Ship of Fools - Chapter 3
Shills to the Left of Me, Wingnuts to the Right
[Start at the beginning of the novel: Prologue.]
[Go to the Table of Contents.]
Welcome back to Ship of Fools and thanks for reading!
The last time we were aboard the Anóitoi, back in Chapter 1, we met flat-earther Sarge Marshall as he interrupted a conversation between Liz Dare and Lonnie Ester. Now we follow Sarge as he mingles with his fellow conspiracists and prepares to get the convention under way. But we’ll soon learn that he has much more on his mind than a simple gathering of truth-seekers.
Damned globers, always so smug, Sarge Marshall thought as he roamed the ballroom of the Anóitoi, at the same time telling himself that the interaction with Liz and Ester hadn’t bothered him at all. He would convince them, one way or the other, or show them up as the charlatans they were. They just didn’t know it yet.
Ester was clearly a lost cause, but he had some hope for Dare. There’d been something strange about that article from last summer, a profile of a moon-landing truther whose ideas were so cockamamie that even Sarge couldn’t believe them. The unusual thing was the way Liz had used a less-than-subtle tone of derision to paint the truther as a kook, not at all her style. Stranger still, underneath the skepticism, certain passages gave him the sense that Liz halfway believed the hoax herself. So maybe, unlike the rest of the shills for the dominant paradigm, she was still open to persuasion. It was the whole reason he’d invited her here.
The New York Times was still, somehow, the flagship news outlet of the nation, keeping the sheeple in benighted ignorance of the true shape of the world, not to mention who was really in charge, and what their motives were. The gargantuan charade went far beyond any deep state or shadowy secret society imagined by others in the conspiracy community. And now, after years of being downranked, de-platformed, and censored outright, he would finally reveal the truth in a way no one could deny, starting with Lonnie and Liz.
He strolled around the room, shaking hands with one conspiracist after another, even those whose ideas were antithetical to his own beliefs — which weren’t really beliefs, after all, but conclusions based on observed evidence. The anti-New World Order brigade, the anti-Masons, the anti-Illuminatists, the anti-vaxxers, the anti-Zionists. So many antis here. He was glad he was part of a positive movement, pro-knowledge and pro-Flat Earth. He avoided the worst antis of them all, the skinheads with their copies of the Protocols of the Elders of Zion.
More bothersome even than these were the fascist flat-earthers. He’d done everything he could to keep them off the ship, but a few had slipped through. They’d grafted the obviously crazed belief in a secret Nazi base in Antarctica onto the flat-earth theory, locating it somewhere beyond the Ice Wall. Supposedly, the Texas-sized section of Antarctica the Germans had explored in the ’30s, dubbing it Neuschwabenland, was not an ice-covered waste, but actually a green land rich with resources. Hitler, after faking his own death, had retreated there with other escaped Nazis after World War II.
Worse, these fascist lunatics believed the Nazis had contacted extraterrestrials — heresy, since any true flat-earther knew there was nothing beyond the dome of the firmament, and therefore no aliens or flying saucers. Armed with lasers and other space weapons acquired from the aliens, the story went, the Nazis had defeated Admiral Byrd’s Operation Highjump, preventing it from rooting out Hitler’s secret base.
The whole idea made him cringe. Nothing like Nazis riding in space ships to make the entire flat-earth theory look completely wacko.
He blamed his co-organizer, Terry, who had taken care of all the more political invites and marketing. Terry was also responsible for the QAnon contingent. Bunch of wingnuts and racists. Oh well, they would both make some money, and Sarge had other fish to fry. He was making his way toward the stage to give his welcome address when a fellow who looked a bit like John Lennon — shaggy brown hair, long sideburns, round glasses — approached, holding a box big enough to contain a basketball.
“Mr. Marshall?” the man said, holding out his free hand. “I’m Clive Cuddleshanks and I’ve got soomfin to show you.” He had one of those north England accents, which went along with the round NHS glasses. And something about the name seemed familiar.
“Cuddleshanks,” he said, shaking the stranger’s hand. “Do I know that name from somewhere?”
“Been leavin’ you comments on your videos, ’aven’ I? And email messages.”
“Oh yeah! From Liverpool, was it?”
“Manchester.”
“Right. I’m sorry my schedule has kept me from replying. Life of a popular YouTuber. What was it about? Your something-scope?” That was probably what the fellow had in the box.
“Astroanamorphoscope, shows the actual positions of the sun and moon in the sky. I’ve got it righ’ ’ere.” He started to open the box.
“That won’t be necessary, Clive — can I call you Clive? This isn’t really the right time or place. More of a party, if you know what I mean.”
The fellow looked offended. “’ave to carry it wiv me wherever I go, don’t I? It’s me only prototype, been workin’ on it for years. Thought you might ’ave a look, since I ’ave it ’ere anyhow. A feature on your show would really get ’em buzzin’.”
“I’ll be glad to look at it tomorrow at the TruthTech show.” He hated lying like that, but he had to keep up the story that this was just another cruise like the ones before. “But I can’t hold out much hope for you. You know I agree with the founder of our movement — direct observation with the five senses has to be the basis for all our efforts. Once you start looking through any kind of scope, bending light…”
“But the light’s already bent, don’t y’see? This just straightens out the light rays…”
“And that’s a discussion we can have tomorrow. Now if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to get this party started.”
He turned away from the Brit before the fellow could get another word. He nearly made it to the bandstand before being accosted again, this time by Sophie Stardust, or so she called herself, a Ufologist of the Aetherian stripe, wearing long flowing robes that somehow managed to look like they were stirring in a constant breeze, as did her long red tresses. Following in her wake was some sort of Eastern monk in orange and yellow robes. The Aetherius Society, if he remembered correctly, believed something about aliens being Cosmic Masters, with Jesus and Buddha somehow involved. He supposed that explained the monk. Like any belief that implied the existence of space beyond the Dome of the Firmament, it was all hogwash.
“Sophie, I would love to persuade you that little green men are a figment of your imagination, but there will be plenty of time after we kick things off.” He nodded toward the stage, hoping she would get the hint. But zealots seldom did.
“Oh, not to worry, I just wanted to introduce you to Dawa Tenzing, from Nepal by way of Dharamsala. He has some very interesting ideas about parallel realities.”
The monk smiled and gave a slight bow, his hands together in front of him as if he were giving a blessing.
“Hello, I’m Sergei, my friends call me Sarge, not Serge.” He tried giving his own bow, then turned back to the Aetherian. “But come on, Sophie, you know me. If you can’t show it to me using my five senses, it’s probably a hoax. How am I supposed to experience an alternate reality for myself? And don’t tell me I have to drink any Koolaid.”
“Not Koolaid,” said Tenzing. “Meditation. Through deep concentration we experience the now more fully than with our ‘everyday mind’. We slip into the gap between sense stimuli and our mind’s response. We see reality for what it is.”
“This is all very interesting, but…”
“For instance, we know it is possible for Earth to be both flat and round.”
“But that’s crazy…”
“Any crazier than a giant furnace under the crust of your Flat Earth?” asked Sophie.
Sarge ignored her, and Tenzing went on.
“The key is Antarctica. A region in which you have much interest, if I’m not mistaken.”
Sarge tensed. “How did you know…?”
“Every Flat Earth map has the Ice Wall, correct? And I’ve seen your videos talking about it. If, as you say, you trust only your senses, why not go and see it for yourself?”
“Because I don’t want to get shot! The UN guards it, so no one can find out what’s really there.”
“And you have seen these guards for yourself?”
“Well, no…”
“Perhaps we could mount an expedition together?”
“But the red tape…”
“Nothing compared to the paperwork for a climbing permit in my country. And perhaps you could use my skills in getting over that ice wall. Before joining the monastery, I worked as a porter and mountain guide.”
“I’ll…I’ll think about it. Now I really have to go. People are waiting to hear the band.”
He detached himself from the pair and turned back toward the stage. How had this monk learned of their plans? Was the whole operation blown? Had the UN or the CIA infiltrated the cruise? Maybe Liz had tipped him off? Which meant she was more deeply embedded in the conspiracy than he’d thought. The possibilities crowded his mind, each one worse than the last.
Instead of stepping up onto the bandstand, he went through the swinging doors leading to the galley. Rock and his band were using the corridor as a makeshift green room.
Rock — not “the Rock,” just “Rock” — was a country-rapcore star and one of the wealthiest musicians alive, having bet early on Kitteh Koin, dumping it at just the right moment. He was also woke to the truth of the Flat Earth and was funding this operation, not to mention subsidizing the cruise so the hundreds of attendees could have the ship to themselves.
“Is everything ready?”
“All set, Sarge, everyone’s in place.” Rock nodded to his entourage, and all but Mike, his chief of security, moved farther down the corridor. “Right, Mike?”
Mike gave a terse nod. He was in his forties, his face lined from years spent on drills and operations in harsh environments, but with the lean, hard look of a man a decade younger. Sarge had heard he was involved with one of the Michigan militia groups when he wasn’t working security for Rock.
“Listen,” Sarge said, “you need to keep an eye on this monk in the crowd. You can’t miss him. Bald head and bright orange robes. I think he knows something’s up.”
Mike nodded to one of the other security guys, who said, “On it,” and headed out into the ballroom.
“Don’t worry, Chief, my guys will take care of it.”
“No one gets hurt though, right?” said Sarge.
“Course not. They’re all highly trained in trigger discipline and use-of-force authorizations.”
“Okay then. I’d better get things started.”
He took a deep breath and went out to the stage.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Conspiracy Geeks and Hoax Busters! Welcome to the Eighth Annual Conspira-C Cruise!”
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, please give it a like, a share, a restack, or a comment. And if you really enjoyed it, you can buy me a coffee or upgrade to a paid subscription.
What do you think Sarge is up to? I’d love to hear your theories in the comments!
Next up: Chapter 4, “The Map and the Territory,” in which Ben Himmelstein reveals the full extent of the zaniest moon-landing theory Liz has ever heard.