But then, would it have made a difference? Macklin had already seemed so sure…
“Get on with it,” the General told his aide.
Bezoar reached into the drawer again, and this time drew forth a small, ragged, black notebook. He held it out to Gordon. “Do you recognize this? It has your name in it.”
Gordon blinked. Of course it was his journal, stolen — along with all his goods — by Septien and the other robbers only hours before he stumbled onto the ruined postal van and started down the road to his new career.
At the time he had mourned its loss, for the diary detailed his travels ever since leaving Minnesota, seventeen years ago… his careful observations of life in postholocaust America.
Now, though, the slim volume was the last thing on Earth he would ever have wanted to see. He sat down heavily, suddenly weary, aware of how completely the devils had been toying with him. The lie had caught up with him, at last.
In all the pages of that little journal, there wasn’t a single word about postmen, or recovery, or any “Restored United States.”
There was only the truth.
13
Lost Empire by NATHAN HOLN
Today, as we approach the end of the Twentieth Century, the great struggles of our time are said to be between the so-called Left and so-called Right — those great behemoths of a contrived, fictitious political spectrum. Very few people seem to be aware that these so-called opposites are, in reality, two faces to the same sick beast. There is a widespread blindness, which keeps millions from seeing how they have been fooled by this fabrication.
But it was not always so. Nor will it always be.
In other tracts I have spoken of other types of systems — of the honor of medieval Japan, of the glorious, wild American Indians, and of shining Europe during the period effete scholars today call its “Dark Age.”
One thing history tells us, over and over again. Throughout all eras, some have commanded, while others have obeyed. It is a pattern of loyalty and power that is both honorable and natural. Feudalism has always been our way, as a species, ever since we foraged in wild bands and screamed defiance at each other from opposing hilltops.
That is, it was always our way until men were perverted, the strong sapped by the whimpering propaganda of the weak.
Think back to how things were when the Nineteenth Century was just dawning in America, Back then the opportunity stood stark and clear to reverse the sick trends of the so-called “Enlightenment.” The victorious Revolutionary War soldiers had expelled English decadence from most of the continent. The frontier lay open, and a rough spirit of individualism reigned supreme throughout the newborn nation.
Aaron Burr knew this when he set out to seize the new territories west of the original thirteen colonies. His dream was that of all natural males — to dominate, to conquer, to win an empire!
What would the world have been like if he had won? Could he have prevented the rise of those mis-born twin obscenities, socialism and capitalism?
Who can tell? I will tell you, though, what I believe. I believe the Era of Greatness was at hand, ready to be born!
But Burr was brought down before he could accomplish much more than the punishment of that tool of traitors, Alexander Hamilton. Superficially, his chief foe would seem to have been Jefferson, the conniver who robbed him of the Presidency. But in fact the conspiracy went far, far deeper than that.
That evil genius, Benjamin Franklin, was at the heart of it — that cabal to kill the Empire before it could be born. His instruments were many, too many even for a man as strong as Burr to fight.
And the chiefest of those instruments was the Order of Cincinnatus…
Gordon slammed the book facedown on the ground beside the straw tick. How could anyone have read crap like this, let alone published it?
It was still light enough to read after the evening meal, and the sun was out for the first time in days. Nevertheless, a crawling chill ran up and down his back as the mad dialectic echoed within his head.
That evil genius, Benjamin Franklin …
Nathan Holn did make a good case that “Poor Richard” had been much more than a clever printer-philosopher, who played ambassador in between scientific experiments and wenching. If even a small fraction of Holn’s citations were correct, Franklin certainly was at the center of unusual events. Something odd did happen after the Revolutionary War, something that somehow thwarted the men like Aaron Burr, and brought about the nation Gordon had known.
But beyond that, Gordon was impressed mostly with the magnitude of Nathan Holn’s madness. Bezoar and Macklin had to be completely crazy if they thought these ravings would convert him to their plans!
The book had, in fact, just the opposite effect. If a volcano were to go off right here in Agness, he felt it would be worth it to know this nest of snakes would go to Hell along with him.
Not far away, a baby was crying. Gordon looked up but could barely make out shabby figures moving beyond the nearby copse of alders. New captives had been brought in last night. They moaned and huddled close around the small fire they had been allowed, not rating even the shelter of a roofed pen.
Gordon and Johnny could be joining those miserable serfs soon if Macklin did not get the answer he wanted. The “General” was losing patience. After all, from Macklin’s point of view his offer to Gordon must have seemed quite reasonable.
Gordon had only a little while left in which to make up his mind. The Holnist offensive would begin again with the first thaw, with or without his compromised cooperation.
He did not see where he had much choice.
Unbidden, a memory of Dena came to mind. He found himself missing her, wondering if she was still alive, wishing he could touch her and be with her… pestering questions and all.
By now, of course, it was probably too late to stop whatever crazy scheme she and her followers had dreamed up. Gordon frankly wondered why Macklin had not already gloated to him, over yet another disaster to the hapless Army of the Willamette.
Perhaps it’s only a matter of time, he thought gloomily.
Johnny finished rinsing out the nub-worn toothbrush that was their sole common possession. He sat next to Gordon and picked up the Burr biography. The youth read for a while, then looked up, clearly puzzled.
“I know our school at Cottage Grove wasn’t much by prewar standards, Gordon, but Grandfather used to give me lots to read, and talked to me a lot about history and stuff. Even I know this guy Holn is making up half this junk.
“How did he get away with pushing a book like this? How is it anyone ever believed him?”
Gordon shrugged. “It was called ‘the Big Lie’ technique, Johnny. Just sound like you know what you’re talking about — as if you’re citing real facts. Talk very fast. Weave your lies into the shape of a conspiracy theory and repeat your assertions over and over again. Those who want an excuse to hate or blame — those with big but weak egos — will leap at a simple, neat explanation for the way the world is, Those types will never call you on the facts.
“Hitler did it brilliantly. So did the Mystic of Leningrad. Holn was just another master of the Big Lie.”
And what about you? Gordon asked himself. Did he, inventor of the fable of the “Restored United States,” collaborator in the hoax of Cyclops, have any right to cast stones?
Johnny read on for a few minutes more. Then he tapped the book again. “Who was this Cincinnatus guy, then? Did Holn make him up too?”
Gordon lay back on the straw. His eyes closed. “No. If I remember right, he was a great general of ancient Rome, back in the days of the Republic. According to the legend, he got sick of fighting one day, and retired from the army to farm his land in peace.