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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.
3.
"There, there, Hugin.
Fear not the dark Americans. They shall not hurt
thee." The one-eyed being called
Odin sat upon a throne of ebony, bearing on his upraised hand a
raven the same color as night. A jewel set in the giant's eyepatch
glittered like an orb more far-seeing than the one he had lost.
Across his lap lay a shining
spear. On both sides stood fur-clad
beings just as imposing, one blond, with a great axe laid arrogantly
over his shoulder. The other, red-bearded, leaned lazily on a hammer
the size of a normal man. Guards in
black leather, twin lightning strokes on their collars, stood at
attention around the immense hall of hewn timber columns. Even their
rifles were polished black. The only spot of color on each SS
uniform was a red swastika
armband. Odin gazed down at the
prisoners, chained in a heap on the floor of the
great.hall. "Alas. Poor Hugin has
not forgiven you Americans. His brother, Munin, was lost when Berlin
boiled under your Hellfire
bombs." The Aesir chief's remaining
eye gleamed ferally. "And who can blame my poor watch-bird, or fail
to understand a father's grief, when that same flame deluge consumed
my bright boy, my far-seeing
Heimdallr." Survivors of the
ill-fated raiding party lay exhausted on the cold stone floor.
Unconscious and dying, Major Marlowe was in no condition to answer,
but one of the Free British volunteers stood, rattling his chains,
and spat in front of the massive
throne. "Pearson!" O'Leary tried to
pull on the man's arm, but was shrugged off as the Briton shook his
fist. "Yeah, they got your precious
boy in Berlin. Like you killed everyone in London an' Paris! I say
the Yanks were too soft, stopping there. They shoulda gone ahead an'
fried every last Aryan bitch an'
cub..." His defiance was cut off as
an SS officer knocked him down. Troopers brought their rifle butts
down, again and again. Finally, Odin waved them
back. "Take the body to the center
of the Great Circle, to be given full
rites." The officer looked up
sharply, but Odin rumbled in a tone that assumed obedience. "We
value courage, even in our foes. I want that brave man with me, when
Fimbul-Winter
blows." Black-uniformed guards cut
the limp form free as the chief Aesir chucked his raven under the
beak, offering a morsel of meat. He spoke to the huge redhead
standing beside him. "Thor, my son.
These other creatures are thine. Poor prizes, I admit, but they did
show some prowess in following the Liar this far. What will thou do
with them?" The giant stroked his
hammer with gauntlets the size of small dogs. He made even Loki seem
small. Stepping forward to scan the prisoners, Thor seemed to be
searching for something. When his gaze lighted on Chris, it seemed
to shimmer. Thor's voice was as deep as the growling of
earthquakes. "I will deign to speak
with one or two, Father." Odin
nodded. "Have them cast in a pit
somewhere," he told an SS general nearby, who clicked heels and
bowed low. "Await my son's
pleasure." The Nazis hauled Chris
and the other survivors away, but not before Chris overheard the
elder Aesir tell his offspring, "Find out what you can about that
wolf-spawn, Loki. Then give them over for ritual
sacrifice."
4.
Poor Major Marlowe
had been right about one thing. The Nazis would never have won
without the Aesir, or something like them. Hitler and his gang must
have believed from the start that they could somehow call forth the
ancient "gods," or they would surely never have dared wage such a
war, one certain to bring in
America. Indeed, by early 1944 it
had seemed all but over. There was hell yet to pay, of course, but
nobody back home feared defeat anymore. The Russians were pushing in
from the east. Rome was almost taken, and the Mediterranean was an
Allied lake. The Japanese were crumbling -- pushed back or bottled
up in island after island. Meanwhile the greatest armada in history
gathered in England, preparing to cross the Channel and lance the
Nazi boil for good and all. In
factories and shipyards across America, the Arsenal of Democracy
poured forth more war materiel in a month than the Third Reich
produced in its best year. Ships rolled off the ways at intervals of
hours. Planes every few
minutes. Most important of all, in
Italy, Africa and the Pacific, a rabble of farmers and city boys had
been tempered, becoming warriors in a great army. Man to man, they
were a match for their experienced foe, and outnumbered them as
well. Already there was talk of
the postwar recovery, of plans to help in the rebuilding, and a
"United Nations" to keep the peace
forever. In '44 Chris had been just
a child in knee pants, devouring Chet Nimitz novels and praying with
all his might that there would be something half as glorious to do
in his adulthood as what his uncles were achieving overseas right
then. Maybe there would be adventures in space, he hoped. For after
this, the horror of war would surely never be allowed
again. Then came the rumors...
tales of setbacks on the Eastern front... of reeling Soviet armies
sent into sudden, unexpected retreat. The reasons were unclear...
mostly, what came back were superstitious rumblings that no modern
person credited. Voices on a street
corner: Damn Russkies... I knew
all along they didn' have no stayin' power... Alla time yammerin
'bout a "second front"... Well, we'll give 'em a secondfront. Save
their hash. Don't fret, lvan. Uncle Sam's
coming... Then it was June, and
the Norman sky was filled with planes. Ships covered the Channel, as
far as any eye could see. The greatest armada of free men ever
assembled... Sitting against a cold
stone wall in an underground cell, Chris pinched his eyes shut and
tried to crush away the memory of grainy black and white films he
had been shown. Photographs never seen by the
public. D-Day... D
for disaster. Cyclones, hundreds
of them, spinning like horrible tops, rising out of the dawn mists.
They grew and climbed till dark funnels seemed to stretch beyond the
sky. Approaching the ships, one could make out terrible figures
riding those whirling winds, driving the storms faster and faster
with beating wings...
"Marlowe's come up
aces and eights, man." O'Leary sighed heavily as he sagged down next
to Chris. "You're the big cheese now,
dad." Chris closed his eyes. All
men die, he thought, reminding himself that he hadn't really
liked the dour marine all that much,
anyway. He mourned nonetheless, if
for no other reason than that Marlowe had been his insulation,
protecting him from that bitch called
command. "So what gives now,
chief?" Chris looked at O'Leary.
The man was really too old to be playing kids' games. There were
lines at the edges of those doelike eyes, and baby fat was turning
into a double chin. The Army recognized genius, and put up with a
lot from its civilian experts. But Chris wondered -- not for the
first time -- how this escapee from Greenwich Village ever came to a
position of responsibility. Loki
chose him. That was the real answer. Like he chose
me. So much for the god of
cleverness. "What gives is
that you damp down the beat-rap, O'Leary. Making only every third
sentence incomprehensible should be enough to provide your emotional
crutch." The beatnik technician
winced, and Chris at once regretted the
outburst. "Oh, never mind." He
changed the subject. "How are the rest of the men
doing?" "Copacetic, I guess... I
mean, they're okay, for guys slated for ritual shortening in a few
hours. They all knew this was a suicide mission. Just wanted to take
a few of the bastards with them, is
all." Chris nodded. If we had
another year or two... By then
the missile scientists would have had rockets accurate enough to go
for a surgical strike, making this attempt to sneak in bombs under
the enemy's noses unnecessary. The Satellite was just the beginning,
if they had time. "Pearson was
right, man," O'Leary muttered as he collapsed against the wall next
to Chris. "We shoulda pasted them with everything we had. Melted
Europe to slag, if that's what it
took." "By the time we had enough
bombs, they had atomic weapons, too," Chris pointed
out. "So? After we fried
Peenemunde, their delivery systems stagnated. And they haven't got a
clue how to go thermonuclear! Why, even if they did manage to
disassemble our bomb..." "God
forbid!" Chris blinked. His heart raced, even considering the
possibility. If the Nazis managed to make the leap from A-bomb to
fusion weapons... The tech shook
his head vigorously. "I scoped -- I mean I checked out the destruct
triggers myself, Chris. Anyone pokes around to try to see how a U.S.
of A. type H-bomb works will be in for a nasty
surprise." That had, of course,
been a minimum requirement before being allowed to attempt this
mission. Had they been able to assemble the weapon near the "Great
Circle" of Aesgard, the course of war might have changed. Now, all
they could hope was that the separate components would melt to slag
as they were supposed to when their timers
expired. O'Leary persisted. "I
still think we should have launched everything we had back in
'52." Chris knew how the man felt.
Most Americans believed the exchange would be worth it. A full-scale
strike at Hitler's homeland would have seared the heart out of it.
The monster's retaliation, with cruder rockets and fission bombs,
might have been a price worth
paying. When he had learned the
real reason, at first Chris refused to believe it. He had assumed
that Loki was lying... that it was an Aesir trick. But since then he
had seen the truth. America's arsenal was a two-edged sword. Unless
used carefully it would cut both
ways. There was a rattling of keys.
Three SS guards stepped in, looking down their noses at the dejected
Allied raiders. "Great Thor would
speak vit' your leader," the officer said in thickly accented
English. When no one moved, his gaze fell on Chris. "This one. Our
lord wants him especially." Guards
seized Chris by the arms, lifting him
bodily. "Cool as glass, dad,"
O'Leary said. "Drive em crazy,
baby." Chris glanced back from the
door. "You too, O'Leary." The
dungeon gate slammed shut behind him.
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