Distraction - Bruce Sterling [95]
“I know that it’s chaos,” Oscar insisted, raising his voice above the racket. “Everybody knows that the system is out of control. That’s a truism. The only answer to chaos is political organization.”
“No, it’s too late for that. We’re so intelligent now that we’re too smart to survive. We’re so well informed that we’ve lost all sense of meaning. We know the price of everything, but we’ve lost all sense of value. We have everyone under surveillance, but we’ve lost all sense of shame.” The sudden wave of nourishment was hitting Bambakias hard. His face was beet-red and he was having trouble breathing. And he had apparently stopped thinking, for he was quoting his campaign stump speech by rote.
Greta reappeared at the doorway, dodging the hospital bed as two krewemen wheeled it out. She entered and sat demurely in a newly structured chair.
“So you might as well just grab whatever you can,” Bambakias concluded.
“Thank you, Senator,” Greta said, deftly seizing a skewer of teriyaki chicken. “I enjoy these little office brunches.”
“See, it all moves too fast and in too complex a fashion for any human brain to keep up.”
“I suppose that’s why we can sit on it!” Greta said.
“What?” Oscar said.
“This furniture thinks much faster than a human brain. That’s why this fragile net of sticks and ribbons can become a functional chair.” She examined their stunned expressions. “Aren’t we still discussing furniture design? I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize, Doctor,” Bambakias told her. “That’s my worst regret. I should have stayed in architecture, where I was needed. I was getting things accomplished there, you see? A truly modern sense of structure … that could have been my monument. I might have done wonderful things.… Doctor, that old glass dome of yours in Texas, it’s twenty years behind the times. Nowadays we could create a dome ten times that size out of straw and pocket money! We could make your sad little museum really live and bloom—we could make that experiment into everyday reality. We could integrate the natural world right into the substance of our cities. If we knew how to use our power properly, we could guide herds of American bison right through our own streets. We could live in an Eden at peace with packs of wolves. All it would take is enough sense and vision to know who we are, and what we want.”
“That sounds wonderful, Senator. Why don’t you do it?”
“Because we’re a pack of thieves! We went straight from wilderness to decadence, without ever creating an authentic American civilization. Now we’re beaten, and now we sulk. The Chinese kicked our ass in economic warfare. The Europeans have sensible, workable policies about population and the weather crisis. But we’re a nation of dilettantes who live on cheap hacks of a dead system. We’re all on the take! We’re all self-seeking crooks!”
Oscar spoke up. “You’re not a criminal, Alcott. Look at the polls. The people are with you. You’ve won them over now. They trust your intentions, they sympathize.”
Bambakias slumped violently into his chair, which thrummed alertly. “Then tell me something,” he growled. “What about Moira?”
“Why is that subject on the agenda?” Oscar said.
“Moira’s in jail, Oscar. Tell me about that. Do you want to tell us all about that?”
Oscar chewed with polite deliberation on a dinner roll. The room had gone lethally silent. Against the glass block a mobile mosaic had established itself, gently altering the daylight. A maze of dainty lozenges, creeping like adhesive dominoes, flapping neatly across the glass.
Oscar pointed to a netfeed. “Could we have a look at that coverage, please? Turn the sound up.”
One of Bambakias’s krewe spoke up. “It’s in French.”
“Dr. Penninger speaks French. Help me with this coverage, Doctor.”
Greta turned to the screen. “It’s defection coverage,” she translated. “Something about a French aircraft carrier.”
Bambakias groaned.
“There’s been a statement from