Summary

• Objects (1 modified, 1 added, 0 removed)
  • Caselist.RoundClass[11]
  • Caselist.CitesClass[9]

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Caselist.RoundClass[11]

EntryDate

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1		-2017-01-12 22:33:03.378
	1	+2017-01-12 22:33:03.0

Caselist.CitesClass[9]

Cites

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	1	+The following is an excerpt from the The Nutcracker Coup by Janet Kagan, which tells the story of a Marianne, a woman who introduces the idea of free speech to an alien society where it is repressed through the clipping of their quills, the ultimate symbol of shame.
	2	+Marianne Tedesco had The Nutcracker Suite turned up full blast for inspiration, and as she whittled she now and then raised her knife to conduct Tchaikovsky. That was what she was doing when one of the locals poked his Proper and most welcome. Hapet and Achinto will need help feeding that many.” “Would you help me choose? Something to make children grow healthy and strong, and something as well to delight their senses.” “I’d be glad to. Shall we go to the market or the wood?” “Let’s go chop our own, Tatep. I’ve been sitting behind this desk too damn long. I could use the exercise.” As Marianne rose, Tatep put his finished carving into his pouch and climbed down. “You will share more about Christmas with me while we work? You can talk and chop at the same time.” Marianne grinned. “I’ll do better than that. You can help me choose something that we can use for a Christmas tree, as well. If it’s something that is also edible when it has seasoned for a few weeks’ time, that would be all the more to the spirit of the festival.” The two of them took a leisurely stroll down the narrow cobbled streets. Marianne shared more of her Christmas customs with Tatep and found her anticipation growing apace as she did. At Tatep’s suggestion they paused at Killim the glassblower’s, where Tatep helped Marianne describe and order a dozen ornamental balls for the tree. Unaccustomed to the idea of purely ornamental glass objects, Killim was fascinated. “She says,” reported Tatep when Marianne missed a few crucial words of her reply, “she’ll make a number of samples and you’ll return on Debern Op Chorr to choose the most proper.” Marianne nodded. Before she could thank Killim, however, she heard the door behind her open, heard a muffled squeak of surprise, and turned. Halemtat had ordered yet another of his subjects clipped—Marianne saw that much before the local beat a hasty retreat from the door and vanished. “Oh, god,” she said aloud. “Another one.” That, she admitted to herself for the first time, was Why she was making such an effort to recognize the individual Rejoicers by facial shape alone. She’d seen no less than fifty clipped in the year she’d been on Rejoicing. There was no doubt in her mind that this was a new one— the blunted tips of its quills had been bright and crisp. “Who is it this time, Tatep?” Tatep ducked his head in shame. “Chornian,” he said. For once, Marianne couldn’t restrain herself. “Why?” she asked, and she heard the unprofessional belligerence in her own voice. “For saying something I dare not repeat, not even in your language,” Tatep said, “unless I wish to have my quills clipped.” Marianne took a deep breath. “I apologize for asking, Tatep. It was stupid of me.” Best thing to do would be to get the hell out and let Chornian complete his errand without being shamed in front of the two of them. “Though,” she said aloud, not caring if it was professional or not, “it’s Halemtat who should be shamed, not Chornian.” Tatep’s eyes widened, and Marianne knew she’d gone too far. She thanked the glassblower politely in Rej oicer and promised to return on Debern Op Chorr to examine the samples. As they left Killim’s, Marianne heard the scurry behind them—Chornian entering the shop as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible. She set her mouth—her silence raging —and followed Tatep Without a backward glance. At last they reached the communal wood. Trying for some semblance of normalcy, Marianne asked Tatep for the particulars of an unfamiliar tree. “Huep,” he said. “Very good for carving, but not very good for eating.” He paused a moment, thoughtfully. “I think I’ve put that wrong. The flavor is very good, but it’s very low in food value. It grows prodigiously, though, so a lot of people eat too much of it when they shouldn’t.” “J unk food,” said Marianne, nodding. She explained the term to Tatep and he concurred. “Youngsters are particularly fond of it—but it wouldn’t be a good gift for Hapet and Achinto.” “Then let’s concentrate on good healthy food for Hapet and Achinto,” said Marianne. Deeper in the wood, they found a stand of the trees the embassy staff had dubbed gnomewood for its gnarly, stunted appearance. Tatep proclaimed this perfect, and Marianne set about to chop the proper branches. Gathering food was more a matter of pruning than chopping down, she’d learned, and she followed Tatep’s careful instructions so she did not damage the tree’s productive capabilities in the process. “Now this one—just here,” he said. “See, Marianne? Above the bole, for new growth will spring from the bole soon after your Awakening. If you damage the bole, however, there will be no new growth on this branch again.” Marianne chopped with care. The chopping took some of the edge off her anger. Then she inspected the gnomewood and found a second possibility. “Here,” she said. “Would this be the proper place?” “Yes,” said Tatep, obviously pleased that she’d caught on so quickly. “That’s right.” He waited until she had lopped off the second branch and properly chosen a third, and then he said, “Chornian said Halemtat had the twining tricks of a talemtat. One of his children liked the rhyme and repeated it.” “Talemtat is the vine that strangles the tree it climbs, am I right?” She kept her voice very low. Instead of answering aloud, Tatep nodded. “Did Halemtat—did Halemtat order the child clipped as well?” Tatep’s eyelids shaded his pupils darkly. “The entire family. He ordered the entire family clipped.” So that was why Chornian was running the errands. He would risk his own shame to protect his family from the awful embarrassment—for a Rejoicer—of appearing in public with their quills clipped. She took out her anger on yet another branch of the gnomewood. When the branch fell—on her foot, as luck would have it—she sat down in a heap, thinking to examine the bruise, then looked Tatep straight in the eye. “How long? How long does it take for the quills to grow out again?” After much of a year, she hadn’t yet seen evidence that an adult’s quills regenerated at all. “They do regrow?” “After several Awakenings,” he said. “The regrowth can be quickened by eating welspeth, but . . . ” But welspeth was a hothouse plant in this country. Too expensive for someone like Chornian. “I see,” she said. “Thank you, Tatep” “Be careful where you repeat What I’ve told you. Best you not repeat it at all.” He cocked his head at her and added with a rattle of quills, “I’m not sure where Halemtat would clip a human, or even if you’d feel shamed by a clipping, but I wouldn’t like to be responsible for finding out.” Marianne couldn’t help but grin. She ran a hand through her pale white hair. “I’ve had my head shaved—that was long ago and far away— and it was intended to shame me.” “Intended to?” “I painted my naked scalp bright red and went about my business as usual. I set something of a new fashion and, in the end, it was the shaver who was—quite properly—shamed.” Tatep’s eyelids once again shaded his eyes. “I must think about that,” he said at last. “We have enough branches for a proper gift now, Marianne. Shall we consider the question of your Christmas tree?” “Yes,” she said. She rose to her feet and gathered up the branches. “And another thing as well . . . I’ll need some more wood for carving. I’d like to carve some gifts for my friends, as well. That’s another tradition of Christmas.” “Carving gifts? Marianne, you make Christmas sound as if it were a Rejoicing holiday!” Marianne laughed. “It is, Tatep. I’ll gladly share my Christmas with you.” Clarence Doggett was the Super Plenipotentiary Representing Terra to Rejoicing and today he was dressed to live up to his extravagant title in striped silver tights and a purple silk weskit. No less than four hoops of office jangled from his belt. Marianne had, since meeting him, conceived the theory that the more stylishly outré his dress the more likely he was to say yes to the request of a subordinate. Scratch that theory . . . he straightened his weskit with a tug and said, “We have no reason to write a letter of protest about Emperor Halemtat’s treatment of Chornian. He’s deprived us of a valuable worker, true, but . . . ” “Whatever happened to human rights?” “They’re not human, Marianne. They’re aliens.” At least he hadn’t called them “Pincushions” as he usually did, Marianne thought. Clarence Doggett was the unfortunate result of What the media had dubbed “the Grand Opening.” One day humans had been alone in the galaxy, and the next they’d found themselves only a tiny fraction of the intelligent species. Setting up five hundred embassies in the space of a few years had strained the diplomatic service to the oursting point. Rejoicing, considered a backwater world, got the scrapings from the bottom of the barrel. Marianne was trying very hard not to be one of those scrapings, despite the example set by Clarence. She clamped her jaw shut very hard. Clarence brushed at his fashionably large mustache and added, “It’s not as if they’ll really die of shame, after all.” “Sir,” Marianne began. He raised his hands. “The subject is closed. How are the plans coming for the Christmas bash?” “Fine, sir,” she said without enthusiasm. “Killim—she’s the local glassblower—would like to arrange a trade for some dyes, by the way. Not just for the Christmas tree ornaments, I gather, but for some project of her own. I’m sending letters with Nick Minski to a number of glassblowers back home to find out what sort of dye is wanted.” “Good work. Any trade item that helps tie the Rejoicers into the galactic economy is a find.
	3	+You’re to be commended.” Marianne wasn’t feeling very commended, but she said, “Thank you, sir.” “And keep up the good work—this Christmas idea of yours is turning out to be a big morale booster.” That was the dismissal. Marianne excused herself and, feet dragging, she headed back to her office. “ ‘They’re not human,’ ” she muttered to herself. “ ‘They’re aliens. It’s not as if they’ll really die of shame . . . ’ ” She slammed her door closed behind her and snarled aloud, “But Chornian can’t keep up work and the kids can’t play with their friends and his mate Chaylam can’t go to the market. What if they starve?” “They won’t starve,” said a firm voice. Marianne jumped. “It’s just me,” said Nick Minski. “I’m early.” He leaned back in the chair and put his long legs up on her desk. “I’ve been watching how the neighbors behave. Friends—your friend Tatep included—take their leftovers to Chornian’s family. They won’t starve. At least, Chornian’s family won’t. I’m not sure what would happen to someone who is generally unpopular.” Nick was head of the ethnology team studying the Rejoicers. At least he had genuine observations to base his decision on. He tipped the chair to a precarious angle. “1 can’t begin to guess whether or not helping Chornian will land Tatep in the same hot water, so I can’t reassure you there. I take it from your muttering that Clarence won’t make a formal protest?” Marianne nodded/ Chornian said to Marianne. “It was difficult to walk through the streets with pride but—we did. And the children walked the proudest. They give us courage.” Chaylam said, “If only on their behalf.” “Yes,” agreed Chornian. “Tomorrow I shall walk in the sunlight. I shall go to the bazaar. My clipped quills will glitter, and I will not be ashamed that I have spoken the truth about Halemtat.” I waited,” Tatep said solemnly. She handed him the package. “I hope this is worth the wait.” Tatep shook the package. “I can’t begin to guess,” he said. “Then open it. I can’t stand the wait!” He ripped away the paper as flamboyantly as Nick had—to expose the brightly colored nutcracker and a woven bag full of nuts. Marianne held her breath. The problem had been, of course, to adapt the nutcracker to a recognizable Rejoicer version. She’d made the Emperor Halemtat sit back on his haunches, which meant far less adaptation of the cracking mechanism. Overly plump, she’d made him, and spiky. In his right hand, he carried an oversized pair of scissors—of the sort his underlings used for clipping quills. In his left, he carried a sprig of talemtat, that unfortunate rhyme for his name. Chornian’s eyes widened. Again, he rattled off a spate of Rejoicer too fast for Marianne to follow . . . except that Chornian seemed anxious. Only then did Marianne realize what she’d done. “Oh, my God, Tatep! He wouldn’t clip your quills for having that, would he?” Tatep’s quills rattled and rattled. He put one of the nuts between Halemtat’s jaws and cracked with a vengeance. The nutmeat he offered to Marianne, his quills still rattling. “If he does, Marianne, you’ll come to Killim’s to help me choose a good color for my glass beading.” He cracked another nut and handed the meat to Chornian. The next thing Marianne knew, the two of them were rattling at each other— Chornian’s glass beads adding a splendid tinkling to the merriment. Much relieved, Marianne laughed with them. A few minutes later, Esperanza dashed out to buy more nuts—so Chornian’s children could each take a turn at the cracking. Marianne looked down at the image of Nick cradled in her arm. “I’m sorry you missed this,” she told it, “but I promise I’ll write everything down for you before I go to bed tonight. I’ll try to remember every last bit of it for you.” “Dear Nick,” Marianne wrote in another letter some months later. “You’re not going to approve of this. I find I haven’t been ethnologically correct—much less diplomatic. I’d only meant to share my Christmas with Tatep and Chornian and, for that matter, whoever wanted to join in the festivities. To hear Clarence tell it, I’ve sent Rejoicing to hell in a handbasket. “You see, it does Halemtat no good to clip quills these days. There are some seventy—five Rejoicers walking around town clipped and beaded—as gaudy and as shameless as you please. I even saw one newly male (teenager) with beads on the ends of his unclipped spines! “Killim says thanks for the dyes, by the way. They’re just what she had in mind. She’s so busy, she’s taken on two apprentices to help her. She makes ‘Christmas ornaments’ and half the art galleries in the known universe are after her for more and more. The apprentices make glass beads. One of them—one of Chornian’s kids, by the way—hit upon the bright idea of making simple sets of beads that can be stuck on the ends of quills cold. Saves time and trouble over the hot glass method. “What’s more— “Well, yesterday I stopped by to say ‘hi’ to Killim, when who should turn up but Koppen— you remember him? He’s one of Halemtat’s advisors? You’ll never guess what he wanted: a set of quill—tipping beads. “No, he hadn’t had his quills clipped. Nor was he buying them for a friend. He was planning, he told Killim, to tell Halemtat a thing or two—I missed the details because he went too fast—and he expected he’d be clipped for it, so he was planning ahead. Very expensive blue beads for him, if you please, Killim! “I find myself unprofessionally pleased. There’s a thing or two Halemtat ought to be told . . . “Meanwhile, Chornian has gone into the business of making nutcrackers. All right, so sue me, I showed him how to make the actual cracker work. It was that or risk his taking Tatep’s present apart to find out for himself. “I’m sending holos—including a holo of the one I made—because you’ve got to see the transformation Chornian’s worked on mine. The difference between a human—carved nutcracker and a Rejoicer—carved nutcracker is as unmistakable as the difference between Looking Up At Nick and . . . well, looking up at Nick. “I still miss you, even if you do think fireworks are appropriate at Christmas. “See you soon—if Clarence doesn’t boil me in my own pudding and bury me with a stake of holly through my heart.” Marianne sat with her light pen poised over the screen for a long moment; then she added, “Love, Marianne,” and saved it to the next outgoing Dirt-bound mail. Rejoicing Midsummer’s Eve (Rejoicer reckoning) Dear Nick— This time it’s not my fault. This time it’s Esperanza’s doing. Esperanza decided, for her contribution to our round of holidays, to celebrate Martin Luther King Day. And she invited a handful of the Rej oicers to attend as well. Now, the final part of the celebration is that each person in turn “has a dream.” This is not like wishes, Nick. This is more on the order of setting yourself a goal, even one that looks to all intents and purposes to be unattainable, but one you Will strive to attain. Even Clarence got so into the occasion that he had a dream that he would stop thinking of the Rejoicers as “Pincushions” so he could start thinking of them as Rejoicers. Esperanza said later Clarence didn’t quite get, the point but for him she supposed that was a step in the right direction. Well, after that, Tatep asked Esperanza, in his very polite fashion, if it would be proper for him to have a dream as well. There was some consultation over the proper phrasing —Esperanza says her report will tell you all about that—and then Chornian rose and said, “I have a dream—I have a dream that someday no one will get his quills clipped for speaking the truth.” (You’ll see it on the recording. Everybody agreed that this was a good dream, indeed.) After which, Esperanza had her, dream “for human rights for all.” Following which, of course, we all took turns trying to explain the concept of “human rights” to a half—dozen Rejoicers. Esperanza ended up translating five different constitutions for them—and an entire book of speeches by Martin Luther King . . . Oh, god. I just realized . . . maybe it is my fault. I’d forgotten till just now. Oh. You judge, Nick. About a week later Tatep and I were out gathering wood for some carving he plans to do—for Christmas, he says, but he wanted to get a good start on it —and he stopped gnawing long enough to ask me, “Marianne, what’s ‘human’?” “How do you mean?” “I think when Clarence says ‘human,’ he means something different than you do.” “That’s entirely possible. Humans use words pretty loosely at the best of times—there, I just did it myself.” “What do you mean when you say ‘human’?” “Sometimes I mean the species Homo sapiens. When I say, Humans use words pretty loosely, I do. Rejoicers seem to be more particular about their speech, as a general rule.” “And when you say ‘human rights,’ what do you mean?” “When I say ‘human rights,’ I mean Homo sapiens and Rejoicing sapiens. I mean any sapiens, in that context. I wouldn’t guarantee that Clarence uses the word the same way in the same context.” “You think I’m human?” “I know you’re human. We’re friends, aren’t we? I couldn’t be friends with—oh, a notrabbit—now, could 1?” He made that wonderful rattly sound he does when he’s amused. “No, I can’t imagine it. Then, if I’m human, I ought to have human rights.” “Yes,” I said. “You bloody well ought to.” Maybe it is all my fault. Esperanza will tell you the rest—she’s had Rejoicers all over her house for the past two weeks—they’re watching every scrap of film she’s got on Martin Luther King. I don’t know how this will all end up, but I wish to hell you were here to watch. Love, Marianne Marianne watched a Rej oicer child crack nuts with his Halemtat cracker and a cold, cold shiver went up her spine. That was the eleventh she’d seen this week. Chornian wasn’t the only one making them, apparently; somebody else had gone into the nutcracker business as well. This was, however, the first time she’d seen a child cracking nuts with Halemtat’s jaw. “Hello,” she said, stooping to meet the child’s eyes. “What a pretty toy! Will you show me how it works?” Rattling all the while, the child showed her, step by step. Then he (or she—it wasn’t polite to ask before puberty) said, “Isn’t it funny? It makes Mama laugh and laugh and laugh.” “And what’s your mama’s name?” “Pilli,” said the child. Then it added, “With the green and white beads on her quills.” Pilli—who’d been clipped for saying that Halemtat had been overcutting the imperial reserve so badly that the trees would never grow back properly. And then she realized that, less than a year ago, no child would have admitted that its mama had been clipped. The very thought of it would have shamed both mother and child. Come to think of it . . . she glanced around the bazaar and saw no less than four clipped Rejoicers shopping for dinner. Two of them she recognized as Chornian and one of his children, the other two were new to her. She tried to identify them by their snouts and failed utterly— she’d have to ask Chornian. She also noted, with utterly unprofessional satisfaction, that she could ask Chornian such a thing now. That too would have been unthinkable and shaming less than a year ago. Less than a year ago. She was thinking in Dirt terms because of Nick. There wasn’t any point dropping him a line; mail would cross in deep space at this late a date. He’d be here just in time for “Christmas.” She wished like hell he was already here. He’d know what to make of all this, she was certain. As Marianne thanked the child and got to her feet, three Rejoicers—all with the painted ruff of quills at their necks that identified them as Halemtat’s guards—came waddling officiously up. “Here’s one,” said the largest. “Yes,” said another. “Caught in the very act.” The largest squatted back on his haunches and said, “You will come with us, child. Halemtat decrees it.” Horror shot through Marianne’s body. The child cracked one last nut, rattled happily, and said, “I get my quills clipped?” “Yes,” said the largest Rejoicer. “You will have your quills clipped.” Roughly, he separated child from nutcracker and began to tow the child away, each of them in that odd three—legged gait necessitated by the grip. All Marianne could think to do was call after the child, “I’ll tell Pilli what happened and where to find you!” The child glanced over its shoulder, rattled again, and said, “Ask her could I have silver beads like Hortap!” Marianne picked up the discarded nutcracker —lest some other child find it and meet the same fate—and ran full speed for Pilli’s house. At the corner, two children looked up from their own play and galloped along beside her until she skidded to a halt by Pilli’s bakery. They followed her in, rattling happily to themselves over the race they’d run. Marianne’s first thought was to shoo them off before she told Pilli what had happened, but Pilli greeted the two as if they were her own, and Marianne found herself blurting out the news. Pilli gave a slow inclination of the head. “Yes,” she said, pronouncing the words carefully so Marianne wouldn’t miss them, “I expected that. Had it not been the nutcracker, it would have been words.” She rattled. “That child is the most outspoken of my brood.” “But—” Marianne wanted to say, Aren’t you afraid? but the question never surfaced. Pilli gave a few coins to the other children and said, “Run to Killim’s, my dears, and ask her to make a set of silver beads, if she doesn’t already have one on hand. Then run tell your father what has happened.” The children were off in the scurry of excitement. Pilli drew down the awning in front of her shop, then paused. “I think you are afraid for my child.” “Yes,” said Marianne. Lying had never been her strong suit; maybe Nick was right—maybe diplomacy wasn’t her field. “You are kind,” said Pilli. “But don’t be afraid. Even Halemtat wouldn’t dare to order a child hashay.” “I don’t understand the term.” “Hashay ?” Pilli flipped her tail around in front of her and held out a single quill. “Chippet will be clipped here,” she said, drawing a finger across the quill about halfway up its length. “Hashay is to clip here.” The finger slid inward, to a spot about a quarter of an inch from her skin. “Don’t worry, Marianne. Even Halemtat wouldn’t dare to hashay a child.” I’m supposed to be reassured, thought. Marianne. “Good,” she said, aloud, “I’m relieved to hear that.” In truth, she hadn’t the slightest idea what Pilli was talking about—and she was considerably less than reassured by the ominous implications of the distinction. She’d never come across the term in any of the ethnologists’ reports. She was still holding the Halemtat nutcracker in her hands. Now she considered it carefully. Only in its broadest outlines did it resemble the one she’d made for Tatep. This nutcracker was purely Rejoicer in style and—she almost dropped it at the sudden realization—peculiarly Tatep’s style of carving. Tatep was making them too? If she could recognize Tatep’s distinctive style, surely Halemtat could—what then? Carefully, she tucked the nutcracker under the awning—let Pilli decide what to do with the object; Marianne couldn’t make the decision for her—and set off at a quick pace for Tatep’s house . . . On the way, she passed yet another child with a Halemtat nutcracker. She paused, found the child’s father, and passed the news to him that Halemtat’s guards were clipping Pilli’s child for the “offense.” The father thanked her for the information and, with much politeness, took the nutcracker from the child. This one, Marianne saw, was not carved in Tatep’s style or in Chornian’s. This one was the work of an unfamiliar set of teeth. Having shooed his child indoors, the Rejoicer squatted back on his haunches. In plain view of the street, he took up the bowl of nuts his child had left uncracked and began to crack them, one by one, with such deliberation that Marianne’s jaw dropped. She’d never seen an insolent Rej oicer, but she would have bet money she was seeing one now. He even managed to make the crack of each nut resound like a gunshot. With the sound still ringing in her ears, Marianne quickened her steps toward Tatep’s. She found him at home, carving yet another nutcracker. He swallowed, then held out the nutcracker to her and said, “What do you think, Marianne? Do you approve of my portrayal?” This one wasn’t Halemtat, but his—for want of a better term—grand vizier, Corten. The grand vizier always looked to her as if he smirked. She knew the expression was due to a slightly malformed tooth but, to a human eye, the result was a smirk. Tatep’s portrayal had the same smirk, only more so. Marianne couldn’t help it . . . she giggled. “Aha!” said Tatep, rattling up a rainstorm’s worth of sound. “For once, you’ve shared the joke without the need of explanation!” He gave a long, grave look at the nutcracker. “The grand vizier has earned his keep this once!” Marianne laughed, and Tatep rattled. This time the sound of the quills sobered Marianne. “I think your work will get you clipped, Tatep,” she said, and she told him about Pilli’s child. He made no response. Instead, he dropped to his feet and went to the chest in the corner, where he kept any number of carvings and other precious objects. From the chest, he drew out a box. Three—legged, he walked back to her “Shake this! I’ll bet you can guess what’s inside.” Curious, she shook the box: it rattled. “A set of beads,” she said. “You see? I’m prepared. They rattle like a laugh, don’t they? A laugh at Halemtat. I asked Killim to make the beads red because that was the color you painted your scalp when you were clipped.” “I’m honored . . . ” “But?” “But I’m afraid for you. For all of you.” “Pilli’s child wasn’t afraid.” “No. No, Pilli’s child wasn’t afraid. Pilli said even Halemtat wouldn’t dare hashay a child.” Marianne took a deep breath and said, “But you’re not a child.” And I don’t know what hashaying does to a Rejoicer, she wanted to add. “I’ve swallowed a taipseed,” Tatep said, as if that said it all. “I don’t understand.” “Ah! I’ll share, then. A taipseed can’t grow unless it has been through the”—he patted himself—“stomach? digestive system?—of a Rejoicer. Sometimes they don’t grow even then. To swallow a taipseed means to take a step toward the growth of something important. I swallowed a taipseed called ‘human rights.’ ” There was nothing Marianne could say to that but: “I understand.” Slowly, thoughtfully, Marianne made her way back to the embassy. Yes, she understood Tatep —hadn’t she been screaming at Clarence for just the same reason? But she was terrified for Tatep —for them all. Without consciously meaning, to, she bypassed the embassy for the little clutch of domes that housed the ethnologists. Esperanza —it was Esperanza she had to see. She was in luck. Esperanza was at home writing up one of her reports. She looked up and said, “Oh, good. It’s time for a break!” “Not a break, I’m afraid. A question that, I think, is right up your alley. Do you know much about the physiology of the Rejoicers?” “I’m the expert,” Esperanza said, leaning back in her chair. “As far as there is one in the group.” “What happens if you cut a Rejoicer’s spine”— she held her fingers—“this close to the skin?” “Like, a cat’s claw, sort of. If you cut the tip, nothing happens. If you cut too far down, you hit the blood supply—and maybe the, nerve. The quill would bleed most certainly. Might never grow back properly. And it’d hurt like hell, I’m sure—like gouging the base of your thumbnail.” She sat forward suddenly. “Marianne, you’re shaking. What is it?” Marianne took a deep breath but couldn’t stop shaking. “What would happen if somebody did that to all of Ta . . . ”—she found she couldn’t get the name out—“all of a Rejoicer’s quills?” “He’d bleed to death, Marianne.” Esperanza took her hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “Now, I’m going to get you a good stiff drink and you are going to tell me all about it.” Fighting nausea, Marianne nodded. “Yes,” she said with enormous effort. “Yes.” “Who the hell told the Pincushions about ‘human rights’?” Clarence roared. Furious, he glowered down at Marianne and waited for her response. Esperanza drew herself up to her full height and stepped between the two of them. “Martin Luther King told the Rejoicers about human rights. You were there when he did it. Though you seem to have forgotten your dream, obviously the Rejoicers haven’t forgotten theirs.” “There’s a goddamned revolution going on out there!” Clarence waved a hand vaguely in the direction of the center of town. “That is certainly what it looks like,” Juliet said mildly. “So why are we here instead of out there observing?” “You’re here because I’m responsible for your safety.” “Bull,” said Matsimoto. “Halemtat isn’t interested in clipping us.” “Besides,” said Esperanza. “The supply ship will be landing in about five minutes. Somebody’s got to go pick up the supplies—and Nick. Otherwise, he’s going to step right into the thick of it. The last mail went out two months ago. Nick’s had no warning that the situation has”—she frowned slightly, then brightened as she found the proper phrase—“changed radically.” Clarence glared again at Marianne. “As a member of the embassy staff, you are assigned the job. You will pick up the supplies and Nic .” Marianne, who’d been about to volunteer to do just that, suppressed the urge to say, “Thank you!” and said instead, “Yes, sir.” Once out of Clarence’s sight, Marianne let herself breathe a sigh of relief. The supply transport was built like a tank. While Marianne wasn’t any more afraid of Halemtat’s wrath than the ethnologists were, she was well aware that innocent Dirt bystanders might easily find themselves stuck— all too literally—in a mob of Rejoicers. When the Rejoicers fought, as she understood it, they used teeth and quills. She had no desire to get too close to a lashing tailful. An unclipped quill was needle—sharp. Belatedly, she caught the significance of the clipping Halemtat had instituted as punishment. Slapping a snout with a tail full of glass beads was not nearly as effective as slapping a snout with a morning star made of spines. She radioed the supply ship to tell them they’d all have to wait for transport before they came out. Captain’s gonna love that, I’m sure, she thought, until she got a response from Captain Tertain. By reputation he’d never set foot on a world other than Dirt and certainly didn’t intend to do so now. So she simply told Nick to stay put until she came for him. Nick’s cheery voice over the radio said only, “It’s going to be a very special Christmas this year.” “Nick,” she said, “you don’t know the half of it.” She took a slight detour along the way, passing the narrow street that led to Tatep’s house. She didn’t dare to stop, but she could see from the awning that he wasn’t home. In fact, nobody seemed to be home . . . even the bazaar was deserted. The supply truck rolled on, and Marianne took a second slight detour. What Esperanza had dubbed “the Grande Alle” led directly to Halemtat’s imperial residence. The courtyard was filled with Rejoicers. Well—spaced Rejoicers, she saw, for they were—each and every one— bristled to their fullest extent. She wished she dared go for a closer look, but Clarence would be livid if she took much more time than normal reaching the supply ship. And he’d be checking —she knew his habits well enough to know that. She floored the accelerator and made her way to the improvised landing field in record time. Nick waved to her from the port and stepped out. Just like Nick, she thought. She’d told him to wait in the ship until she arrived; he’d obeyed to the letter. It was all she could do to keep from hugging him as she hit the ground beside him. With a grateful sigh of relief, she said, “We’ve got to move fast on the transfer, Nick. I’ll fill you in as we load.” By the time the two of them had transferred all the supplies from the ship, she’d done just that. He climbed into the seat beside her, gave her a long thoughtful look, and said, “So Clarence has restricted all of the other ethnologists to the embassy grounds, has he?” He shook his head in mock sadness and clicked his tongue. “I see I haven’t trained my team in the proper response to embassy edicts.” He grinned at Marianne. “So the embassy advises that I stay off the streets, does it?” “Yes,” said Marianne. She hated being the one to tell him but he’d asked her. “The Super Plenipotentiary Et Cetera has issued a full and formal Advisory to all nongovernmental personnel . . . ” “Okay,” said Nick. “You’ve done your job: I’ve been Advised. Now I want to go have a look at this revolution—in—progress.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited. He was right. All Clarence could do was issue an Advisory; he had no power whatsoever to keep the ethnologists off the streets. And Marianne wanted to see the revolution as badly as Nick did. “All right,” she said. “I am responsible for your safety, though, so best we go in the transport. I don’t want you stuck.” She set the supply transport into motion and headed back toward the Grande Allez. Nick pressed his nose to the window and watched the streets as they went. He was humming cheerfully under his breath. “Uh, Nick—if Clarence calls us . . . ” “We’ll worry about that when it happens,” he said. Worry is right, thought Marianne, but she smiled. He’d been humming Christmas carols, like some excited child. Inappropriate as all hell, but she liked him all the more for it. She pulled the supply transport to a stop at the entrance to the palace courtyard and turned to ask Nick if he had a good enough view. He was already out the door and making his way carefully into the crowd of Rejoicers. “Hey!” she shouted, and she hit the ground running to catch up with him. “Nick!” He paused long enough for her to catch his arm, then said, “I need to see this, Marianne. It’s my job.” “It’s my job to see you don’t get hurt.” He smiled. “Then you lead. I want to be over there where I can see and hear everything Halemtat and his advisors are up to.” Marianne harbored a brief fantasy about dragging him bodily back to the safety of the supply transport, but he was twice her weight and, from his expression, not about to cooperate. Best she lead, then. Her only consolation was that, when Clarence tried to radio them, there’d be nobody to pick up and receive his orders. “Hey, Marianne!” said Chornian from the crowd. “Over here! Good view from here!” And safer too. Grateful for the invitation, Marianne gingerly headed in Chornian’s direction. Several quilled Rejoicers eased aside to let the two of them safely through. Better to be surrounded by beaded Rejoicers. “Welcome back, Nick,” said Chornian. He and Chaylam stepped apart to create a space of safety for the two humans. “You’re just in time.” “So I see. What’s going on?” “Halemtat just had Pilli’s Chippet clipped for playing with a Halemtat cracker. Halemtat doesn’t like the Halemtat crackers.” Beside him, a fully quilled Rejoicer said, “Halemtat doesn’t like much of anything. I think a proper prince ought to rattle his spines once or twice a year at least.” Marianne frowned up at Nick, who grinned and said, “Roughly translated: Hapter thinks a proper prince ought to have a sense of humor, however minimal.” “Rattle your spines, Halemtat!” shouted a voice from the crowd. “Let’s see if you can do it.” “Yes,” came another voice—and Marianne realized, it was Chornian’s—“Rattle your spines, Great Prince of the Nutcrackers!” All around them, like rain on a tin roof, came the sound of rattling spines. Marianne looked around—the laughter swept through the crowd, setting every Rejoicer in vibrant motion. Even the grand vizier rattled briefly, then caught supply transport, but he was twice her weight and, from his expression, not about to cooperate. Best she lead, then. Her only consolation was that, when Clarence tried to radio them, there’d be nobody to pick up and receive his orders. “Hey, Marianne!” said Chornian from the crowd. “Over here! Good view from here!” And safer too. Grateful for the invitation, Marianne gingerly headed in Chornian’s direction. Several quilled Rejoicers eased aside to let the two of them safely through. Better to be surrounded by beaded Rejoicers. “Welcome back, Nick,” said Chornian. He and Chaylam stepped apart to create a space of safety for the two humans. “You’re just in time.” “So I see. What’s going on?” “Halemtat just had Pilli’s Chippet clipped for playing with a Halemtat cracker. Halemtat doesn’t like the Halemtat crackers.” Beside him, a fully quilled Rejoicer said, “Halemtat doesn’t like much of anything. I think a proper prince ought to rattle his spines once or twice a year at least.” Marianne frowned up at Nick, who grinned and said, “Roughly translated: Hapter thinks a proper prince ought to have a sense of humor, however minima .” “Rattle your spines, Halemtat!” shouted a voice from the crowd. “Let’s see if you can do it.” “Yes,” came another voice—and Marianne realized, it was Chornian’s—“Rattle your spines, Great Prince of the Nutcrackers!” All around them, like rain on a tin roof, came the sound of rattling spines. Marianne looked around—the laughter swept through the crowd, setting every Rejoicer in vibrant motion. Even the grand vizier rattled briefly, then caught himself, his ruff stiff with alarm. Halemtat didn’t rattle. From his pouch, Chornian took a nutcracker and a nut. Placing the nut in the cracker’s smirking mouth, Chornian made the bite cut through the rattling of the crowd like the sound of a shot. From somewhere to her right, a second crack resounded. Then a third . . . Then the rattling took up a renewed life Marianne felt as if she were under water. All around her spines shifted and rattled. Chornian’s beaded spines chattered as he cracked a second nut in the smirking face of the nutcracker. Then one of Halemtat’s guards ripped the nutcracker from Chornian’s hands. The guard glared at Chornian, who rattled all the harder. Looking over his shoulder to Halemtat, the guard called, “He’s already clipped. What shall I do?” “Bring me the nutcracker,” said Halemtat. The guard glared again at Chornian, who had not stopped laughing, and loped back with the nutcracker in hand. Belatedly, Marianne recognized the smirk on the nutcracker’s face. The guard handed the nutcracker to the grand vizier—Marianne knew beyond a doubt that he recognized the smirk too. “Whose teeth carved this?” demanded Halemtat. An unclipped Rejoicer worked his way to the front of the crowd, sat proudly back on his haunches, and said, “Mine.” To the grand vizier, he added, with a slight rasp of his quills that was a barely suppressed laugh, “What do you think of my work, Corten? Does it amuse you? You have a strong jaw.” Rattling swept the crowd again. Halemtat sat up on his haunches. His bristles stood straight out. Marianne had never seen a Rejoicer bristle quite that way before. “Silence!” he bellowed. Startled, either by the shout or by the electrified bristle of their ruler, the crowd spread itself thinner. The laughter had subsided only because each of the Rejoicers had gone as bristly as Halemtat. Chornian shifted slightly to keep Marianne and Nick near the protected cover of his beaded ruff. “Marianne,” said Nick softly, “that’s Tatep.” “I know,” she said. Without meaning to, she’d grabbed his arm for reassurance. Tatep . . . He sat back on his haunches, as if fully at ease—the only sleeked Rejoicer in the courtyard. He might have been sitting in Marianne’s office discussing different grades of wood, for all the excitement he displayed. Halemtat, rage quivering, in every quill, turned to his guards and said, “Clip Tatep. H ashay.” “No!” shouted Marianne, starting forward as she realized she’d spoken Dirtside and opened her mouth to shout it again in Rej oicer, Nick grabbed her and clapped a hand over her mouth. “No!” shouted Chornian, seeming to translate for her, but speaking his own mind. Marianne fought Nick’s grip in vain. Furious, she bit the hand he’d clapped over her mouth. When he yelped and removed it—still not letting her free—she said, “It’ll kill him!’ He’ll bleed to death! Let me go.” On the last word, she kicked him hard, but he didn’t let go. A guard produced the ritual scissors and handed them to the official in charge of clipping. She held the instrument aloft and made the ritual display, clipping the air three times. With each snap of the scissors, the crowd chanted, “No. No. No.” Taken aback, the official paused. Halemtat clicked at her and she abruptly remembered the rest of the ritual. She turned to make the three ritual clips in the air before Halemtat. This time the voice of the crowd was stronger. “No. No. No,” came the shout with each snap. Marianne struggled harder, as the official stepped toward Tatep . . . Then the grand vizier scuttled to intercept. “No,” he told the official. Turning to Halemtat, he said, “The image is mine. I can laugh at the caricature. Why is it, I wonder, that you can’t, Halemtat? Has some disease softened your spines so that they no longer rattle?” Marianne was so surprised she stopped struggling against Nick’s hold—and felt the hold ease. He didn’t let go, but held her against him in what was almost an embrace. Marianne held her breath, waiting for Halemtat’s reply. Halemtat snatched the ritual scissors from the official and threw them at Chornian’s feet. “You,” he said. “You will clip Tatep.” “No,” said Chornian. “I won’t. My spines are still stiff enough to rattle.” Chornian chose that moment to shout once more, “Rattle your spines, Halemtat! Let us hear you rattle your spines!” And without so much as a by—your—leave the entire crowd suddenly took up the chant: “Rattle your spines! Rattle your spines!” Halemtat looked wildly around. He couldn’t have rattled if he’d wanted to—his spines were too bristled to touch one to another. He turned his glare on the official, as if willing her to pick up the scissors and proceed. Instead, she said, in perfect cadence with the crowd, “Rattle your spines!” Halemtat made an imperious gesture to his guard—and the guard said, “Rattle your spines!” Halemtat turned and galloped full tilt into his palace. Behind him the chant continued —“Rattle your spines! Rattle your spines!” Then, quite without warning, Tatep rattled his spines. The next thing Marianne knew, the entire crowd was laughing and laughing and laughing at their vanished ruler. Marianne went limp against Nick. He gave her a suggestion of a hug, then let her go. Against the rattle of the crowd, he said, “I thought you were going to get yourself killed, you idiot.” “I couldn’t—I couldn’t stand by and do nothing; they might have killed Tatep.” “I thought doing nothing was a diplomat’s job.” “You’re right; some diplomat I make. Well, after this little episode, I probably don’t have a job anyhow.” “My offer’s still open.” “Tell the truth, Nick. If I’d been a member of your team fifteen minutes ago, would you have let me go?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Of course not,” he said. “But at least I understand why you bit the hell out of my hand.” “Oh, god, Nick! I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you?” “Yes,” he said. “But I accept your apology— and next time, I won’t give you that option!” “ ‘Next time,’ huh?” Nick, still grinning, nodded. Well, there was that to be said for Nick: he was realistic. “Hi, Nick,” said Tatep. “Welcome back.” “Hi, Tatep. Some show you folks laid on. What happens next?” Tatep rattled the length of his body, “Your guess is as good as mine,” he said. “I’ve never done anything like this before. Corten’s still rattling. In fact, he asked me to make him a grand vizier nutcracker. I think I’ll make him a present of it—for Christmas.” He turned to Marianne. “Share?” he said. “I was too busy to watch at the time. Were you and Nick mating? If you do it again, may I watch?” Marianne turned a vivid shade of red, and Nick laughed entirely too much. “You explain it to him,” Marianne told Nick firmly. “Mating habits are not within my diplomatic jurisdiction. And I’m still in the diplomatic corps—at least, until we get back to the embassy.” Tatep sat back on his haunches, eagerly awaiting Nick’s explanation. Marianne shivered with relief and said hastily, “No, it wasn’t mating, Tatep. I was so scared for you I was going to charge in and—well, I don’t know what I was going to do after that—but I couldn’t just stand by and let Halemtat hurt you.” She scowled at Nick and finished, “Nick was afraid I’d get hurt myself and wouldn’t let me go.” Tatep’s eyes widened in surprise. “Marianne, you would have fought for me?” “Yes. You’re my friend.” “Thank you,” be said solemnly. Then to Nick, he said, “You were right to hold her back. Rattling is a better way than fighting.” He turned again to Marianne. “You surprise me,” he said. “You showed us how to rattle at Halemtat.” He shook from snout to tail—tip, with a sound like a hundred snare drums. “Halemtat turned tail and ran from our rattling!” “And now?” Nick asked him. “Now I’m going to go home. It’s almost dinner time and I’m hungry enough to eat an entire tree all by myself.” Still rattling, he added, “Too bad the hardwood I make the nutcrackers from is so bitter—though tonight I could almost make an … No one will be clipped again unless five people from the same village agree that the offense warrants that severe a punishment. We will choose the five, not Halemtat. Furthermore, from this day forward, anyone may say anything without fear of being clipped. Speaking one’s mind is no longer to be punished.”
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	5	+Through our story we imagine and analyze an alternate world and see that it’s not very different from the one we live in. We may laugh and play it off as absurd but Kagan’s story has stark similarities to repression of discourse in our society. This story shows the universal power of free speech and symbolic resistance as a mechanism of social change and its ability to deconstruct oppressive leaders.
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	7	+Militarism creates a society where violence is inevitable as fear drives politics. This has permeated our space as well and caused the state to restrict our ability to imagine. We must challenge militarization through imaginative futures like our story.
	8	+Giroux ‘13: (Henry Giroux has a professorship at McMaster University and is a distinguished visiting professor at Ryerson University, "Beyond Savage Politics and Dystopian Nightmares “Beyond Savage Politics and Dystopian Nightmares” http://www.truth-out.org/opinion/item/19025-beyond-savage-politics-and-dystopian-nightmares Wednesday, 25 September 2013 !~-~-JAG~-~-FT)
	9	+Right-wing market fundamentalists want to root out those considered defective consumers and citizens, along with allegedly unpatriotic dissidents. They also want to punish the poor and remove their children from the possibility of a quality public education. Hence, they develop schools that are dead zones of the imagination for most children and highly creative classroom environments free of the frenzy of empiricism and test-taking for the children of the rich. It gets worse. In Pennsylvania, right-wing Gov. Tom Corbett and Philadelphia Mayor Michael Nutter are intent on destroying the public school system. Instead of funding public schools, Corbett and Nutter are intent on crushing the teachers union and supporting vouchers and charter schools. They also are fond of claiming that money can’t help struggling public schools as a pretext for closing more than 23 schools “while building a $400 million state prison.”xv As Aaron Kase reports, “Things have gotten so bad that at least one school has asked parents to chip in $613 per student just so they can open with adequate services, which, if it becomes the norm, effectively defeats the purpose of equitable public education, and is entirely unreasonable to expect from the city’s poorer neighborhoods.”xvi Vouchers and under-regulated charter schools have become the unapologetic face of a vicious form of casino capitalism waging war on the imagination while imposing a range of harsh and punitive disciplinary methods on teachers and students, particularly low-income and poor white minorities.xvii The vast stores of knowledge and human creativity needed by young people to face a range of social, economic and political problems in the future are not simply being deferred, they are being systematically destroyed. When the emancipatory potential of education does emerge, it is often couched in the deadening discourse of establishing comfort zones in classrooms as a way of eliminating any pedagogy that provokes, unsettles or educates students to think critically. Critical knowledge and pedagogy are now judged as viable only to the degree that they do not make a student uncomfortable. There is more at stake here than the death of the imagination; there is also the elimination of those modes of agency that make a democracy possible. In the face of such cruel injustices, neoliberalism remains mute, disdaining democratic politics by claiming there are no alternatives to casino capitalism. Power in the United States has been uprooted from any respect for public value, the common good and democratic politics. This is not only visible in the fact that 1 percent of the population now owns 40 percent of the nation’s wealth or took home “more than half of the nation’s income,” it is also evident in a culture that normalizes, legitimates and thrives in a politics of humiliation, cruelty, racism and class discrimination.xviii Political, moral and economic foundations float free of constraints. Moral and social responsibilities are unmoored, free from any sense of responsibility or accountability in a permanent war state. Repression is now the dominant mantra for all of society. As Zygmunt Bauman and David Lyons point out, the American public has been turned into “security addicts,” ingesting mistrust, suspicion and fear as the new common sense for a security state that seems intent on causing the death of everything that matters in a democracy.xix The surveillance state works hard to not only monitor our phone conversations or track our Internet communication but to turn us into consumers, ratchet up the desire to be watched, and enforce new registers of social exclusion between those inside and outside the official temples of consumerism, social rights and captainship itself. Confining, excluding and vigilantism is one register of the new face of authoritarianism in the US. As America enters a historical era dominated by an authoritarian repressive state, the refugee camp as a symbol of exclusion and suffering is everywhere, visible in the material encampments for the homeless, urban ghettoes, jails, detention centers for young people, and in the tents propping up alongside highways that hold the new refugees from the suburbs who have lost their jobs, homes and dignity. The refugee camp also has become a metaphor for those who question authority, because they are increasingly rendered stateless, useless and undesirable. Critical thought is now considered dangerous, discomforting and subject to government prosecution, as is evident in the war being waged against whistleblowers in the name of national (in)security.xx The technologies of smart missiles hunt down those considered enemies of the United States, removing the ethical imagination from the horror of the violence it inflicts while solidifying the “victory of technology over ethics.”xxi Sorting out populations based on wealth, race, the ability to consume and immigration status is the new face of America. The pathologies of inequality have come home to roost in America.xxii Moreover, as suffering increases among vast swaths of the population, the corporate elite and rich use the proliferating crises to extract more wealth, profits and resources.xxiii Crises become the new rationale for destroying the ideologies, values and institutions that give power to the social contract. xxiv The ethos of rabid individualism, hyper-masculinity and a survival-of-the-fittest ethic has created a society of throwaways of both goods and people. The savage ethic of economic Darwinism also drives the stories we now tell about ourselves. The state of collective unconsciousness that haunts America has its deepest roots not only in the writings of Friedrich Hyek, Ayn Rand, Milton Friedman and other neoliberal philosophers but also in the increasing merging power of private-sector corporations that, as John Ralston Saul has argued, has its roots in the “anti-democratic underpinnings of Fascist Italy in particular, but also of Nazi Germany.”xxv Today this “corporatism is so strong it that it has taken the guts out of much of daily democratic life.”xxvi Combined with the power of the national surveillance state, it is fair to say, again quoting Saul, that “corporatism, with all of the problems attached to it, is digging itself ever deeper into our society, undermining our society.”xxvii Clearly, those words echoed a few years ago were not only prescient but vastly underestimated the growing authoritarianism in the United States, in particular. We now live in a society in which leadership has been usurped by models of corporate management, self-interest has triumphed over the ethical imagination, and a respect for others is discarded for the crude instrumental goal of accumulating capital, regardless of the social costs. Intellectuals in too many public spheres have become either dysfunctional or they have sold out. Higher education is no longer the city on the hill. Instead it has become a corporate boardroom/factory in which Bill Gates wannabes govern the university as if it were an outpost of Wall Street. Outside of the boardrooms, intellectual violence prevails aimed largely at faculty and students, who are reduced to either grant writers or consumers. To make matters worse academic knowledge is drowning in firewalls of obtuseness, creating a world of dysfunctional intellectuals, at least those who have tenure. Those who don’t have such security are tied to the harsh rhythm and rituals of contingent subaltern labor and barely make enough money to be able to pay their rent or mounting debts - never mind engage in teaching critically and creatively while writing as a sustained act of dissent. At the same time, the wider culture is sinking under a flood of consumer and celebrity idiocy. There are some who suggest that such critiques of the growing authoritarianism and repression in American society are useless and in the long run do nothing more than reinforce a crippling dystopianism. I think this line of argument is not only wrong but complicitous with the very problems it refuses to acknowledge. From a left suffocating in cynicism, there is the argument that people are already aware of these problems, as if neoliberal hegemony does not exist and that its success in building a consensus around its ideology as a mode of common sense is passé. At the same time, liberals detest such criticism because it calls into question the totality of American politics rather than focus on one issue and gestures toward a radical restructuring of American society rather than piecemeal and useless reforms. The call for such a restructuring rather than piecemeal reforms sends liberals into fits of hysteria. Of course, the right in all of its varieties views criticism as a virus that destroys everything they admire about America - a society in which democracy has been eviscerated and largely benefits the top ten percent of the population. Most importantly, the banality of evil lies less in the humdrum cruelty of everyday relations but in its normalization, the depolicitizaton of culture, and, at the present moment, in the reproduction of a neoliberal society that eradicates any vestige of public values, the ethical imagination, social responsibility, civic education and democratic social relations. The enemy is not a market economy but a market society and the breakdown of all forms of social solidarity that inform democratic politics and the cultural, political and economic institutions that make it possible. The authoritarianism that now shapes American society is not a matter of fate but one rooted in organized struggle and a vision built on the recognition that there are always alternatives to the existing order that speak to the promise of a democracy to come. The contradictions of neoliberalism are unraveling, but the consensus that informs it is alive and well. And it is at that level of educational intervention that the war against market authoritarianism in all of its diverse forms has to be fought first. Commonsense has become the enemy of critical thought. Hope is no longer part of the discourse of the left, only a dreary sense of despair with no vision of how to imagine a radical democracy.
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	11	+The aff’s act of imagination through science fiction is a prerequisite to breaking down a hypermilitarized fascistic politics—it’s try or die for the 1AC. (
	12	+Gray 94 (Chris Hables Gray is an Associate Professor of the Cultural Studies of Science and Technology and of Computer Science at the University of Great Falls, Nov., 1994, ‘"There Will Be War!": Future War Fantasies and Militaristic Science Fiction in the 1980s’, Science Fiction Studies, Vol. 21, No. 3)
	13	+Envoi. As this article has tried to demonstrate, there is an intimate intertwining of metaphors and careers among the future-war sf writers and the postmodern US military, and the motivation for this is partly ideological. There is a significant subculture around military futurology which cannot see any clear line between sf and real war. Such blurring does not make for sound military policy and it no doubt contributes to the incredible public misconceptions about international conflicts (Gray 1994). Star Wars, for example, long discredited on scientific grounds, limps along with a new name into the 21st century on a reduced budget of mere tens of billions of dollars a year because the inevitability of war is still beyond challenge in the decisive discourses. And as long as inevitable war remains an unexamined assumption there will always be some truth to it. For if people are sure that "There will be War!" then there will be, for history has shown that he who prepares for war, finds one. But like any good story, the inevitability of war is really just an elaborate construction of images, characters, plot (history), and facts (created by non- human nature and/or by human technoscience). To be sure, the story has many authors and even more readers but there is always the opportunity to change the ending. Simply to discuss this pattern is to begin to challenge it, but the real change comes from imagination most of all. As much great anti-war sf has demonstrated, new endings to old tales can be found by reworking old tropes (such as enemy) or through redefining key metaphors and themes. Recognizing ideologies, and the limits of thinking only in terms of ideology, is crucial for this. Ideologies predetermine endings, imagination generates new ones.31 Perhaps technoscientific imagination is now the crucial military factor, perhaps not. But cultural imagination is certainly a necessity for peace. If we can't even imagine a peaceful world, how will we make one?
	14	+
	15	+This is the preferred site of resistance – only critical dystopias can engage in a holistic critique and forge allied political movements that can transform the system. Textual resistance is a necessary condition for opposition.
	16	+Moylan 2k (Tom Moylan, Glucksman Professor of contemporary writing and Director of the Ralahine Centre for Utopian Studies, University of Limerick, 2000, “Scraps of the Untainted Sky: Science Fiction, Utopia, Dystopia”, pg. 187-190) Text altered to expand “sf” to “science fiction” for clarity
	17	+Writing within the realm of literary critique (specifically in a study of recent feminist science fiction, jenny Wolmark recognizes immediate textual evidence for a dystopian turn in 1980s works by Margaret Atwood and Sheri Tepper when she describes their deployment of a complex mixture of "utopian and dystopian elements" a they ""critically voice the fears and anxieties of a range of new and fragmented social and sexual constituencies and identities in post-industrial societies, "Moving to the next decade, Lyrnan Tower Sargent goes on to name this distinctly new fictional development, We observes that politically engaged texts such as Piercy's Hand She and It "are clearly both utopias and dystopias" and thus ""undermine all neat classification schemes:" Yet in his proper insistence on taxonomic and bibliographic precision, he sets aside the implication of a utopian dystopian hybrid and identifies the new tendency as a specific form of dystopian narrative. He therefore suggests that these new works might usefully be understood as ""critical dystopias" that interrogate both society and their generic predecessors in ways that resemble the approach critical utopias "tsk toward the utopian tradition a decade or so earlier. In their own studies, Raffaella Baccolini and Ildney Clavalcanti agree with Sargent" historically informed imagination, and like Walmark they note that the contributions of feminist women occupy a leading edge of this new literary intervention as it did in the earlier critical utopian moment. In "Gender and Genre in the Feminist Critical dystopias of Katherine Burdekin, Margaret Atwood, and Octavia Butler,'" Baccolini sees an "open or critical'' dystopian strategy in texts that range from the 1930s to the 1990s." Although I agree with Baccolini" assessment of the formal properties of the new critical dystopian world, for reasons of historical specificity, reserve the term for works that arise out of the emerging sociopolitical circumstances of the late 1980s and 1990s-thereby positing Burdekin and Actod as predecessors, That is, although $argent3 'critical dystopia" is a recent development, its political and aesthetic roots can be traced back through the dystopian intertext. As I argued in Chapter 5, the dystopian genre has always worked along a contested continuum between utopian and anti-utopian positions: between texts that are emancipatory, militant, open, and ""critical" and those that are compensatory, resigned, and quite ""anti-critical? That the recent dystopias are strongly, and more self-reflexively, ""critical voices not suggest the appearance of an entirely new generic form but rather a significant retrieval and refunctioning of the most progressive possibilities inherent in dystopian narrative, The new texts, thereafter, represent a creative move that is both a continuation of the long dystopian tradition and a distinctive new intervention. Baccolini describes the critical dystopias as texts that "maintain a utopian core'" and yet help "to deconstruct tradition and reconstruct a1ternatives'"'Gencier and Genre" "13). Recalling the dialectical sublation achieved by the previous critical dystopias, she notes that the new dystopias "negate static ideals, preserve radical action, and create a space in which opposition can be articulated and received" ("Gender and Genre" "17). She then identifies the ""strategies at the level of form" that enable these texts to challenge the present and-utopian situation by creating a ""locus of resisting hope and subversive tension in an otherwise pessimistic genre" "'Gender and Genre" 31). From her analyses of the works by Burdelqin, Atwood, and Butler, she argues that critical dystopias reject the conservative dystopian tendency to settle for the anti-utopian closure invited by the historical conjecture by "open endings that resist closure and maintain ""the t to pi an impulse within the work'" (""Gender and Genre" B). Catching the specificity of the tendency, she argues that "by rejecting the traditional subjugation of: the individual at the end of the novel, the critical dystopia opens a space of contestation and opposition for those groups (women and other centric subjects whose subject position hegemonic discourse does not contemplate) for whom subjectivity has yet to be attained" "'Gender and Genre" "18). Although that embrace of openness (through resistance, enclaves, or even textual ambiguity) is already present in the classical and science fiction dystopias (as implied in thee examples of Burdekin and Atwood), it is both formally and politically foregrounded in recent works. Thus, as the critical dystopias give voice and space to such dispossessed and denied subjects (and, I would add, to those diminished and deprived by the accompanying economic reconfigurations) they go on to explore ways to change the present system so that such culturally and economically marginalized peoples not only survive but also try to move toward creating a social reality that is shaped by an impulse to human self-determination and ecological health rather than one constricted by the narrow and destructive logic of a system intent only on enhancing competition in order to gain more profit a select few, What formally enables these open, critical texts is an intensification of the practice of ""genre blurring," which Baccolini has traced in earlier dystopian works. By self-reflexively borrowing "specific conventions from other genres," critical dystopias more often ""burn the received boundaries of the dystopian form and thereby expand rather than diminish its creative potential for critical expression (see ""Gender and Genre" "18). Thus, she argues that Dystopian narrative is further rendered as an ""impure" text that can renovate the ""resisting nature" of dystopian text by making it more properly ""anti-oppositiona1" ("Gender and Genre" 18). She historically links this formal emphasis with the insights of post-structuralist critiques as she recognizes that the ""attack, in recent years, against universalist assumptions, fixity and singularity, and pure, neutral and objective knowledge in favor of the recognition of differences, multiplicity, and complexity; partial and situated knowledge’s; as well as hybridity and fluidity has contributed, among other things, to the deconstruction of genre purity" in this generic form as in others ( "Gender and Genre" "18). X generally agree with this historical and methodological argument, but I think the new dystopias move even further along than Baccolini suggests, as they directly transcend even the moment of poststructuralist critique and identity based micro politics. Crucial as that has been, the wheel has turned again, and a new historical conjuncture is upon us. As an anticipatory machine in that new context, the critical dystopias resist both hegemonic and oppositional orthodoxies (in their radical and reformist variants) even as they reflect a larger, more totalizing critique of- the political economy itself. They consequently inscribe a space for a new form of political opposition, one fundamentally based in difference and multiplicity but now wisely and cannily organized in a fully democratic alliance politics that can talk back in a larger though diverse collective voice and not only critique the present system but also begin to find ways to transform it that go beyond the limitations of both the radical micro-politics and the compromised centrist ""Solutions" of the 1990s.
	18	+
	19	+Prefer our imagination as the beginning of true politics – it’s a heuristic device that subverts hegemonic discourse and mobilizes activism. Elites think we are just reading stories when we are really breaking down the structures that prop them up and dismantling technocracy.
	20	+
	21	+Cognitive estrangement is core to science fiction – we must be able to study a new world while still being distanced from it– that is crucial for all forms of politics and predictive decision making (0:44)
	22	+Booth et al. 9 (Charles Booth, Reader in Strategy and International Business at the University of the West of England, Bristol, Professor Michael Rowlinson, Professor of Organization Studies at Queen Mary, University of London, 2009, “Scenarios and counterfactuals as modal narratives”, Futures 41 (2009) 87–95)
	23	+In this final section of the paper we turn our attention to the question: ‘‘How do modal narratives work?’’. We treat this as a philosophical and theoretical question, rather than a methodological one; we are not so much interested in criteria for workable or effective counterfactuals and scenarios. Rather, we are concerned with the means with which modal narratives accomplish their effects. As we have said, our primary interest is in doxastic-axiological uses of modal narratives, and the discussion that follows will inevitably reflect this. In this section we draw rather heavily on the work of Darko Suvin 60,67,68 in explicating the use of his complex conception of ‘cognitive estrangement’ and its application in understanding the accomplishments of modal narratives. Suvin’s influential discussion of science fiction (SF) as a literary genre introduces the concept of cognitive estrangement. He argues 67, pp. 7–8 that ‘‘SF is, then, a literary genre whose necessary and sufficient conditions are the presence and interaction of estrangement and cognition, and whose main formal device is an imaginative framework alternative to the author’s and we might add, the reader’s empirical environment’’. This is accomplished by the introduction of a novum, a strange newness 67, p. 5. We argue that modal narratives can also be precisely so characterised. This complex construction can be understood and used on a number of different strata, some of which we now discuss. In so doing we must acknowledge doing some violence to Suvin’s position: as originally stated, as subsequently modified, and as glossed and interpreted by others. For example, Suvin was notoriously sceptical about the relationship between futurology and science fiction, arguing that SF’s use as a ‘‘handmaiden of futurological foresight’’ was purely secondary; that SF was ‘‘uneasily futurological’’ as a result of its genesis ‘‘in a historical epoch dominated by anticipatory expectations’’ and that ‘‘futuristic anticipation reveals that extrapolation is a fictional device and ideological horizon rather than the basis for a cognitive model’’ 67, p. 28. Elsewhere 67, p. 77 he argues that ‘‘a single element (or a very few elements) are extrapolated against an unchanging background – which is the common invalidating premise of futurological ... extrapolation’’. Notwithstanding these major caveats, however, we consider that the conception of cognitive estrangement remains helpful in understanding the performative elements of modal narratives. On a very simple level, cognitive estrangement ‘stands for’ science fiction – realistically irrealistic – itself (cognition = science, estrangement = fiction). Yet the interaction between cognition and estrangement can also be seen operating on ontological, epistemological and doxastic-axiological as well as methodological levels; and as operating interactively between these levels. In this sense, cognitive estrangement is reflexive and mutually constitutive – for a SF/ modal narrative to be cognizable, it must first be estranged, yet estrangement requires cognition to enable any sense to be made of the novum 69. We can see that in some senses the notion of estrangement harks back to the ‘sense of wonder’ early science fiction critics hailed as the hallmark of speculative fiction. The novum which accomplishes this estrangement is the ‘‘new world opened to description’’ 69, p. 6 that cannot be fully understood or domesticated. Estrangement, in terms of modal narratives, is the dawning sense of dislocation achieved by the rupturing of ontological linearity and the change in the world as we know it: it is the ‘‘moment of ontological apperception of something posited ... as external, independent and strange’’ 69, p. 6. However, estrangement must be balanced by an ability to make some sense of the alternative reality. Cognition, on the other hand, is the: ‘‘epistemological labour of bringing-to-knowledge, involving a dialectic of analogy and difference ... a painstaking, unpredictable process, involving the twists and turns, the obstacles and dead ends typical of all intellectual enquiry’’ 69, p. 6. This bringing-to-knowledge must in some important respects be imperfectly accomplished: it is not aimed at the total domestication of the novum. After all, the more we comprehend something, the less estrangement we experience, and the less likely that knowledge is to be transformative. As Suvin points out, estrangement is not ‘‘a formal, surface sensationalism that first shocks the bourgeois and then rejoins him’’ 67, p. ix. Cognitive estrangement therefore requires operating within a liminal zone, whereby knowledge is partial and we strive to understand something now just within, and formerly outside, our cognitive horizons 69, p. 7. Placing too much emphasis on the criterion of plausibility – in other words, emphasizing cognitive elements at the expense of estrangement – is what we would term the fallacy of mimesis. That is, we argue that a major role of modal narratives is to draw attention to differences between the actual world and various possible worlds, and not to actualize the possible. In this sense, an overly strong insistence on plausibility, believability and cognition is to miss the point: ‘‘anyone who believes in the reality of a counterfeit world, or alternative universe, is insane, and even trying to ‘half-believe’ in it is the wrong approach. I would suggest that the point of ... the whole ‘alternate universe’ sub-genre is in exactly the opposite direction: not to create belief in the unreal, but to subvert belief in the real, or what is accepted as real.’’ 70, p. 193, emphasis added. In this respect, then, cognitive estrangement works on us at a doxastic-axiological level – to subvert our belief in what is accepted as real. Yet assertions or assumptions that remain outside our cognizability – in other words that remain impossible or wholly implausible – are ‘‘progressively excluded from the domain of knowledge’’ 69, p. 40. As a Marxist, Suvin was concerned that in imagining other worlds we come to see our own conditions of life in a new and critical light: cognitive estrangement thus representing a source for a political as well as an intellectual journey: ‘‘the trope of cognitive estrangement satisfies our desire to understand something more than the given data of our present state of experience; and it promotes communicable, rational discovery, not the fruits of religious revelation or of some private indescribable mystical state. It is critical and argumentative as well as creative’’ 69, pp. 7–8 Finally, cognitive estrangement is also a methodological accomplishment. At an ontological and epistemological level, it represents a way of knowing and a mode of thinking; but it must necessarily be accomplished through a narrative.
	24	+
	25	+The role of the judge and ballot is to vote for the debater who best methodologically deconstructs militarism through science fiction. We will defend the resolution as a truth statement but not an implemented policy. We propose a debate model in which the aff debaters reads a science fiction story that deconstruct larger master narratives that surround the topic and we both investigate it to see how they reveal truths about the world around us. You can critique our story, argue issues with our reading or argue why another method is better than science fiction.
	26	+
	27	+Destroying illusive “real” fictions of the media-militarist society requires us to tell stories that are impossibly false—science fiction is a gift that satirizes and destroys our violent conceptions of truth, all other methods get coopted by militarism so prefer the permutations on all kritiks because only we ensure no cooption (0:45)
	28	+BOGARD 2004 (Bill Bogard, “Hyperfacticity and Fatal Strategies,” Science Fiction Studies, Vol. 30, No. 2)
	29	+A social science fiction is not some Utopia or dystopia. It is not some future state to which we can compare the reality of the present, or some imaginary state of affairs that might or might not materialize in the ways it is projected. A social science fiction is the reality of the present, the fiction of real politics and technology, right now, in your face. What is more fictional than the events of 9/11, or 24-hour news, or John Poindexter's plan for "Total Information Awareness"? What is more unreal than cloning, or "smart bombs," or an Internet chat room? There is a certain truth in what J.G. Ballard says: we have to learn how to make the reality of events more fictional than fiction. Real fiction is tame by comparison to the fiction of the real. The modern world is more than just a bad science fiction novel (although it is that, too). At least I can stop reading the latter. The fiction of the real has none of the charm of a grade “B” thriller, none of its loose ends and incoherencies. No, I'm with Baudrillard on this. Everything today is obscenely visible and immaculately packaged, totally coherent, controlled in advance by models and codes and simulations that disguise the absence of anything remotely or nakedly real anymore. The sheer bizarreness and excessiveness of twenty-first-century technological civilization far outstrips what even the worst science fiction writer is capable of depicting on a bad day. Baudrillard says that what you have today is the order of the "truer-than-true." Hyperfacticity, that's the word. Information overload, endless polls, universal testing (am I beautiful enough, am I smart enough, am I pure and perfect enough?). To all that you must oppose the "falser-than-false," which he likens to evil outbidding evil. Fiction, of course, has always been aligned with the false and against the true. But when truth has been murdered and its death masked by the truer-than-true, you require something more dangerous than fiction, something worse, as a kind of antidote to the oppressive climate of facticity that envelops us today (It's a fact! I saw it on CNN!). Of course, it's that very obsession with not just facts but with facticity that is so fictional about our current condition. And none of this is contradictory; it's all perfectly and stupidly consistent. The truer-than-true is just bad fiction. So what do we do? How do we get to the more fictional than fiction, the falser-than-false? In the end, you have to give the world a gift to which it cannot respond except by its own death. What can destroy the fiction of the hyperfactual truer-than-true information-soaked bestiality of the postmodern world other than the gift of an even more monstrous and bestial fiction, which even it cannot outdo. This, of course, was Ballard's insight, and the insight of all the great science fiction writers who, taking matters to their extreme (Crash!), present to a world already at the extremity, at the limits of ugliness and perversity and terror, an irresistible image of its own desire. Fatal strategy.
	30	+
	31	+Fiat is merely an act of imagination. Any act of imagination or even attempt at representation automatically includes science fiction elements—the only difference between our Aff and more traditional ones is that we acknowledge the role of fiction. Only our model saves us from becoming technocrats trapped in the system who convince themselves their fictions are truths. Outweighs all other impacts to debate because our pedagogy is necessary to save us becoming pawns of the state who can’t think for themselves.
	32	+
	33	+All of their arguments will be fictions too—but at least we’ve got a defense of ours.
	34	+Simpson 12. Zachary Simpson, professor of philosophy at the University of Arts and Sciences of Oklahoma, Foucault Studies, No. 13, May 2012, pg. 105
	35	+*We reject the gendered language in this evidence.
	36	+
	37	+As Timothy O’Leary makes clear, for Foucault, “fiction (in the broadest possible sense) relates to reality by opening up virtual spaces which allow us to engage in a potentially transformative relation with the world; to bring about that which does not exist and to transform that which does exist.”21 Fiction thus has both a diagnostic func- tion—it must be loyal to the present state of affairs—while also carrying a hermeneutic function—it is an alternative narrative interpretation of the present that has potential effects in the future. Thus, Foucault’s “fictions” intend to maintain a fit with reality itself while also prompting a change in that very reality. It is for this reason that the line between fiction and truth is easily blurred for Foucault: fiction produces the same effects as true discourse22 and stands on the same epistemological plane as that which is held to be true. Yet it also seeks to alter the conditions for truth through an intentional process of re-interpretation and recon- figuration. As Foucault states, “Now, the fact is, this experience through a book is neither true nor false. An experience is always a fiction: it’s something that one fabricates oneself, that doesn’t exist before and will exist afterward.”23
	38	+For Foucault, fiction effectively holds the same epistemic weight as truth. Both are produced and productive; both can actively frame discourse with respect to bodies and societies. Yet fiction holds a decisive advantage over “truth,” in that it constructively imagines an alternative interpretation of the present that exploits unexplored potentialities. In this way, fiction has a proleptic function, calling forth and enacting a new reality through its pro- nouncement. For Foucault, this means that his “fictional” work renders “an interpretation, a reading of a certain reality, which might be such that... this interpretation could produce some of the effects of truth; and on the other hand, these effects of truth could become implements within possible struggles.” This amounts to telling “the truth so that it might be acceptable.”24 As O’Leary recognizes, this means that, for Foucault, fiction is a “production, a creation,”25 and as such, “one that produces something previously unseen and unheard.”26 Like parrhesia, fiction is an enactment of a truth within a present reality. “Fictioning” is an active process of bringing about the same effects as truth, though they may not currently exist. Seen this way, “truth” is that which has effects in the present, while “fiction” is that which accurately reflects the present while having effects in the future.
	39	+
	40	+The ballot ought to speak truth to power—if your first reaction is to demand strategies you have fundamentally missed the point and have ceded to techonocratic control.
	41	+Steele 10—Associate Professor of Political Science at the University of Kansas
	42	+(Brent, Defacing Power: The Aesthetics of Insecurity in Global Politics pg 130-132, dml)
	43	+
	44	+When facing these dire warnings regarding the manner in which academic-intellectuals are seduced by power, what prospects exist for parrhesia? How can academic-intellectuals speak “truth to power”? It should be noted, first, that the academic-intellectual’s primary purpose should not be to re-create a program to replace power or even to develop a “research program that could be employed by students of world politics,” as Robert Keohane (1989: 173) once advised the legions of the International Studies Association. Because academics are denied the “full truth” from the powerful, Foucault states,
	45	+we must avoid a trap into which governments would want intellectuals to fall (and often they do): “Put yourself in our place and tell us what you would do.” This is not a question in which one has to answer. To make a decision on any matter requires a knowledge of the facts refused us, an analysis of the situation we aren’t allowed to make. There’s the trap. (2001: 453) 27
	46	+This means that any alternative order we might provide, this hypothetical “research program of our own,” will also become imbued with authority and used for mechanisms of control, a matter I return to in the concluding chapter of this book.
	47	+When linked to a theme of counterpower, academic-intellectual parrhesia suggests, instead, that the academic should use his or her pulpit, their position in society, to be a “friend” “who plays the role of a parrhesiastes, of a truth-teller” (2001: 134). 28 When speaking of then-president Lyndon Johnson, M
	48	+ happens, if we seek to uncover and practice telling the truth free from the “tact,” “rules,” and seduction that constrain its telling, then, as Arendt notes, “humanly speaking, no more is required, and no more can reasonably be asked.
	49	+
	50	+Their Limits are bad – only opening up different modes of thought experiment can resist technocracy. Miller and Bennett
	51	+8 http://archive.cspo.org/documents/article_MillerBennett2008.pdf Clark A Miller and Ira Bennett work at the Consortium for Science, Policy and Outcomes, Arizona State University, PO Box 875603, Tempe, AZ 85287‐5603, USA. Email: clark.miller@ asu.edu and ira.bennett@asu.edu. Tel: 480‐727‐8787. The authors would like to th ank Nicole Nelson and Science and Public Policy , 35(8), October 2008, pages 597–606 DOI:
	52	+10.3152/030234208×370666; http://www.ingentaconnect.com/content/beech/spPeterson’s lecture prompted us to write this article. While we understand why an organization like the Foresight Institute might be committed to a logic of technical rationality — science fact, not science fiction — we argue here that most ‘thinking longer term about technology’ ought not limit itself in these narrow technical terms. Indeed, in contrast, we argue that efforts to grapple with the long‐term societal implications of technological change must pursue a more balanced approach that stresses the social at least as much as the technical. New and emerging technologies take their place, their form, and their influence in society from a dynamic interplay of human forces: emotions, ambitions, values, neuroses, conflicts, passions, and politics (Teich,2006). Technology does not drive history; rather, humans create new ways of living with, in, and through technologies via a wide range of interpretations, applications, and rejections of technological systems (Smith and Marx, 1994; Bijker et al, 1987; Winner, 1986). Hence, if society is going to become more reflexive in assessing and anticipating technological change and its implications for society (see e.g. Guston and Sarewitz, 2002), it seems to us crucial to identify novel strategies for thinking longer term about technology that can incorporate questions of meaning and social dynamics — no less than physical laws — as foundational elements of analysis. Our suggestion in this paper is that strategies inspired by science fiction — albeit with the narrative left in! — offer potentially significant value

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	1	+2017-01-12 22:33:06.80

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	1	+Varad Agrawala, David Dosch

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	1	+Harvard-Westlake IP

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	1	+Lynbrook Shah Aff

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	1	+JANFEB - Nutcracker 1AC

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	1	+Debate LA RR