. The President, the VIPs and the Democratic leadership are under the debris. Secret Service and Park Police are scrambling to dig out the President. Here is a replay of the unprecedented event...

"Arf, arf," said the Vice-President-To-Be, clapping his flippers in praise of Navy Seals.

"Amen," said Thorn.

And so were things inaugurated.

Before the raptures, the preparations -- political, social, cultural -- and their attendant security arrangements. With the former leadership decimated, and the order of succession frayed, there was room for new operatives to move in. 

Once it had been Camelot. Now it was Valhalla, the far-reaching, forward-thought of Valhalla, the impregnable, invulnerable fortress -- confident, ceremonial, powerful and glorious, product of extrovert achievement and the will to win.

"Hail to the Chief" was played ad nauseam, and promoted to the top ten. Many medals were given and worn. The White House sobriquet: la Casa Nostra, and the president, Il Padrone, and later Pater Noster, chief candidate for the Mt. Rushmore Addition Project.

"Serving the Zeitgeist" was the administration theme, its nobility in stark contrast to "It's the economy, stupid." Serving the Zeitgeist, and shaping it.

There were many "gaps" to be filled: the old Credibility Gap, the aggravated Generation Gap, the Faith Gap, and most problematical, the Humanity Gap and the consequent War on Inhumanity.

 This would be "a learning government", a government "of profound honesty and hope", demanding for itself "always higher standards of pragmatic excellence," entrancing by virtue of its cornball, voluptuous lying. "We Shall Overcome," it sang, and the ever-popular "That Way Madness Lies ". There was lots of quoting from Lincoln and JFK: "Let us have faith that right makes might, and dare to do our duty as we understand it" was a favorite, and "Ask not what your country..." et cetera. "We shall overcome. We shall realize the aspirations and dreams that every American cherishes in his heart..." Tranquilizers were widely distributed, gratis.

The spiritual dimension had been important, even before liaison with the World Council of Churches. Pater Noster was the head of a kind of "holy family" inhabiting 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, he the godhead, the Christ-figure, at work to regain the lost paradise in the face of Lucifer rampant.

With Washington as catalyst, religious reaction proceeded apace. Membership in the super-hip BVM Abstinence Society soared. Cross-burning made a comeback when the Supreme Court ruled it was constitutionally protected speech. Prisons were privatized, to be run by the non-profit Soul Evaluation and Punishment Allocation Sodality -- a great advance toward true rehabilitation. ABC, CBS and NBC were merged into the Trinity Broadcasting Network, which featured channeled anchors narrating news in cartoon format. General Mills brought out its Baby Jesus Sweetened Crispie-Crosses™, outselling all competitors. Public-private partnerships in faith-based space travel made for a rosy glow on the horizon, and many politicians were canonized by Pope Jean-Paul II, beginning with Canada's Jean Chrétien. 

Julius's world was particularly impacted by the emergence of Jews for Special Suffering, and Uncircumcized Jews for Jesus: his email was full of offers for prepuce reconstruction. How did they know what was down in his pants? And why had his mother done that to him?

Sustainable solutions were on everyone's lips: the churches began encouraging homosexuality for population control. The old texts were reconsidered. "Thou shall not lie with mankind as with womankind" was now understood to mean that women should sleep with women and men with men. "Our goal is 350,00 conversions to homosexuality by the end of the year," the Southern Baptists announced. "There is no room in the closet of the Lord."

With public acclaim for the Dept. of Health and Spiritual and Environmental Security, everything was almost there. All that was lacking was a tracking and targeting system for assigned rapturees. Enter Total Information Access (Auntie TIA) -- a strategy of the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) "to integrate new technologies into a series of increasingly powerful prototype systems to detect, classify and identify possible subjects in operationally relevant environments, using real-time feedback, and mixed-initiative analytical tools fed by fresh, innovative data sources." Chief among these was the mandatory, world-wide vaccination program -- initiated after a smallpox scare in the US territory of Guam -- in which vulnerable populations were covertly implanted with nanochip geo-locators dispersed in the vaccine. The system was operational by the end of 2002, and the first raptures occurred shortly after the Democratic victories in the mid-term congressional elections.

Julius's last experimental levitation had been that of a Weimaraner; with the use of vastly larger public funds DARPA had been able to increase lifting power by a factor of twelve, and to MIR its targets, a fortunate acronym combining "multiple independent rapture" with the Russian word for earth and peace.

The first public sightings were those of rising lambs in Calabria, both singly and in flocks, the shepherds reacting with a frenzy poo-pooed in the ironized west, but leading to the formation of Agnus Dei societies worldwide.

Human disappearances began among the homeless and squeegie populations of New York and Chicago. Rather than eliciting horror, these were seen as fulfilling the biblical promise that "the last shall be first", and as supporting tough mayoralties and the "broken windows" theory about the drop in urban crime. 

A large cohort of Pakistani Muslim hardliners were the next to go, confounding the early theology of the rapture era. 

Rapture reports became a staple of the evening news, with continuous updates of body count: 

"Today there were 28 separate raptures worldwide taking a total of 77 believers. Many were in the Midwest, where 32 men and 3 women met Jesus today, and on the international scene, the rest were in the European Common Market countries, the first on that continent."

Accompanying the statistics were the inevitable human interest stories. Agnes Doyle, a young farm woman, with her three children clinging to her apron: "We are so proud that Daddy was the first to go in Iowa."

The arrogance of power: supermarkets displaying an abundance of gecko food, and pet stores nationwide featuring government-supplied geckos to consume it.

But it was the targeting of the Dalai Lama on June 4th, 2003, that was the final straw for Julius.