Episode 3: Burn it All Down. But Not Yet.

This is serial 3 of... I dunno, probably around 10 serials of a novella, The Colonizers. I'll try to do about one serial per week. PLEASE give me feedback, and post on your socials if you like it... Tag me if you think about it. My accounts are all @TropicalMoses (Insta, TT, BS, Sora, except Twitter, which is @TopicalMoses... Some psychic bastard took TropicalMoses several years before I got to it.)

THE COLONIZERS: Episode 3. Click here for Episode 1.

Back in the ship, Bletchley imbibed and integrated the data gathered by Rondo and Mitra, while going over the performance of their political campaign. There were anomalies. 

“Nothing to worry about.” Bletchley told Mitra in response to her query. “Probably.”

“Uh. That sounds like something to worry about.” Mitra asserted.

“You’re getting significant overperformance. It’s not entirely surprising considering you chose to override the recommended course.”

“Rondo did. Make sure the record reflects he approved it. He’s the senior officer here.”

“In any case,” Bletchley bypassed “the data you collected outside seems to indicate a more… receptive audience than our most recent remote social data collection indicated. That data was 14 years old, so a difference in performance is not surprising, but the scale is.”

Just then, Rondo returned to the control room from the back door, wiping his hands on his coat.

“Got these things are disgusting! I can’t get past the waste excretion. Unbelievably gross. Thank God we don’t have to mate. Did you see how much visual mating instruction there is in their databanks? Unfathomable! Does nobody know how to do it? Why do they need so much instructional material? It’s nauseating.” Noting the quick circumspection and failure to engage in his line of inquiry, Rondo paused. “What’s up?”

“Massive overperformance in the political campaign… Massive.” Mitra said.

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” Mitra said and returned her attention to Bletchley’s screen.

“The nature of overperformance is the concern.” Bletchley began to catch Rondo up. “We are not longer in control of it and it seems to be amplifying itself… We launched the campaign, but people are spreading it and changing it and spreading the altered data. Nobody is bothering to verify it. If they want to believe it, they do, then they pass it on. People countering it are being completely ignored. We are not in control, and this is spreading.”

“Our sociopathic narcissist is beginning to dominate the competition in the strong choosy country. The angry autocrats are adopting our position against the choosy country without even looking at the underlying fact of the matter, which is obviously against them. They’re not just taking our position, they’re making it more extreme and nobody anywhere seems to be listening to moderate counsel at all.” Mitra said, worriedly.

“Ok. Isn’t that what we want? Aren’t these people doing what we want? We knew we’d have to eliminate anyone in the reasonable middle. Aren’t they doing our work for us? We want sugar straight to the bloodstream with no fiber, no? Our standard plan is to eliminate the reasonable people in the middle and let the edge idiots destroy eachother, no?” Rondo said plaintively to Bletchley.

“Indeed, but it must be done carefully to ensure the situation stays in our control. Thus far, we are within desired parameters, but the escalation is increasing in pace. I will continue to monitor.”

“Ok. We’re within desired parameters. No problemo… Please everyone stop crying until there’s a problem.” Rondo said and left the control room.

When the U.S. Capitol burned, Mitra felt her non-existent tail twitch and sting. The circumstances were murky. There was a protest for Phillip Tain, the sociopathic narcissist promoted by Bletchley, being held in front of the Capitol because they thought it was the White House. The police response was lackadaisical. At some point, someone dug a hole and sliced through the gas line. Somehow the gas was ignited, and the South Wing of the Capitol burned to the ground. The Capitol dome leaned precariously in the direction of the ashes for a full day before it collapsed.

“Crap, so now our guy looks like he burned down the building. Do we need to select a new candidate?” Rondo asked Bletchley.

“That’s not how things work here. Only the educated subscribe to cause-and-effect or fundamental rules of logic. The bulk of the voting population react only to emotions as validated by their tribal leaders. This is not a problem.” And Bletchley began a new round of propagandizing. 

‘President a lizard man!’ ‘President’s wife selling children out of the back of a taco restaurant!’ ‘Video: President buying baby parts to feed to secret dinosaur in the basement of the White House!’ Rondo and Mitra read through the insanity spewing forth from Bletchley with an eyebrow cocked.

“I mean, the lizard man reference is funny, but can you run a self diagnostic? This is not the subtlety required to topple societies.” Rondo said with a nervous grin. Mitra chuckled under her breath.

“Our candidate is now leading the President by three percent.” Bletchley said. “We have received numerous requests to interview the manager of this data stream.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Rondo said.

“The news media of this country are eager to interview the ‘brilliant mind’ behind this campaign. I can present a simulated human for them to interview remotely.” Bletchley replied flatly. Rondo looked to the ceiling.

“What is wrong with these people?” Rondo asked nobody. “Ok. What do your projections say about engaging directly like that? It seems like a bad idea.”

“It will give us an opportunity to regulate the impact of our stream. We can add to the fire or douse it as needed with direct messaging.” Mitra interjected.

“Accurate. Additionally, it will give us the opportunity to build a tribe of our own.” Bletchley offered. Rondo paced in an intensely pensive sort of way.

“Ok. Ok. I suppose we must. Ok go ahead.” Rondo said. 

As Coby Casey took to the airwaves espousing his magnetic idiocy, he proposed a youth movement of people deeply dedicated to what they wished were true so much so they insisted it was true despite an abundance of evidence to the contrary.

“Look, what we know for sure, Cindy, is that some groups in this country are diametrically opposed to freedom… We all know who those groups are.” He intimated to the camera with a wink from this remote interview. “And they will take our freedom away from us if we don’t do it first.”

“Coby, your videos of subversive groups being managed by an alleged cabal of Old World money lenders who run the media is compelling, but I think what we all want to know is… Is there anyone special in your life, or are you open to offers?” Cindy Swanson said with a tilt of her head and a swivel in her chair. Coby laughed charmingly. 

“Very flattering Cindy. I am married.” he frowned dramatically. “Very happily I’m afraid.” 

As Trevor Montgomery toured the country, the strapping Virginian heir of the Montgomery’s Leather Daddy BDSM adult accessory fortune, he gained strength one church at a time. As the newly leading Presidential candidate, T-Mo as he was called, energized the crowds with his insistence demonic evil was the cause for the country’s current malaise. The type of malaise that was only malaise when pointed out. Just as the Devil usually did it, he assured them. Here at the Concordia Parish Southern Baptist Church in eastern Louisiana, T-Mo was hopping up and down three inches a time in rhythm with his own righteous rage.

“Because when the Devil comes to town, he doesn’t have horns… Unless he’s one of, uh, them. You know what I’m not sayin’.” He said as an aside with a wink to the stage right front pew. “No sir. When the Devil comes to town, he’ll seem like a nice woman saying nice things and asking for your support. Yes sir, the Devil will look an awful lot like my opponent, Governor Theadora Treadwell. I will always oppose the Devil.” He paused for an ‘amen’ that wasn’t coming from a Southern Baptist conclave. As T-Mo realized there was a difference between a Baptist in the south and a Southern Baptist, he adjusted his patois. “Let’s be practical. We know who’s going to run this country if Treadwell wins, right? That communist will have all the money usury and Hollywood lawyers can give her… You know what I’m saying?” This time he was sure to see the smirks and nods in the audience before he proceeded. “We can’t let the Devil have his way. We need to keep America the way our grandparents knew it: pure, safe, simple. And jam a steel-toe boot up China’s ass.” This time he got the standing ovation he demanded before closing an event. He pumped his fist in the air and walked off the stage to the sound of Finnish death metal. His campaign manager, Cathy Arbuckle, stood smiling, her arms crossed across her chest, an admiring smile plastered on her face. As T-Mo entered the protective cover of the proscenium arch and what passed for a private life, his energy dropped precipitously. He exhaled in a tight-lipped expression, the air going up his nose and face.

“Great job, boss. Another vertical hooray… so… I got new numbers.” She said with a trepidatious face.

“Ugh. No good?” He asked nervously. As he said it, Cathy broke into a huge smile.

“Fucking with you. Great numbers. This Casey guy is crushing the messaging for us. Lizard men, conspiracies, baby vendors… The Devil message is owning. It’s fucking amazing. We gotta bring this guy aboard.”

“You sure? With no relationship, it seems more genuine. He’s creating the narrative for us. I don’t want to sour that.”

“I get it, but if we don’t engage him, if we don’t help him gain a bigger brand, he’s probably going to find another patron. We’ve got to keep him on side before there’s even a crack in his support.” Cindy paused while T-Mo took a beat and thought.

“Put him on our friendly media circuit. Give him a call. Let him know it was me.”

“I’m the Devil? He’s the goddamn Devil, if there is one, which I don’t believe there is, but if there is one, it’s him!” Came the underwhelming rejoinder from Governor Treadwell in front of 1000 supporters at a rally in Burlington, Vermont. “That racist fascist wants your family dead, if you’re brown. He wants you starving and slaving away in some goddamn corporation like a veal! Meanwhile, his billionaire buddies are making 10,000 times what you are and raping children.” She paused to absorb the various unintelligible chants conducted variously by ten different drum circles simultaneously but with different words at different cadences. The wafting marijuana and patchouli was nose-shattering. “I want to make the rich pay their fair share! I want corporations shut down! I want you to get a fair wage! I want an end to racism!” This time the crowd got on one chant, though it was ‘Globalize the Intifada’ for some reason.

“So, he’s running as a racist southern preacher, and I have to run as the communist firebrand?” Treadwell said, slumping in her chair in the greenroom after her rally. “I don’t even like sharing a sandwich. What the actual hell? How did we get here?” She asked her campaign manager, Teesha Omar, who sat resignedly in an office chair facing Treadwell.

“We tried ‘rational centrist.’ Nobody watched that show, nobody cared. Didn’t excite them.People like crazy. They like to make the same mistakes many, many times over, so we let them.”

“Yeah, but now I’m losing to a 1930s crypto Nazi. And I think he’s faking that for votes! I mean, I guess I could respect it if he actually meant it, but somehow giving a wink and a nod to the holocaust makes him the front-runner. And his great grandfather died in the Holocaust, Teesha. Seriously. He’s a bit Jewish. And that’s the only thing he and I have in common.”

“You’re Jewish? That could be a problem.”

“No, that recreational antisemitism is getting us both votes. That’s what we have in common. It might be the critical voting block. I need a shower. Several showers.”

The two sat in thought for a moment before the greenroom door opened aggressively as a man in a navy blue suit that looked like it was purchased for 75 cents and worn nonstop for a year. His white shirt was ever so slightly yellow from age and machine washing. He wore no tie. He was sweating about the brow from a combination of almost no exercise for 20 years and 12 seconds of exercise speed walking from 20 yards away. 

“Goddamn it! There’s been an incident. A big one.” He said as he strode in and slammed the door behind him.

“What, Gary, what?” Teesha asked while Treadwell looked at him aghast and a bit disgusted.

“We don’t have 100 percent clarity just yet, but someone shot up an America Prime rally. Threw some bombs too. Lots of people are dead.”

“Did they get T-Mo?” Treadwell asked and immediately moderated her tone as she heard her own excitement.

“No. He wasn't there, but a ton of people got it. Tons.”

“Fuck.” Teesha said. I hope it wasn’t one of ours.”