The Simulacra

Beside Chic the NP man drew his hand weapon. So did the driver.

‘What's going on?' Chic asked, his heart labouring.

Neither NP man answered; their gaze was riveted on the army unit blocking the autobahn in effective, trained fashion. Both men had become acutely tense; Chic could sense it. It permeated the interior of the car.

At that moment, as the police car crept along almost touching the car ahead, a Theodorus Nitz commercial slipped in through the open window.

‘Do people seem able to see right through your clothing?' it squeaked at them, bat-like, as it slithered into concealment under the front seat. ‘In public, does your fly seem to be unzipped and do you need to glance down -- ‘

It died into silence as the NP man driving venomously shot it with his pistol. ‘Jeez, I hate those things,' he spat out with aversion.

At the sound of the shot the police car was immediately surrounded by soldiers, all armed and all hair-trigger alert.

‘Put your weapons down!' the sergeant in charge barked.

Reluctantly, the two NP men tossed their guns aside. A soldier plucked the car door open; the two NP men stepped warily out, their arms raised.

‘Whom were you shooting at?' the sergeant demanded, ‘At us?'

‘A Nitz commercial,' one of the NP men said shakily.

‘Look in the car, under the seat; we weren't shooting at you -- honest!'

‘He's telling the truth,' a soldier said finally, after poking about in the car. ‘There is a dead Theodoras Nitz commercial under the seat.'

The sergeant reflected and then decided. ‘You can go on. But leave your weapons with us.' He added, ‘And your prisoners. And from now on you take all your orders from GHQ, not from the higher police.'

At once the two NP men hopped back into their car; the doors slammed shut as they drove off into traffic as rapidly as possible, through the opening in the army barricade. Chic and Maury watched them go.

‘What's up?' Chic asked.

‘You're free to go,' the sergeant informed him. ‘Return to your homes and stay inside. Don't participate in anything going on in the streets; no matter what seems to be happening.' The squad of soldiers moved off then, leaving Chic and Maury standing alone.

‘It's a revolt,' Maury said, his jaw hanging. ‘By the army.'

‘Or by the police,' Chic said, thinking rapidly. ‘We're going to have to hitch hike back to town.' He hadn't hitch hiked since he was a kid; it seemed odd to be doing it now, in his adult years. It was almost refreshing. He began to walk down the stalled lines of traffic, his thumb out. Wind blew in his face; it smelled of land and water and big cities.

He took a deep, full breath of it.

‘Wait for me!' Maury yelled, and hurried after him.

In the sky, to the north, an immense, grey, mushroom-like cloud all at once formed. And a rumble stirred through the earth, jarring Chic and making him jump. Shielding his eyes he peered to see; what had happened? An explosion, perhaps a small, tactical A-bomb. Now he inhaled the reek of ashes and knew definitely what it was.

A soldier, striding past him, said over his shoulder, ‘The local branch of Karp und Sohnen Werke.' He grinned starkly at Chic and hurried on.

Maury said in a soft voice, ‘They blew it up. The army blew up Karp.'

‘I guess so,' Chic said, dazed. Again, reflexively, he stuck out his thumb, searching for their ride.

Above, two army rockets streaked in pursuit of an NP ship; Chic watched them until they were gone from sight.

It's a full-scale war, he said to himself, awed.

‘I wonder if they're going to blow us up, too,' Maury said.

‘I mean the factory. Frauenzimmer Associates.'

‘We're too small,' Chic said.

‘Yeah, I guess you're right,' Maury said, nodding hopefully.

It's good to be small, Chic realized, in times like this. And the smaller the better. Right down to the vanishing point.

Ahead of him and Maury a car had stopped. They walked towards it.

Now, to the east, another fungus-shaped mass of cloud material expanded to fill the sky, and again the ground shook. That would be A.G. Chemie, Chic decided as he got into the waiting car.

‘Where you boys headed for?' the driver of the car, a plump, red-haired man, inquired.

Maury said, ‘Anywhere and everywhere, mister. Just so it's away from all this trouble.'

‘I agree,' the plump, red-haired man said, and started the car into motion. ‘Oh, how I agree.' It was an old, out-of-style car but it was good enough. Chic Strikerock sat back and made himself comfortable.

Beside him, visibly relieved, Maury Frauenzimmer did the same.

‘I guess they're getting them big cartels,' the red-headed man said as he drove slowly forward, following the car ahead of him through the barricade's narrow aperture and out the far side.

‘Sure are,' Maury said.

‘About time,' the red-headed man said.

‘Right,' Chic Strikerock said. ‘I'm with you there.'

The car, gathering speed, moved on.

In the large old wooden building, full of dust and echoes, the chuppers moved about, talking with one another, drinking Cokes, and a few of them were dancing. It was the dancing which interested Nat Flieger, and he led the portable Ampek F-a2 in that direction.

‘Dancing, no,' Jim Planck said to him, ‘singing, yes. Wait until they begin to sing again. If you can dignify it by calling it that.'

Nat said, ‘The sounds of their dancing are rhythmic. I think we ought to try to pick that up, too.'

‘Technically you're head of this venture,' Jim admitted.

‘But I've done an awful lot of recording in my time and I say this is useless. It'll be there on the tape, admittedly, or rather in that wormy of yours. But it'll sound like nothing. Nothing at all.' He glared remorselessly at Nat.

But I intend to try anyhow, Nat said to himself.

‘They're so bent,' Molly said, standing beside him. ‘All of them ... and they're so short. Most of them aren't even as tall as I am.'

‘They lost,' Jim said, with a laconic shrug. ‘Remember? What was it, two hundred thousand years ago? Three hundred thousand? Anyhow it was quite a while ago. I doubt if they'll survive very much longer this time either. They just don't look like they have it. They look -- burdened.'

That was it, Nat realized. The chuppers -- the Neanderthals -- looked weighed down, and by an impossible task, that of survival itself. Jim was absolutely correct; they just were not equipped for that task. Meek, small and hunched, apologetic, shuffling and mumbling, they lurched along their meagre life-track, getting nearer each moment to the end.

So we'd better record this while we can, Nat decided. Because it probably won't be long now, from the looks of it.

Or ... could I be wrong?A chupper, an adult male wearing a plaid shirt and light grey work pants bumped against Nat and muttered an inarticulate apology.

‘That's okay,' Nat assured him. He felt, then, the desire to test his theory, to try to cheer up this failing life form, this throwback. ‘Let me buy you a beer,' he said to the chupper.

‘Okay?' There was, he knew, a bar of sorts in the rear of the building, this large, central recreation hall which the chuppers seemed to possess collectively.

The chupper, glancing at him shyly, mumbled a no thanks.

‘Why not?' Nat demanded.

‘ ‘Cause -- ‘ The chupper seemed unable to meet Nat's gaze; he regarded the floor, clenched and unclenched his fists in a closed-circuit-like but passing spasm. ‘I can't,' the chupper finally managed to say. However, he did not go. He remained standing in front of Nat, still staring down and still grimacing. Probably he was frightened, Nat decided.

Embarrassed in a frightened, obliterating way.

To the chupper Jim Planck said drawlingly, ‘Hey, can you sing any good chupper songs? We'll record you.' He winked at Nat.