"Relics of America"

The year is 2061: A genetically engineered supervirus, accidentally released from an American lab, has killed off half the world's population. The American empire has fallen, and the last remaining Americans live on a reservation in New England, in third world poverty, while the rest of the world prospers.

The novel opens with the arrival of an emissary from New Liberia (an African colony created out of the former Southern slave states). Commander Suleiman, leader of this nation, wants the American president to sell him the "Relics of America" (the Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights, and the Constitution). Suleiman believes that these documents will help to bolster the image of his failing regime, and is willing to do just about anything to obtain them.

While these negotiations take place, white terrorists kidnap one of the world's foremost Muslim leaders and concoct a sinister plot to "restore" North America to white rule. While trying to find and capture these terrorists, the main characters must struggled with their own prejudices and fears in order to learn what freedom, democracy and America are truly about.

Included with this experimental novel is a controversial essay examining the history of biological warfare, a humorous bawdy satire on New Age religion reminiscent of Boccaccio, and an apocalyptic parable about Hitler and the Jews. One of the main characters is a Quaker named John W. Greenleaf; he is "Secretary of the Interior."

"I have written what many would consider an unpatriotic novel," says its author. "But it makes me feel like a true American. It's fortunate that we live in a country where we don't yet have to fear the secret police when we write something controversial about our government. Of course, that situation could change rapidly if the current regime in Washington has its way. I dedicate this novel to those who don't worship the flag, but respect what the Bill of Rights, the US Constitution, and the Declaration of Independence stand for."

For a PDF version of this novel, click westernquaker.net/Relics_of_America.pdf. Since this file takes up 450 kb and is 112 pages long, it may take a while to download, so please be patient. If you don't have a PDF reader. You can download a free version at http://www.adobe.com/products/acrobat/readstep2.html.

To read the opening sequence of "Relics of America," scroll down.

Prologue to "Relics of America"

But the dream of a peaceful world, free from the disease of militarism, was endangered when Dr. Mubarak was abducted by terrorists. Civil unrest and terrorism threatened to unravel the new world order. That is when we, the last remaining Americans, with the relics of our former glory, learned that we still have a vital role to play in the mysterious drama of history.—Rahman Jones, President of North America.

Most excellent Commander Suleiman: Bismillah, rahmani, rahim [in the name of Allah, most caring, most compassionate].Yesterday we began our mission to North America by flying from New Monrovia to New York City where our rental van awaited us. As your Eminence wisely advised, we kept a low profile and assumed the guise of tourists. My entourage consisted only of my driver and manservant. We attracted little attention as we drove northward on our historic journey.

The roads in this region are excellent, thanks to the New Canadian administration; and the countryside was lovely, with the leaves just beginning to be tipped with gold.

A few miles north of Mystic, however, we reached an enormous wall made out of concrete pillars, corrugated metal, and barbed wire. It wound its way like an immense wound through the hills and forests all the way down to the ocean itself. The land had been cleared for a hundred yards on the southern side, with klieg lights mounted on towers to enhance visibility. Ahead of us loomed what appeared to be a vast prison.

Nothing had quite prepared me for the border separating North America from the rest of the civilized world. Thanks to the Community of Nations, check points have virtually disappeared from most of our planet; and it’s as easy to go from one sovereign nation to another as it is to pass from one town to another in one’s own country. But here of course things are different; it’s almost like going back in time.

We were surprised and intrigued by the friendliness of the North American border guards. One of them poked his head through our van’s window and grinned at us.

"Nice van," he said. He hadn’t shaved for a day or two, and his uniform was somewhat frayed around the edges. But he did seem genuinely glad to see us, perhaps because tourists seldom visit this benighted land.

We offered to show him our papers, but he waved us on without looking at them.

"Have a good time," he said. "And watch out for them Fall River girls."

It’s only fifty miles from Mystic to Providence, but it’s like entering another world.

As the paved highways fall into disrepair, at times degenerating into dirt roads, human habitations spring up out of the most unlikely materials: packing crates, box cars, old automobile parts, even the flotsam and jetsam from boats and barges.

We reached Providence just as the sun was beginning to set over its ragged skyline. The stench of factory smoke, mingled with burning plastic and human excrement, became oppressive, yet the natives seemed oblivious and even happy with their simple, crude pleasures. Driving through the outskirts of New Bedford, I noticed families and couples heading towards an amusement area—a large, muddy field, where relics of carousels, helter-skelters, video games and various games of chance could be seen. Also in evidence were women of the night who were dressed, or rather undressed, in ways that would shame our women.

I was surprised at the diversity of peoples that I saw in these border communities. There were Portuguese, Africans, Asians, Arabs, Polynesians, as well as the pale folks that we associate with this region. I was sorry that we did not have the time to stop and explore the anthropology of this region in more depth.

But our mission was urgent; we had no time for scholarly investigation. We headed north along the coast past Fall River (which we learned is a haven for loose women), New Bedford and finally into Cape Cod. We bumped along pot-holed roads that clearly had not been repaired for decades. Finally, we reached our destination as a crescent moon was rising over the ocean. Glittering in the pale moonlight was Hyanisport and the summer home of President Rahman Jones.

We were greeted at the gate by uniformed guards who wore primitive, but deadly weapons called pistols or, to be more exact, 45-calibre Smith and Wessons. (I know a little about these firearms because I took a course on antique weaponry at Cambridge. They are produced in Springfield, Massachusetts, I believe.) Such implements of war have of course long been abolished in civilized parts of the world, where we are required to use non-lethal, but much more effective means of subduing those who threaten us or transgress the law. But here in North America they cling to the old ways, and probably lack the means to pay for our more sophisticated technology.

The uniformed guards led us to the door of the Presidential Compound, which was much more modest than I was expecting. Indeed, some of our headmen live in quarters more impressive than the clapboard house into which we were ushered. I couldn’t help noticing the peeling paint, and the cracks in the plaster.

After we had been ushered into the study, President Jones appeared with a retinue of staff, of whom a surprising number were women. He greeted me with a handshake and "Salaam Aleikum" [Peace be with you]. He even shook the hands of my driver, Ali, and my manservant, Mohammed. He appears to have no sense of propriety or etiquette.

"How nice of you to visit us here at the end of the world," he said, smiling broadly. "We don’t get many foreign dignitaries coming to visit us. I believe you’re the first since I was re-elected."

I nodded and bowed ceremoniously, but he did not seem impressed by my gold ornaments or my embroidered abgada boubou (an antique robe that I wear only on the most special occasions). In fact, I rather regretted having worn my diplomatic regalia since they seemed out of place in this rather modest abode.

President Jones wore a gray suit and a black turtleneck—of a style that has not been worn in fashionable parts of the world for several decades. My driver and manservant were better dressed than the leader of the North Americans. But he didn’t seem to care about fashion.

"Let me introduce you to my staff," said the President. "This is my Vice President, Joe Kennedy."

"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kennedy," I said. "Are you any relation to the famous Kennedy family?"

"We’re poor relations," he replied. "My branch of the family is from Maine."

"He may be poor, but he’s a hard worker," said President Jones. "He’ll be leaving us tomorrow to go to the Capitol and mind the store while I’m away."

Turning to an attractive woman in a stylish pantsuit, the President said: "This is Anita Fong, my Secretary of the Treasury. She’s our numbers cruncher, and our resident Buddhist. If you ever want to meditate your way to fiscal bliss, she’s your woman."

Ms. Fong smiled and shook my hand, a custom among North American women that I have trouble adjusting to.

"And this is Samuel Silverman," said the President. "He’s our Surgeon General. He hands out the aspirin when our budget doesn’t balance. And this is José Gomez, Head of Internal Security. And this is George Thompson, my personal bodyguard."

As I shook everyone’s hands, I noticed a bulge under Thompson’s jacket—a sign that he was carrying a pistol, or "packing a rod," as they used to say in old American detective stories.

"This is Kate Gordon," said the President, gesturing to a smartly dressed woman with long blonde hair that went almost to her waist. "She’s my Secretary of Defense."

"Secretary of Defense?" I said. "How can this be? War was abolished decades ago."

"Don’t listen to him," she said, rolling her eyes and smiling. "I’m his press secretary."

"She’s the one who disarms my critics," said the President.

"I can see that," I said. "It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Gordon."

"When the time comes to set up a press conference and press releases, let me know," said Ms. Gordon. "Just your coming here is an historic occasion, Dr. Cheops."

"You’re too kind, Ms. Gordon," I said. "I’m just a humble servant of Commander Suleiman. However, I think it’s best we keep things under wraps, until your President and I have made some progress in our discussions."

"I understand," said Ms. Gordon. "I will respect your wishes."

Next he turned to a gorgeous black woman dressed in a low-cut red gown that displayed her considerable charms far more openly than would be allowed in our country.

"Is this your wife Coretta?" I asked. "I have heard so much about her. I didn’t realize that she was so… beautiful."

"My wife Coretta is at the Capitol," said the President, smiling. "Unfortunately, she couldn’t join us because she’s organizing an important fundraising dinner for our new construction project. This lovely woman is Fatin Dalal. She is…" he paused for a moment… "our representative from Fall River."

"I see," I said.

Fatin smiled and grasped my hand, squeezing it until I began to feel a little uncomfortable. Then she laughed and said,

"It’s a real pleasure to meet a well-dressed man like you, Dr. Cheops."

"The pleasure is mutual," I said. "I see that you live up to your name."

"Last but not least is our good friend John W. Greenleaf," said the President, putting his arm on the shoulder of a white-haired gentleman. "He’s our Secretary of the Interior. Keeps track of the forests and farmlands and the environment. He also happens to be a Quaker."

"A Quaker?" I said, surprised that this obscure sect still existed. "Are you not one of those Christians who sent a woman missionary to greet the Sultan of the Turks in the seventeenth century."

"You’re quite an historian, Dr. Cheops," said Mr. Greenleaf. "Not many people know about Mary Fisher."

I nodded and admitted modestly that I have some interest in this period.

"Dr. Cheops, I can see that you’re quite serious about history," said the President.

"As a matter of fact, I’m a member of the Board of the New Liberian National Museum. I have a keen interest in history, particularly that of North America."

"Then you have definitely come to the right place," said the President. Dismissing his staff, he led me to the back of his house where, he assured me, some remarkable historical treasures were stored.

The room itself was not impressive. In fact, it looked more like an old attic or garage. President Jones led me into the room and began describing its contents with great enthusiasm.

"Do you know what this is?" he said, holding up a white spherical object the size of a small orange. "Look at this. It’s a baseball that’s over a hundred years old. Look at the signature on it."

I looked, but the name did not mean anything to me.

"It’s Babe Ruth, the Babe himself," said President Jones, with a great show of excitement. "And look at this one. It’s got the signature of Jackie Robinson."

He began rummaging about the room, pulling out objects and identifying them.

"Here are some of the tapes on which President Richard Milhous Nixon recorded his conversations in the Oval Office. And here are golf balls that were used by President Dwight D. Eisenhower. And these here are cigars that once belonged to President William Jefferson Clinton."

I did my best to feign interest in these memorabilia, but after half of hour or so, I couldn’t help stifling a yawn.

"I hope I haven’t bored you with all this old-timey stuff," said Jones. "I’m sure this is not why you’ve come. You’ve had a long trip, Dr. Cheops. Why don’t we call it an evening? My press secretary will escort you and your men to your rooms."

Thus ended my first night in the summer home of President Rahman Jones. Even though he is, like myself, of African descent, and even though he is a brother Muslim, he could not have seemed more strange if he had come from another planet.

I am glad that your Eminence urged me to spend time getting to know the culture of North America before beginning my negotiations with President Jones. It is not easy to adjust to the cultural shock of being in this alien environment.

Dear Dr. Cheops: Your observations about North Americans are quite entertaining, but remember to stay focused on your mission. It is imperative that you establish rapport with President Jones and convince him either to sell or "loan" us the Relics on a permanent basis.

This is an historic moment. As you know, New Liberia is commemorating its fortieth year as a nation. This should be a time of joyous celebration, but certain elements in our country persist in murmuring and grumbling against my leadership. Is this not what happened when Moses tried to lead his people from the wilderness into the Promised Land?

Just as Moses guided his people with the ark of the Covenant, I intend to guide my people with the sacred documents that you are entrusted with procuring. Yours is a sacred trust. You must not fail!

Matters here are becoming increasingly urgent. During the World Cup finals, a riot took place. This is not unusual at soccer matches, but the rioters spilled out into the streets and began trashing the Capitol mall. They carried signs and chanted, "Freedom Now!" We had to use sopor-gas to subdue them, which did not enhance our international standing or our standing with the people. We are counting on you to obtain the Relics in time for our annual Reparation Day celebration, which, as you know, is a little over a month from now. If necessary, please feel free to double the agreed-upon amount for the artifacts. No matter what the cost, or what it takes, you must succeed in this mission, or face serious consequences.

Most excellent Commander Suleiman: Bismillah, rahmani, rahim [In the name of Allah, most caring, most compassionate]. I understand only too well the seriousness of my mission, and the consequences of failure. As a guest at the Presidential Compound, I have been carefully observing both President Jones and his visitors. These observations will no doubt prove useful when it comes time to negotiate with him.

I’ve noticed that Jones has the knack of attracting a wide assortment of humanity, especially those of the female sex. His visitors range from reasonably well-dressed business people to colorful characters from the lower strata of society. All seem to be seeking some favor or special treatment.

President Jones seems in no hurry to conduct business with me, or with anyone else for that matter, since he is on holiday. He often takes his guests on leisurely walks around his grounds, where he smokes cigars, tells jokes, and flashes his ubiquitous grin.

My manservant Mohammed and my driver Ali seem to enjoy these social occasions, so I have granted them leave to spend time among the North Americans.

My free time has been spent in perusing the books in the Presidential Library and learning more about the culture and history of this unique country. The collection contains historical volumes mostly from the 19^th and 20^th centuries, on subjects ranging from the American Revolution to the Great Stock Market Crash of 2005. But very little seems to have been collected, or perhaps published, during the last 50 years. A few books about local history, a biographical study of a celebrated North American scientist who has since gone into exile, and an anthology of lascivious short stories by plague survivors called the New Decameron. My curiosity was piqued by small volume entitled The Doomsday Pandemic: Tragic Accident or Divine Scourge? Written by the current Surgeon General in 2054, it presents an American perspective on this subject which I found fascinating. I was also amused to read some juvenalia by the Quaker Secretary of the Interior. [See Appendix, p. *, for copies of these documents.]

I trust that my studies and observations of the people and literature of North America will stand me in good stead for my official meeting with President Jones, which has been scheduled for early next week. Rest assured that I will do all in my power to secure the Relics that our nation needs during these historic times.

My dear friend, Even though I have been here only a week, I already miss you and my colleagues at the Ministry of Culture. Since you share my curiosity about the culture of the North Americans, I will record my observations for you and of course, for posterity.

One of my biggest challenges has been adjusting to the diet, as well as to the conversation, of the North Americans. Their diet mostly consists of meat cooked over open fires—something that they call barbecue—and slabs of potatoes slathered in some kind of greasy sauce, with various condiments. They wash this down with an alcoholic malt beverage called beer that is popular among the lower strata of our society.

Their conversation focuses mainly on sports, particularly baseball and basketball, games which, as you know, are no longer played anywhere on the globe except in North America. They not only discuss current matches, but also reminisce endlessly about games from bygone days, which they watch on their televisions or read about in little picture books that are quite popular.

When I tried to make conversation by praising the Presidential Library, the President just grinned and said,

"Dr. Cheops, we are here on holiday. Please don’t remind us of school!"

Everyone laughed.

Realizing my faux pas, I made an effort to join in the sports conversation by mentioning soccer, a game at which I excelled in prep school. When I pointed out that New Liberia is in contention for the World Cup, the President looked at me and said with great seriousness:

"Soccer has been abolished in North America. Don’t you know it’s un-American?"

I looked aghast, and everyone again burst into laughter. I couldn’t fathom what was going on.

"He’s joking, Your Excellency," my manservant Mohammed whispered to me. "People play soccer here; it’s just not as popular as baseball and basketball, which they regard as true American games."

I am sorry to say that the longer I stay here among the North Americans, and the more time I spend with President Jones, the more "at sea" I feel. I had hoped that because we share a common religious and racial background, we would be able to relate to one another. But such as not been the case. On the fourth day, I asked President Jones where the local mosque could be found (it was Friday morning), but he looked perplexed. He called some of his cronies and asked if any of them knew.

"There is a mosque several miles from here in West Yarmouth," one of his man asserted with great confidence.

"No, there isn’t," another retorted.

"Yes, there is. I’ve been there hundreds of times."

"But it’s closed. It closed a year ago."

"Well, maybe you’re right," he replied. "Then I’m sure that there’s one at Hyanis. I was there last month."

The President did not take part in this conversation and did not seem particularly interested.

"You are a Muslim," I said to him. "Surely you go to masjid [mosque]."

"Of course I do…." he said vaguely. "When I get the chance. But the duties of office, you know, keep me very busy."

"Still, you pray five times a day."

"At least!" he said, smiling. "With this job, I have to pray constantly."

Everyone laughed again, even my manservant and my driver, but I did not find this remark particularly funny. I feel that matters of religion should not be treated lightly, but of course I did not say so. Diplomats must weigh their words carefully.

By the fifth day, I was becoming restless and wondering how long this "holiday" was going to last. Just after breakfast, one of the President’s men came to the library and announced that the President was going to "the Capitol," as they now call Boston, and would be honored by my company.

Elated, I ordered Ali and Mohammed to pack our things immediately and we were ready to go within half an hour. We then waited in the vestibule. We waited and we waited, and two hours passed. Finally, President Jones sauntered over to us with a small briefcase, smoking one of his cigars.

"Ready to go?" he asked. "How would you like to ride in a stretch limo?"

I hadn’t the heart to tell him that in my country, gasoline-powered stretch limos have been outlawed.

"I have heard much of these vehicles, but have never had the opportunity to ride in one," I said. "This will be a most interesting experience."

"That’s for sure," the President said, winking at me and at Ali our driver. Was this some kind of joke between them? I wondered.

Ali smiled and opened the doors for us. Then, to my amazement, Ali got into the driver’s seat and started up the vehicle.

"What are you doing?" I said with some annoyance.

"Please, don’t be alarmed," said President Jones. "I promised Ali that I would let him drive the limo. He said it would be a gas."

So it was that Ali drove the Presidential limo, with the President’s driver "riding shotgun," as the natives say, and providing directions.

The drive to the Capitol was uneventful, although a lot longer than necessary because we took the "scenic route" along with coast. It was clear that the President was in no hurry to get back to work.

I was looking forward to seeing Boston, famed as the city founded by the Puritans in the 17^th century. The outskirts of the city were as dismal as other shantytowns I had seen, but the central city was a pleasant surprise. In fact, it was an astonishment. Boston Commons had been transformed. A replica of the Capitol had been built on the northeast side of the Commons, not far from the Park Street Church. On the northwest, a replica of the White House overlooked the Public Gardens. On the southeast corner of the Commons, there was a large half-built obelisk—the Washington monument!

As we drove around the Commons/Mall, the President’s driver pointed out various other sites to us, many of which were still under construction.

"Ain’t this something else, man?" the President’s driver kept saying. "Check this out!"

"Yes, it is quite a remarkable achievement," I said.

"Of course, we were not able to build it on the scale of the original," the President observed, detecting a certain ambivalence in my tone. "That would be beyond our resources. So we built everything at 3/5^th scale."

"Ah yes, three-fifths scale," I said, "That would account for its…charm."

I was reminded of an amusement park in Alta California, not far from Los Angeles, that was recently renovated and reopened by Governor Roberto Suarez. Its Main Street constructed was 3/5^th scale, much to the delight of my children. Of course, I did not mention this to President Jones, but he seemed to sense that I was not being entirely candid.

"You are probably thinking that the American Dream has been downsized," the President remarked, chewing on his cigar. "But we haven’t given it up. No, Dr. Cheops, we’re still alive and still ready to kick butt."

"I am not familiar with this expression," I said. "Could you please explain?"

"Kick butt means to win a fight, to be the best," my driver chimed in suddenly.

I glared at him and said: "I wasn’t speaking to you, Ali."

"Ex-cuse me, Your Excellency," Ali replied. He didn’t sound contrite.

I mention this incident only to point out that there is something here in North America that is having a most disturbing effect upon my driver and manservant. They seem to be forgetting their place as well as their etiquette. President Jones seemed amused by this little exchange.

After touring about the Mall for a hour or so, we arrived at the White House, where the President excused himself and said that he had state business to attend to.

"You will be shown to your bedroom by one of our staff. Please feel free to explore the Presidential library here," he said. "I will meet you in the Oval Office Monday morning at 10:00 AM and we can talk business. I think we can wrap this matter up rather quickly."

Those were his final words to me as he left. As I sit here encoding this electronic message to you, I confess that I have no idea what he meant. It is clear that the North Americans desperately need our financial assistance, and it would be in their best interests to accede to Commander Suleiman’s generous offer, so perhaps he means to settle our business expeditiously. My brief stay here has shown me, however, that North Americans are not a logical people and their behavior is quite unpredictable. I am therefore leaving our affairs in the hands of Allah, who alone can understand the complexities of the North American mind.