Termination Shock

Rufus couldn’t make heads or tails of “I read classics at uni” but he could guess the meaning of “performative.” The Iliad he had listened to during his perambulations around Texas. “Like Achilles dragging Hector around the walls of Troy?” he guessed. “Putting on a li’l show. For the psy-ops impact. But zero tactical value.”

“Exactly. I won’t bore you with all the other examples that could be cited, down through the ages.”

“I got you,” Rufus assured her. “Comanches did that shit all the time. White men couldn’t understand it.”

“You’re a Comanche?”

“Sort of.” Because Pippa seemed so interested in this, Rufus did something he did only rarely: pulled out his wallet, extracted his Comanche Nation ID card, and held it up to the camera.

“I’ve been studying their . . . practices,” Pippa said.

He knew what she meant. “Pretty gruesome stuff.”

“Undeniably. But the latest research says that they were masters of performative war. They knew how their actions played in the newspapers. All that gruesomeness was designed to make them famous. To scare the shit out of people.”

“It worked,” Rufus said.

“Absolutely. It had a tactical effect. Kept Comancheria free of white settlers for decades. But it all came at the end of an era.”

Rufus nodded. “The era of Indians living free,” he said.

“Well, that too, of course. But I was actually referring to a worldwide transition. Beyond a certain point—which happened at different times in different parts of the world—hard tactical outcomes were all that mattered.”

“Performative war didn’t work anymore,” Rufus translated. He was thinking of the heaps of dead bison on the plains, the Indians starved into submission.

Pippa nodded. “Like, it would not have made tactical sense to chain Paulus behind a T-34 and drag him around Stalingrad. It wouldn’t have moved the line of battle one inch. It would have been seen as savagery.”

“Savagery. Important word in these parts.”

“That’s one way people were defined as savages: by their willingness to let that kind of performative display affect the outcome of battle for real.”

Rufus nodded. He was thinking of the Little Robe Creek fight in which the Comanches had been routed by a small force of Texas Rangers after their chief, Iron Jacket, had been brought down by a sniper. The Comanches had then tried to talk the Rangers into settling the battle by single combat between champions, as in the days of chivalry. Hadn’t worked.

“Now, that all changes with Hiroshima and Nagasaki, which were basically performances. Deadly for real, obviously—but the point was the spectacle of it, and its psychological impact.”

“After that we’re all savages.”

“Yeah, and it leads to things like 9/11. Which again is horrible—but with a lower body count.”

“Until we invaded Afghanistan and Iraq!” Rufus pointed out.

“Using Shock and Awe,” Pippa countered. “Anyway, we could talk about it all night, but that’s how I got interested in what was going on at the Line of Actual Control and met Laks.”

“Locks?”

“Big Fish. His friends and family call him Laks.”

“Is that him in the video I sent you? Dancing at the party?”

“Absolutely.”

Rufus had been expecting a more guarded response, so Pippa’s certainty knocked him off balance.

“So he’s recovered.”

“Yeah, and people who knew him were aware of it. The story of him being incapacitated was put out on the media by someone. I’ve no idea why.”

“Someone who wanted folks to believe that Big Fish was still out of commission,” Rufus said. “Still a non-combatant.”

“Well,” Pippa said, guardedly, “he’s definitely a non-combatant. He’s partying in Canada. No longer beating up kung fu masters in the Himalayas.”

“I think he’s in the States now,” Rufus said.

“Same difference. Still a non-combatant.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Rufus said, wondering if he’d get in trouble if he sent Pippa the video from the T.R. Mick’s. “Try googling Squeegee Ninja,” he suggested. “All the videos might have been taken down, though.”

But it very soon became obvious from Pippa’s gestures and the movements of her eyes that she had found something. “Holy fuck,” she said. It was all she needed to say. “Let me Google Map this place, my American geography is rubbish.” She did so. “Where do you suppose he’s headed?”

“If you draw a line from the Canadian bhangra bash through that T.R. Mick’s, it points to me,” Rufus said.

“You’re in Texas.”

“How’d you guess?” Rufus answered, half serious.

“The beer. And you mentioned savagery.”

Rufus looked at his beer. Shiner Bock.

“West Texas, to judge from your imaginary line on the map.” A thought occurred to her. “Say, are you anywhere near that huge—”

The rest of her question was drowned out by a sonic boom. Rufus just nodded.

Pippa sat back in her chair and pondered for a spell. Rufus let her do it. The beer was enjoyable. The temperature in the canyon was now perfect. He was in no particular hurry. He checked his phone, which had buzzed a couple of minutes ago.

> Incoming!