[SG] A View Of Genocide: The Ballad of Richard Less #2 (2/2)

Whistling in the Dark sabre at annotations.com
Thu Apr 23 19:05:06 PDT 2009


[There is no Song for Side Two.]



October 20, 2007
The Combat Zone
Boston, Massachusetts

     The dead kid was out grabbing more supplies. That was his job in all
this. We talked and bantered and bitched and then I made an unreasonable
demand and he went out to fulfill it. Doing it this way had two specific
advantages. One -- it added a little trouble to the whole thing, and that
meant they'd value what I had to say more. Don't kid yourself -- giving away
secrets just means they ignore them. If you sweat a little while you learned
the seamy underbelly, then you *own* the seamy underbelly. Not that either
of these kids ever sweat, what since she's made out of fire in a fake flesh
shell to begin with and he's a some kind of golem shit, but you take my
meaning.
     The second advantage was that it left me alone with the chick for long
periods of time, and I was having just stupid amounts of fun messing with
her head.
     She was staring at me, just now. I was leaning back in my La-Z-Boy,
having myself a cigarette. It was a Marlboro, pinched into my favorite
holder. I love that. Marlboro -- the man's cigarette, full of the dusty
cancer-ridden cowboy's trail -- crammed into a holder Truman Capote would
have loved. I live my life in contrast, God damn it.
     I was considering just the right balance of sexism and speciesism to
get the maximum rise out of her when she broke the silence all on her own.
"I don't get it," she said, which wasn't the most clever thing that came out
of her mouth that day but as opening gambits go I've heard worse.
     "What don't you get, baked Alaska?" It wasn't my best jab but it's hard
to come up with fire based insults that also underscore how fucking gorgeous
a girl is but don't come across as gay. I'm not by nature a homophobe, mind
-- not these days anyhow. But when you're making fun of a chick you wouldn't
kick out of bed for setting your duvet on fire the last thing you want to do
is cast doubts on which team you play on.
     "I don't get why Roger hasn't killed you."
     "How do you know he hasn't? Hell, the Beefeaters could have served
double duty as embalming fluid."
     "Yeah, laugh it up, *Mister* Less. I told you. I know what you did to
Dani."
     "And what did I do to Sweet Miss Danielle, Ash-cheeks?"
     "You turned her into a weapon of mass destruction. And then you used
her to kill thousands of people." The chick's voice was cold, which is a
pretty good trick if you think about it. "Not to mention overthrowing the
government of the United States and wreaking destruction across the
country."
     I thought about it. "Yeah, that's a start," I said. "Really, I did a
fuckload more than that, but no one ever talks about my throwing Robert
Redford in jail. Maybe people are really sick of Sundance."
     "How can you joke about this?"
     "How can you not?"
     "You're disgusting."
     "Probably." I sat up, de-clining the recliner. "But let's make a few
things clear, honeybunch. I didn't turn your dear sweet friend Dani into a
weapon of mass destruction."
     "Oh, you're saying she chose--"
     I laughed. "Don't you get it. Danielle Potentiate Dangerousgirl Radian
Hazard MacPherson Nobody didn't have to be *turned* into a weapon of mass
destruction. She *was* a weapon of mass destruction. She was the culmination
of research done over decades. Research that turned out Lars MacPherson and
Dianna Potentiate before her, with alien technology and the brain of Andy
Awe-Inspiring stirring up the mixture just for kicks. She was a weapon. She
was *always* a weapon."
     "She's a person. She has a life. You had no right--"
     "Of course I didn't have the right."
     That got her to blink. "What?"
     "I said I had no right. You're right. I took away her free will and
remade her into the deadliest fucking weapon of the Genocidal Wars. And
that's saying something." I half-smiled. "Now, think about this. When we
first introduced Radian into combat, we'd already taken over in America,
right?"
     "Yeah?"
     "So what was our best alternative if we didn't have Radian. Radian, who
could pinpoint her power to an individual or smash her way through an entire
city as was needed?"
     "Best... alternative?"
     "Sure. We were on the move. We had Psybernet's puppets, but she
couldn't just sweep her thoughts our and grab more. She needed repeater
towers. We had the Unimaginable League Amoral, but even counting the
secondaries that was eleven people, and neither Psybernet nor Oracle had a
battlefield role. Well, except that Roulette was herself the battlefield. We
had Arsenal's remote drones, but those didn't *really* come into their own
until the latter half of '97. So how do we pacify Russian, Japan, China,
Pakistan, India -- all those billions of people, some of whom had some
pretty fucking impressive militaries, assuming we didn't use Danielle
MacPherson for what she was actually designed for in the first place?"
     "You don't."
     "It was war, incense tits. Of course we were trying to win. And let me
answer the question for you, for free. We would have used the arsenal we
captured when we took over the United States Government."
     The chick frowned. "You did use the arsenal. You co-opted ships,
tanks--"
     "Now you're just being stubborn."
     She looked away. "Nuclear weapons," she said.
     "Nuclear, chemical, biological, all the really *juicy* stuff, and
nothing to keep us from using it but our own twisted consciences. Hell, just
considering nukes, that was twelve thousand potential unleashings of Hell.
Do you think for one second we would have held back if we didn't have an
option? If you're unsure, look at Lady Awe-Inspiring's record. I'd suggest
visiting some of the scenes of her greatest hits, but I don't know if that
skin you're wearing is susceptible to radiation or not." I shrugged. "We
killed a truly shocking number of people, and a big percentage of that came
from Radian's nuclear fingertips. Would it have been better if we'd just
blown up Guangdong and all seventy nine million of the Communist yuppies
living there?"
     "You *brainwashed* her."
     "Yup." I chuckled. "We mind controlled our troops. And yeah, we
brainwashed Radian. Don't you get it, 'Cairi?' It was a *war.* That's what
you do in a war. You find the smartest, kindest, best kids you can -- the
ones with nothing but unrealized potential for greatness -- and then you
*brainwash* them. You train them. Dehumanize them. Break them down. Rebuild
them into people who can look human beings in the eye and shoot them. You
make teenagers into murderers. You make murderers into mass-murderers. You
pretty it up with words like honor and duty and freedom but what you're
really doing is turning someone with a soul into someone who'll kill the
people you want dead without argument and without hesitation." I shrugged.
"The millions of puppets in our army slept through the war. Geneva used
their skills and their memories but not their active consciousness. When
they came out of it, they were horrified because they found themselves in a
strange place in strange clothes, but not a one of them had Post Traumatic
Stress Disorder. Hell, from what I hear even dear sweet *Danielle* remembers
the whole fucking war like it was a television show she watched on TV."
     "It was a war you *started,* Less. It was a war *you brought to us.* No
one attacked you. No matter how many speeches you give me, that doesn't
change the magnitude of your crimes against humanity, your crimes against
this nation, your crimes against my kind, or your crimes against my friend
Dani." Her eyes literally were burning now. "Make no mistake -- I should
kill you right here and right now."
     "Probably. But you won't."
     "Don't be so sure."
     My door opened in the outer hall. "I brought chocodiles!" the dead kid
shouted. "I wasn't sure they even still existed but I've got them!"
     "Now that sounds like a deal!" I shouted back, and stepped around the
chick and out into the hall. "And who knows -- maybe you two morons have
figured out the common thread you're working on!"
     As I walked, I couldn't notice I wasn't burnt alive from behind, but
you have to figure it was a close call.

                              * * * * * *

 July 4 1997
National Mall
Washington D.C.

     The music was relentlessly upbeat and patriotic. Concert bands and
orchestras played Sousa. Country and Western singers sang ballads to
freedom. Pop stars writhed and talked about America. Rap artists busted out
rhymes extolling the nation's virtues. One a capella group from some East
Coast university sang a comedy piece about "Our Handsome Director Less,"
with lots of puns on the word 'less' and absolutely no allusion to the word
'dick.' It was just like every other D.C. area 4th of July celebration.
     Well, mostly. The President and Vice President weren't on hand. The
only members of Congress who showed up were the ones who enthusiastically
threw in with the new world order. Collaborators, in other words. The more
recognizable stars from years past were mysteriously ill and couldn't come
this year. Some others had been screened out as too dangerous -- even with
the fifteen second delay built into the proceedings, they weren't about to
risk some kind of unfortunate demonstration on National television.
     And it was indeed National television. The various media outlets, be
they television, radio, cable, satellite, print or some combination, had
been deemed necessary to the National interest almost immediately. After
all, rapid, accurate communication across the country was absolutely
necessary. And by the same token, misinformation broadcast by malcontents
and Awe-Inspiring Force agents had to be restricted at all costs. Otherwise,
there could be catastrophe. Surely everyone would understand.
     What shocked Richard Less was how much they *did* understand. Or more
to the point how much they didn't care. Within a couple of weeks "Who Wants
to Be A Millionaire" was back on the air -- Regis Philban had had a minor
heart ailment and couldn't host right now, of course, but he was expected
back on the air soon. Or that's what the press release said, anyway. The
sports teams were playing again, admittedly with somewhat different rosters.
Restaurants -- at least in the cities where there wasn't major
infrastructural damage or difficulties in getting food -- were open again.
The stock exchanges were back open. The National Enquirer was on the stands.
     And here they were, on the National Mall, singing songs about freedom
and liberty and paying homage to the founding fathers and the Declaration of
Independence, right in the shadow of the bandstand where the absolute
Dictator of the United States was watching and laughing along, next to
several of the ruling Oligarchs who had installed him and any number of
soldiers and officers wearing military colors of an occupying power. And the
packed crowd laughed at the jokes and whistled at the pretty young ingenues
and clapped for the music and clearly were having a grand old time at the
party.
     "You look amused, Mister Director," Arsenal said. She was the most
powerful -- politically speaking -- of the Unimaginable League Amoral in
attendence. The other attending Primaries were the 'secondaries,' though
only a fool called them that to their face. Goldenrage was up front, next to
Incendiary. Seraphim had flown through a few times. The children of the
Nubermachine, unlike the children of the Ubermachine like Arsenal herself.
     "Just kind of stuns me sometimes," he murmured to her, hand carefully
arranged to make it look like he was scratching his cheek, effectively
obscuring his lips so lip readers couldn't make out what he was saying.
Tradecraft, always tradecraft. "Set the Constitution on fire, throw out the
government, put stormtroopers in every city, and they still come here and
clap and cheer. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the American people." He
snorted. "The apathetic, overweight, petulant lot of them."
     "I thought you loved America," Arsenal said. "Aren't you the original
patriot?"
     "I do love America, and they should be damn glad I do." He nodded to
the crowd. "These wastes of flesh love to talk about what we owe them, but
none of them give a damn about anyone but themselves. They don't read, they
don't think, most of them didn't bother to vote and when they did it was
based on haircuts and shoe polish. Jesus Christ, they elected Bill fucking
Clinton *twice.* In *landslides.* Someone had to save them from themselves."
     Arsenal shook her head, laughing. "So you love America, you just hate
Americans."
     "Let's just say America's better off now. We can run things the way
they're *supposed* to be run."
     "I doubt Benjamin Franklin would agree with you."
     "Hey, you recruited me, lady."
     "I'm not saying *I* disagree. Just that Franklin would."
     "Of course he would. They all would. The founding fathers were full of
shit."
     Arsenal's eyebrows shot up. "Really?"
     "Damn straight. I respect them giving England the finger. England was
corrupt and stupid to boot. But honestly, the greatest proof of Manifest
Destiny is that the Founders set up the worst possible system and America
still managed to conquer the continent."
     "So, you're not a strict constitutionalist, I assume?"
     Less snorted. "It's a joke. It's always been a joke. It set things up
so that the whim of an ill-advised populace could turn out an effective
government and replace it with a bunch of glad handing fools who could
promise them the world. No democracy ever worked. No republic ever *really*
reflected the will of the people. The people don't *have* a will. They just
*want* things."
     "And now you can deny them?"
     Less's smile grew. "Not hardly. They'll get all the useless crap they
want and more. The great thing about running the show is you can engineer
all the bread and circuses the crowd wants. Keep 'em fat and happy and
they'll stay out of our way, and we can find the few worth a damn and
harness them."
     "And you stay in power forever and a day." Arsenal chuckled. "Unless we
grow tired of you."
     "You won't. This is going to be the trouble-free nation. It's why we're
going to be your proxy all over the world."
     Arsenal arched an eyebrow, even more amused. "Why would we need a
proxy, Mister Director? Do you think we're going to have trouble giving the
fat, happy people bread and circuses?"
     Less paused, turning to look at her. His smile was practiced, but his
eyes weren't smiling, and he knew she knew it.
     "You work for us, Mister Director," Arsenal said. "And so does your
nation. We're very pleased with your work, but don't forget where the power
rests. In the end, you can be replaced. And if your fat and happy nation
forgets who's founding the feast, they can be replaced too."
     Less worked his mouth. "I'd hate to think there'd ever be any friction
between us, Arsenal."
     "So would I. You're *such* a useful asset. I can't abide waste."
     "Neither can I."
     Bankert stepped over to where the two were talking. "Mister Director,"
he said quietly. "Radian's arrived at the Center. The Crimson Crowbar and
Doctor Unorthodox are already on their way. You said--"
     "Absolutely." Less grinned. "Arsenal, duty as always calls -- would you
like to come along and see our angel of destruction? She's just back from
lighting up the Pacific Rim."
     "I think not. I'm going to wait. I've always liked the 1812 Overture.
It's odd, really -- enjoying a piece celebrating the Russians defeating the
French, but it's always so exciting. It might be the explosions."
     "I've seen it before. Have fun."
     "I suppose it's not *as* odd as you Americans embracing it as
patriotic. But then, you were always odd about France."
     Less followed Bankert off the bandstand. He nodded to the Secret
Service and the ULA soldiers and got into the car with the ULA Jack flags --
the ones of the American Flag, but with the ULA shield in place of the
stars. The limo pulled out, the motorcade escort cutting through the crowd.
     "You okay? You look pissed off."
     Less struck a cigarette. "God damn frog. We should arrange some kind of
accident."
     "Isn't that dangerous talk?"
     "All talk is dangerous." He took a deep drag. He never really *liked*
smoking, but at this point he was thoroughly addicted. "We should start to
discuss exit strategies."
     "Meaning?"
     "Meaning when the ULA has the world, we should start figuring out how
to move them off stage."
     Bankert chuckled. "No problem. All we need are eight or nine beta class
paranormals on *our* side but not on theirs...."
     "Or one alpha," Less said quietly, looking out the window.
     Bankert frowned, then stared after he got it. "Radian?" he asked.
     "Danielle's first loyalty is to me. Her second loyalty is to the League
of Unconcerned Scientists -- and they like us better than they like the
ULA."
     "And none of that loyalty will matter two shits and a sandwich if
Psybernet digs into her head and takes her over," Bankert said.
     "There's ways to avoid that," Less said.
     "Besides, don't you think Oracle would have foreseen any move we make
before it could happen? I mean, that's her whole point."
     Less frowned, taking another long puff on the cigarette.
     Bankert sighed, looking out the window at the passing buildings.
"That's the thing that gets me. When we started this... I dunno. It's not
that it was exciting. I sort of thought we'd fail. But it was an adrenalin
rush. At least until I started to figure out that we couldn't lose. We
cheat."
     "We've always cheated," Less said. "The motto of the Mega-Intelligence
Bureau was 'Taking Shortcuts to Victory Since 1952.'"
     "It's not the same."
     "Why not?"
     "Because we're not the game players. We're the pieces on the board.
When we cheat, it's because the actual players are moving us ahead six
spaces."
     "Still better than Bill fucking Clinton."
     "Is it?" Bankert turned to look at Less. "You're the Director of the
American Authority. Why'd you take over the White House Chief of Staff's
office? Why aren't you working out of the Oval?"
     Less elected to smoke instead of answering.
     Bankert shook his head, looking back out. "I'm venting. Don't start
thinking about how to kill me or reassign me back to Newfoundland. I'll do
my job."
     "I wasn't thinking that."
     "Bullshit. You're always thinking that. The moment someone starts to
give you static, you start figuring out how to eliminate them as quietly as
possible."
     "I wasn't thinking that."
     Bankert looked back at Less. Looked into his eyes, since Less had taken
off the sunglasses when they got in the car.
     "Huh," he said then, and looked back out the window.
     "You know what I was asked yesterday? After a high level meeting, no
less?" Less was looking out his own window now.
     "What?"
     "When N.Y.P.D. Blue was going to be back on."
     "Seriously?"
     Less nodded. "N.Y.P.D fucking Blue. This wasn't some naive nobody,
either. He was a ULA advisor. Never occurred to him that maybe we couldn't
put a television show about the New York City Police Department back on the
air when we'd abolished the New York City Police Department." Less shook his
head again. "I'm pretty sure Dennis Franz is on the bad list anyway."
     "If that means my daughter never has to see his naked ass, I'm not
going to be too broken up about it."
     "You have a daughter, Bankert?"
     "I thought you knew everything."
     "Apparently not."
     They rode in silence for a minute or two. A motorcade was the fastest
means to travel by car in any metropolitan area, but it still took time.
     "Oh, you hear about the Bar Harbor insurrection?"
     "Huh? Bar Harbor, Maine?"
     "Yup." Bankert half-smiled, still looking out his window. "Multiple
paranormals. They damaged a coastline repeater, took down a few soldiers,
broke up a co-op work camp and shepherded some undesirables out of town
limits."
     "Paranormals. In Bar Harbor, Maine."
     "Yeah. The guy with the exoskeleton was kind of tough, mind, but the
old guy in the slicker--"
     "Wait. Lobsterman? The Old Salt?"
     Bankert's smile grew.
     "Defense Squad fucking New England made a partisan attack against the
forces of the Unimaginable League Amoral."
     "And got away with it."
     Less grinned, shaking his head. "Crazy son's a'bitches. That's the best
thing I've heard this week."
     "The insurrections are growing, you know."
     "It's all penny ante shit."
     "Yeah, but these things always start small. Survivalists out in the
woods making raids. The Delta and Gamma level Paranormals busting out stones
you never thought they had."
     "Yeah." Less chuckled again. "Yeah. We've carried out reprisals against
DefenseCo?"
     "Of course."
     Less nodded. "Oh, Sean Penn chained himself to another Repeater tower.
Had a camcorder recording it. I guess they were going to try to get it
online somehow."
     "I keep telling you we need to shut down the internet backbones."
     "We will. They're too convenient right now. Dumbass people don't
realize e-mail's unencrypted traffic."
     "Most e-mail."
     "Well, yeah." Less looked at Bankert again. "Lobsterman took on the
Unimaginable League Amoral."
     Bankert looked back. "Their local representatives, anyway."
     "And won."
     "And won."
     "God damn, I love this country sometimes." Less rolled down the window
and flicked his cigarette out. "We're here."



DEFENSE SQUAD NEW ENGLAND? REALLY?

DOES ANYONE EVEN REMEMBER DEFENSE SQUAD NEW ENGLAND?

DOES RICHARD LESS HAVE A POTTY MOUTH OR WHAT?

WILL INCANDESCENCE KILL HIM SO DEAD HE'S DEAD WITH DEADNESS?

WHY HASN'T PARVENU ALREADY KILLED HIM THAT DEAD? THAT'S HIS WIFE LESS WAS
KILLING ALL HUMANS WITH!

WAIT -- IS RICHARD LESS A BENDING ROBOT?


The answers to these and many more questions might be found in the very
next stanza of the Ballad of Richard Less -- it's the feel-bad story
of the new millenium! And it's only on Superguy! We're still the One!


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