"Come on! There is no 'dominant culture' anymore. The filter is mightier than the broadcaster." At least, that was the net-swoon line; I still wasn't sure I'd bought it.
Munroe hadn't. "Very Zen. Try exporting Australian medical biotech to Stateless, and you'll soon find out exactly who's in control."
I had no answer to that.
He said, "Don't you ever get tired of living in a society which talks about itself, relentlessly—and usually lies? Which defines everything worthwhile—tolerance, honesty, loyalty, fairness—as 'uniquely Australian'? Which pretends to encourage diversity—but can't ever stop babbling about its 'national identity'? Don't you ever get sick of the endless parade of buffoons who claim the authority to speak on your behalf: politicians, intellectuals, celebrities, commentators—defining and characterizing you in every detail… from your 'distinctive Australian sense of humor' right down to your fucking 'collective subconscious iconography'… who are all, simply, liars and thieves?"
I was taken aback for a moment, but on reflection, this was a recognizable description of the mainstream political and academic culture. Or if not the mainstream, at least the loudest. I shrugged. "Every country has some level of parochial bullshit like that going on, somewhere. The US is almost as bad. But I hardly notice it anymore—least of all at home. I suppose I've just learned to tune it out, most of the time."
"I envy you, then. I never could."
The tram slid on, displaced dust hissing softly. Munroe had a point: nationalists—political and cultural—who claimed to be the voice of their nation could disenfranchise those they "represented" just as effectively as sexists who claimed to be the voice of their sex. A handful of people pretending to speak for forty million—or five billion—would always wield disproportionate power, merely by virtue of making the claim.
So what was the solution? Move to Stateless? Become
Munroe said, "I would have thought that the flight from Sydney was enough to make anyone want to leave for good. Physical proof of the absurdity of nations."
I laughed drily. "Almost. Being petty and vindictive with the East Timorese is understandable; imagine dirtying the bayonets of our business partners for all those years, and then having the temerity to turn around and take us to court. What the problem is with Stateless, though, I have no idea. None of the EnGeneUity patents were Australian-owned, were they?"
"No."
"So what's the big deal? Even Washington doesn't go out of its way to punish Stateless quite so… comprehensively."
Munroe said, "I do have one theory."
"Yeah?"
"Think about it. What's the biggest lie the political and cultural ruling class tells itself? Where's the greatest disparity between image and truth? What are the attributes which any self-respecting Professional Australian boasts about the most—and possesses the least?"
"If this is a cheap Freudian joke, I'm going to be very disappointed."
"Suspicion of authority. Independence of spirit. Nonconformity. So what could they possibly find more threatening than an island full of anarchists?"
13
We walked north from the terminus, across a plane of marbled gray-green, in places still imprinted with faint hints of stubby branched tubing: coral from the shores of a decade ago, incompletely digested. Knowing the time scale made the sight curiously shocking; it was a bit like stumbling across fossils of distinctive forties artifacts—clunky old-model notepads, quaint shoes which had been alpha fashion in living memory—converted into nothing but mineralized outlines. I thought I could feel the rock yielding beneath my feet more than the dense, cured paving of the city, but we left no visible imprints behind us. I paused and crouched to touch the ground, wondering if it would be palpably moist; it wasn't, but there was probably a plasticized skin beneath the surface to limit evaporation.
In the distance, a group of twenty or so people were gathered around a gantry several meters high, with a large motorized winch beside it. Nearby was a small green bus with big, balloon-tired wheels. The gantry sprouted half a dozen bright orange awnings, and I could hear them snapping in the breeze. Orange cable stretched from the winch to a pulley suspended from the gantry, then dropped straight down— presumably into a hole in the ground, concealed by the circle of spectators.
I said, "They're being lowered into some kind of maintenance shaft?"
"That's right."
"What a charming custom. Welcome to Stateless, tired and hungry traveler… now check out our sewers."
Munroe snorted. "Wrong."
