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If You Like This Page... See my cover story in the August Salon magazine, about new surveillance technologies
and some of the stark choices we face in the years ahead. (Government Technology magazine also ran an interview
with me about government accountability and the proposal to
establish an Inspector General of the United
States.) Hear a recent speech (from NPR) about TECHNOLOGICAL NIGHTMARES, by renowned futurist
economist Paul Streetn. Prof. Streetn offers exceptionally wise
perspectives about future threats and opportunities. (I'm biased. He
spends five minutes discussing The
Transparent Society.) Salon Magazine recently ran another of my articles
about popular culture. This one focuses on J.R.R. Tolkien's epic
fantasy, Lord of the Rings, and how that famous trilogy has
played an important role in the long struggle of romanticism against
the modern world. The version on Salon was abridged. The full-length
article can be viewed here.
Now available in bookstores:
The Life Eaters! This lavish 144 page graphic novel
vividly extends one of my classic novellas into a full-length saga
-- a dark but ultimately uplifting tale about an alternate world,
offering chillingly plausible insight to what the Nazis might have
really been up to, during World War II. DC/Wildstorm calls Life
Eaters 'the biggest thing to happen in the graphic novels since
Watchmen or The Dark Knight'! More than a dozen
organizations, spanning a wide spectrum of interest, have lately
engaged me for my specialty -- questioning deep-seated assumptions.
One of these 'unconventional' consultations finally was transcribed
-- a keynote
speech for the Libertarian National Convention (7/02). Beyond
some specifics aimed at that group, you may find the general
perspectives (e.g., about the way people view past and future)
unusual and thought-provoking.
Now available in
bookstores, Contacting Aliens: An Illustrated Guide To David Brin's
Uplift Universe is a fun tour of the many alien races people
enjoyed in books like Startide
Rising and The Uplift
War. I do need to make one correction, however; take a look at
my fiction
errata page.
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home > science
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"Thor Meets Captain
America"
a novella by David Brin
Copyright © 1986 (revised 12/98), by David Brin. All
rights reserved. No duplication or resale without
permission.
6.
The Teutonic priests
were resplendent in red and black, their robes traced in gold and
silver. Platinum eagles' wings rose from top-heavy helmets as they
marched around a great circle of standing stones, chanting in a
tongue that sounded vaguely Germanic, but which Chris knew was much,
much older. An altar, carved with
gaping dragons' mouths, stood beside a raging bonfire. Smoke rose in
a turbulent funnel, carrying bright sparks up toward a full moon.
Heat blazed at the ring of prisoners, each chained to his own
obelisk of rough-hewn rock. They
faced southward, looking from a Gotland prominence across the Baltic
toward a shore that had once been Poland, and for a little while
after that had been the "Thousand-Year
Reich." The waters were unnaturally
calm, almost glassy, reflecting a nearly perfect image of the
bonfire alongside the Moon's rippling
twin. "Fro must be back from
Labrador," O'Leary commented loudly enough for Chris to hear him
over the chanting and the pounding drums. "That'd explain the clear
night. He's the god of
tempests." Chris glanced at the man
sourly, and O'Leary grinned back apologetically. "Sorry, man. I mean
he's th' little green alien who's in charge of weather control. Make
you feel any better?" I had that
coming, Chris thought. He smiled dryly and shrugged. "I don't
suppose it matters much
now." O'Leary watched the Aryan
Brothers march by again, carrying a giant swastika alongside a great
dragonlike totem. The technician started to say something, but then
he blinked and seemed to mumble to himself, as if trying to catch a
drifting thought. When the procession had passed, he turned to
Chris, a mystified expression on his face. "I just remembered
something." Chris sighed. "What is
it now, O'Leary?" The beatnik
frowned in puzzlement. "I can't figure why it slipped my mind until
now. But back when we were on the beach, unloading the bomb parts,
Old Loki pulled me aside. It was all so hectic, but I could swear I
saw him palm th' H-bomb trigger mechanism, Chris. That
means..." Chris
nodded. "That means he knew we were
going to be captured. I already figured that out, O'Leary. At least
the Nazis won't get the
trigger." "Yeah. But that's not all
I just remembered, Chris. Loki told me to tell you something for
him. He said you'd asked him a question, and he told me to relay an
answer he said you might
understand." O'Leary shook his
head. "Can't figure why I forgot to
tell you till now." Chris laughed.
Of course the renegade Aes had put the man under a post-hypnotic
command to recall the message later... perhaps only in a situation
like this one. "What is it,
O'Leary? What did he say to tell
me?" "It was just one word, Chris.
He said to tell you -- necromancy. Then he clammed up. It
wasn't much later that the SS jumped
us. "What'a he mean by that,
Captain? What was your question, anyway? What does the answer
mean?" Chris stared at the funnel
of sparks climbing toward the Moon, and pondered. With his last
question he had asked Loki about the camps -- about the awesome,
horrible, concentrated effort of death that had been perpetrated,
first in Europe and then in Russia and Africa. What were they
for? There had to be more to it than a plan to eliminate some
bothersome minorities. Moreover,
why had Loki, who normally seemed so oblivious to human life, acted
to rescue so many from the death factories, at so great a risk to
himself? Necromancy. That
was Loki's delayed reply to his final question -- told in such a way
that Chris might never be able to tell anyone who
mattered. Necromancy... The
word stood for the performance of magic. A special, terrible kind.
In legend, a necromancer was an evil wizard who used the
concentrated field created by the death agony of human beings to
drive his spells. But that was just
superstitious
nonsense! Light-headed, Chris
looked out across the sand at the hulking Aesir seated on their
gilded thrones, heard the chanting of the priests, and wished he
could dismiss the idea as easily as he once would
have. Was that the reason the Nazis
had dared to wage a war they otherwise could never win? Because they
believed they could create such concentrated, distilled horror that
ancient spells would actually
work? It explained much. Other
nations had gone insane. Other movements had been evil. But none
perpetrated crimes with such dedication and efficiency. The horror
must have been directed not so much at death itself, but at some
hideous goal beyond
death! "They... made... the
Aesir. That's what Loki meant by thinking that, maybe, his own
memories were false. When he suspected he was actually no older
than..." "What was that, Cap'n?"
O'Leary leaned as far as his chains would allow. "I couldn't
follow..." The procession stopped.
The High Priest, carrying a golden sword, held it before Odin's
throne. The father of the "gods" touched it and the Aesir's rumbling
chant could be heard, lower than human singing, a hungry sound like
a growl that trembled within the
Earth. One of the chained Allies --
a Free Briton -- was dragged, numbed with dread, from his obelisk
toward the fire and the dragon
altar. Chris shut his eyes, as if
to hold out the screams. "Jesus!"
O'Leary hissed. Yes, Chris
thought. Invoke Jesus. Or Allah, or God of Abraham. Wake up,
Brahma! For your dream has turned into a
nightmare. He understood now
why Loki had not told him his answer while there was even a chance
he might make it home
alive. Thank you,
Loki. Better America and the
Last Alliance should go down honorably than be tempted by this
knowledge... by this horrible way out. For if the Allies ever
adopted the enemy's methods, there would be nothing left in the soul
of humanity to fight for. Who
would we conjure? Chris wondered. If we ever used those
spells? Superman? Captain Marvel? Oh, they'd be more than a match
for the Aesir! Our myths were
boundless. He laughed, and the
sound turned into a sob as another scream of agony pierced the
night. Thank you, Loki, for
sparing us that test of our
souls. He had no idea where the
renegade "trickster god" had gone, or whether this debacle was only
a cloak for some deeper, more secret
mission. Could that be? Chris
wondered. Soldiers seldom saw the big picture, and President
Marshall didn't have to tell his OSS captains everything. This
mission could have been a feint, a minor ploy in a greater
scheme. Lasers and satellites...
they may be just part of it. They might have a silver bullet... a
sprig of mistletoe,
still. Chains rattled to his
right. He heard a voice cursing in Portuguese and footsteps dragging
the latest prisoner off. Chris
looked up at the sky, and a thought suddenly occurred to him, as if
out of nowhere. Legends begin in
strange ways, he
realized. Someday -- even if there
was no silver bullet -- the horror would have to ebb at last.
Perhaps when humans grew scarce and the Aesir were less well fed on
the death manna they supped on from charnel
houses. Then a time might come when
human heroes would count for something again. In secret
laboratories, or in exile on the Moon, or at the bottom of the sea,
free men and women would toil to build armor, weapons, maybe the
heroes themselves... This time the
scream was choked, as the Brazilian ranger tried to defy his
enemies, only breaking to show his agony at the
last. Footsteps approached. To his
amazement, Chris felt feather-light, as if gravity were barely
enough to keep him on the
ground. "So long, O'Leary," he said
distantly. "Yeah, man. Stay
cool." Chris nodded. He offered the
black-and-silver-clad SS his wrists as they unchained him, and spoke
to them softly, in a friendly tone of
voice. "You know, those costumes
make you look pretty silly for grown
men." They blinked at him in
surprise. Chris smiled and stepped between them, leading the way
toward the altar and the waiting
Aesir. Someday men will
challenge these monsters, he thought, knowing that the numb,
light-headed feeling meant he wouldn't scream... that nothing they
could do would make him take more than casual
notice. Loki had made certain of
this. It was why the Trickster had spent so much time with Chris,
this last year. Why he insisted that Chris come along this
time. Our day will come. Revenge
will drive our descendants. Science will armor them. But those
heroes will need one more thing, he
realized. Heroes need
inspiration. They need
legends. Approaching the
humming Aesir, they passed before a row of human "dignitaries" from
the Reich. A few of the aging Nazis wore faces glazed in excitement,
but others sat numbly, as if lost. He felt he could almost read the
despair in those darkened, mad eyes. They knew that something they
had wrought had gone far out of their
control. Thor frowned as Chris
flashed him a smile. "Hi. How'ya doin'?" he said to the
Aesir, interrupting their rumbling music. Where curses and screams
had only resonated with the chant, good-natured sarcasm broke up the
ritual in a mutter of
surprise. "Move,
swine!" An SS guard pushed Chris,
or tried to, but stumbled instead on empty air where the American
had been. Chris ducked underneath the jangling, cumbersome uniform,
between the Nazi's legs, and swatted the fellow's behind with the
flat of his hand, sending him
sprawling. The other guard reached
for him, but crumpled openmouthed as Chris bent his fingers back and
snapped them. The third guard he lifted by a belt buckle and tossed
into the bonfire, to bellow in sudden horror and
pain. Hysterical strength, of
course, Chris realized, knowing what Loki had done to him. In
rapid succession, four onrushing underpriests went down with snapped
necks or spines. Of course no human could do these things without
being used up, Chris knew distantly. But what did it matter? This
was more fun than he had expected to be having, at this
moment. A golden flash warned him.
Chris whirled and ducked, siezing Odin's spear with a sudden
snatch. "Coward," he whispered at
the hot-faced "father of the
gods." Flipping the heavy, gleaming
weapon around, Chris held it in two hands before
him. God, help
me... With a cry he broke the
legendary spear over his knee. Pieces fell to the
sand. Nobody moved. Even Thor's
whirling hammer slowed and then dropped. In the sudden silence,
Chris distantly realized his femur was shattered -- along with most
of the bones in his hands -- leaving him perched precariously on one
leg. Yet his only regret was that
he couldn't emulate an aged Jew he had heard of from one of the
concentration camp survivors. Standing in front-of the grave he had
been forced to dig for himself, the old man did not beg, or try to
reason with the SS. Nor did he slump in despair. Instead, the
prisoner had turned away from his murderers, dropped his pants, and
said aloud in Yiddish as he bent over
-- "Kish mir im
toches..." "Kiss my ass," Chris
told Thor as more guards finally ran up and grabbed his arms. As
they dragged him to the altar, he kept his gaze on the red-bearded
"god." The priests tied him down,
but Chris met the Aesir's gray
eyes. "I don't believe in you," he
said. Thor blinked, and the giant
suddenly turned away. Chris laughed
out loud then, knowing that nothing in the world would suppress this
story. It would spread, at first in whispers, then rumors and tales.
There would be no stopping it. The
death-manna from tonight's ceremony would not nourish monsters. It
would be a poison. A
medicine. Loki, you bastard. You
used me, and I suppose I should thank
you. But rest assured, Loki,
someday we'll get you, too. He
laughed again as he watched the dismayed High priest fumble with the
knife. A wide-eyed assistant jiggled and dropped his swastika
banner. Chris roared. Behind him,
he heard O'Leary's high-pitched giggle. Then, another of the
prisoners barked, and another. It was
unstoppable. Across the chilly
Baltic, an uncertain wind began to rise. And overhead, a new star
sailed swiftly where older ones merely drifted across the
sky.
THE END
Care to see this epic tale continued? For many
years people wrote in about "Thor Meets Captain America," which
was a Hugo Award finalist and has been translated into many other
languages. Finally, in 2003, DC Comics and Wildstorm commissioned
me to write the script for a full saga based on this story, and
hired the great artist Scott Hampton to hand-paint illustrations.
The result was The Life Eaters, a lavish 144 page graphic novel.
(In France, home of the "bande dessinee" tradition of
graphic novels, a large format edition was a huge hit under the
title "D-Day, Le Jour du
Desastre.")
Afterword by David Brin
The parallel-world
story is another mainstay of SF. It explores the old question: "What
would have happened if...?" If a
fly buzzing above a bowl of soup had dipped too low, getting caught,
disgusting a Roman centurion, who took his wrath out on an
underling, sending him out on an extra patrol, which detected
Hannibal's army in the Alps early enough to catch it far from
Rome... You see the
point. Sometimes we like to
frighten ourselves. The most frequent "what if' seems to deal with
alternate realities in which the Nazis won World War II. Something
about that loathsome possibility just invites a horror
story. Trouble is, I never could
believe it. Mind you, Philip K. Dick's The Man in the High Castle is a classic, a great
work. But its premise -- that an early assassination of Franklin
Roosevelt would have led to an inevitable Axis victory -- is hard to
swallow. They were just such
schmucks! I mean, it's hard
to think of any way a single altered event would have let the Nazis
win their war. They would have needed an entire chain of flukes even
to have a chance. In fact, it took quite a few lucky breaks for them
to last as long as they did, and to have the time to commit such
atrocities. I said as much to
Gregory Benford when he invited me to write a piece for his upcoming
anthology of parallel world stories, Hitler Victorious. Greg's reply? A
dare. "I'll bet you could think of
some premise that'd work,
David. How unlikely can it
be?" It can be preposterous, as
long as it sings. Greg was my
collaborator on a far larger
large novel. I trusted him. But once the story was started, it
took off in directions I never expected. I don't know if the story
"sings," but it does tie together several curious things about the
Nazi cult. Why were the Nazis so
evil? Why did they do so many horrible, pointless things? What was
behind their incredible streak of romantic
mysticism? Maybe the bastards
really believed something like this was
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