The Boo Radleys (III)

(This story began here. Previous installment here.)

Now, San Fran:

Supervisor Chris Daly wants Congress to stop the Blue Angels’ Fleet Week flyovers and introduced the resolution, citing a fatal accident at an aerial display in South Carolina last year. A hearing Monday let Veterans for Peace and other anti-war groups face off with tourism and commerce supporters. Opponents of the Blue Angels voiced their concern over the trauma the show inflicts on war refugees, the waste of fuel, and noise pollution.

“The Blue Angels are totally unnecessary,” said a resolution supporter. “I believe they are sent here to terrorize this town because we are an anti-war city.”

The measure failed - those key points could have put it over the top.

Not long ago:

It's not bad, but the setting is the "near future" - and that future is now, or close enough to now that it becomes obvious that the future was not quite so bleak as full enjoyment of the story would require.

That of itself provides interest - but of a sort that wasn't the author's intent. I suppose there could be another sub-genre of science fiction: the bleak future that didn't happen. Watch almost any pre-Star Wars sci-fi films of the 70's - Silent Running, Soylent Green, Logan's Run, et al - and you'll see examples of what I mean.

Of course, one can't consign such stories into that category ahead of time, right?

More recently:

Even renowned science fiction author William Gibson has given up guessing what the future looks like - for now at least.

The novelist is famous for inventing the word 'cyberspace' and predicting the implications of the networked world long before it became a reality. But his latest book Spook Country is set in the present (in fact, the near past) rather than the far-flung future.

In an exclusive interview with silicon.com, Gibson said: "The trouble is there are enough crazy factors and wild cards on the table now that I can't convince myself of where a future might be in 10 to 15 years."

Well then, if he's not going to do it, why don't we just envision a future of our own right here. Let's not have it take place in San Fracisco, though, let's make the setting your town.

And with that, we're off to...

The Future:

A squad of four black-garbed security personnel made their way slowly along the line, two on each side, a few meters out and a few apart from one another, weapons at port arms. The outer of each pair kept his head swiveling from the line to the area around it, his weapon pointed away from the crowd and downward but looking anything but harmless. The inner kept his focus on the people in the line. His weapon was pointed somewhere just short of their feet - specifically near the point where the third member of each team was also moving slowly and purposefully along, working in tandem with his opposite across the line to scan each waiting person for ID and weapons, occasionally confiscating a pocket knife or lighter from an embarrassed would-be patron of the building just visible through the blast walls ahead.

It occurred to the old man that Homeland Heroes had gone to the trouble of pairing left- and right-handed shooters for this task, so that each matched pair could simultaneously keep cover on the crowd and it's perimeter. Not a difficult accomplishment, but an indication of the thorough professionalism of the organization. Everything about them was designed to demonstrate exactly that - from the high gloss of their helmets, belts and boots to the starched and wrinkle-free appearance of their combat uniforms. Even the placement of each item around the belts was identical, save for the mirror-image variation between the left and right handed shooters. It took a minute for the old man to consciously note another similarity - each was within a centimeter of height of the others. He smiled a wry smile as he wondered to himself whether under their helmets their faces and hair would be identical, too.

"No, they don't use clones in the Heroes." Said the young child holding his left hand. The old man realized he had voiced his thought out loud, so he elected to finish the conversation. "Well then, he said, "that settles that."

To his right an even younger voice spoke up. "I want to see the clowns!", and the speaker rose to tip-toes, trying without success to see through the crowd in line ahead of her.

That utterance gave the old man pause, but the first speaker responded quickly: "I said clones, stupid - not clowns." This brought a rapid response - a tongue shoved out of the mouth that had voiced the error in the direction of the tormenting elder child. The old man briefly strengthened his grip on each hand, the motion seemed sufficient to halt any escalation of hostilities.

But a voice came from behind them all. "It isn't nice to degrade your fellow human beings." Turning, the man saw a woman of indeterminate age, her hair pulled back tightly under her cap, no hint of a smile in her mouth or her eyes.

"Uhh, thank you..." he replied.

"It takes a village", she responded. He hoped she didn't see his mental reaction reflected on his face - so he simply nodded and turned quickly forward. The young child at his right hand suddenly shifted closer, right up against his leg. She had finally seen the clowns, and they were mere steps away. Her eyes fixated on the approaching scanner, and went wide. "Don't be frightened" he whispered.

But apparently the lady to the rear had heard that, too. (Maybe he should get his hearing checked, he thought.) "They're from the government" she explained, "and they're here to help us." He considered asking her if she ever spoke in anything other than old political clichés, but before he could say anything she had leaned forward with her hands on her knees and starred intently into the young child's face. "They keep us safe from the Fundamentalists." She explained, while nodding most seriously. The girl's wide-eyed gaze was now thoroughly fixed on this new perceived threat. "So, unless you're a fundamentalist, they'll leave you alone."

The old man wasn't ready for that break from cliché. From his experience, the Homeland Heroes in no way limited their attention to fundies - but before he could utter a response the village lady had pressed on. "Are you a fundamentalist?" She asked, leaning in a bit closer, to tower mere centimeters over the girl's head.

"Yes", came the voice from the old man's other side, "she is!" The village lady shot the boy a quick and meaningful stare, he quieted. She returned her gaze to the girl. "You're not, are you?" She was shaking her head from side to side, a motion the girl repeated, almost imperceptibly. But the inquiry wasn't over yet. "Do you accept Jesus Christ as your personal savior?" She asked, cocking her head slightly to one side in expectation of response, and knitting her brows in such a way as to indicate she would see right through any attempt to speak anything other than the truth. The girl tightened her grip on the old man's hand, brought her other hand up near her mouth, and continued her minimal head shaking - all of which earned a prompt "hmmmmm...?" from the woman.

"No" she finally replied from behind her hand, in a voice so tiny the old man could barely hear.

"Well then" came the response as her interrogator straightened, moving her hands from her thighs to her hips, "you have simply nothing to fear." She smiled, and transferred her gaze to the old man. "I'm a school teacher" she offered, as if that explained her completely and totally, "Retired".

He nodded, saying simply "Ahhhh...." while thinking that her smile was the most disturbing thing he'd seen in quite some time.

He hoped he hadn't said that out loud.

"See," said the teacher, indicating with outstretched arms the line to her rear, "the heroes have passed us by already, and we are all safe and sound. In just a few minutes we'll be enjoying the hall."

He realized his palm was now damp with sweat, but whether his or the girl's he couldn't tell. Glancing towards her he saw her looking up at him, her mouth moving, but apparently without sound. He knelt down to where she could whisper in his ear.

"I haff to go to the baffroom," she explained through a cupped hand.

To be fair, the world of Gibson's construct is not the focus of his story, merely a necessary place for his story to unfold. As for our own bleak, near-future world, time will tell.

Yes, I know, that last bit was so cliché.

Story continues here