Vector

by Alaric

Williams had been living among them all his life, and he thought he was one with them. They were people who did not look like his own. But they shared the environment: the living areas, the restaurants, schools, parks, clubs. Willimas' people and the others listened and danced to the same music, worked the same jobs side by side, watched the same movies, read the same magazines. And some of Williams' people even courted and slept with theirs. Well, it is incorrect to say they "courted" each other; that implies formality, of which there was very little. The goal was sex. But it all worked out to lives close, parallel, moving toward what they all thought were the same goals. They were sharing life, having fun.

But still, Williams could not get used to them. The others. Not completely. No matter how hard he tried to see them all as people, as individuals, comprising a whole human tribe which included his own people, a part of himself always held back. And that bothered him. He felt incomplete. He knew it made him an outsider. Shouldn't his heart go wholly? The heart and mind of everyone he knew were going together -- so they said. Yet Williams was divided, wasting energy, neither here nor there. And a result was that he hated nearly everything. "Unity" was the word coming out of everywhere -- the televisions and radios and billboards and movies -- it was the ideal, the golden place to which society was headed. Yet it wasn't actual. He knew that many people did not believe in unity. Many did not go wholly, and Williams did not believe most who told him they were whole. Williams decided that, because people shared the same goals did not make them more alike than different.

Williams did not really know the goals of the others. He saw them doing everyday things towards the same ends his own people worked for, but the others did them differently, and so Williams knew they thought differently. Everyone wanted to live well -- that was what they agreed on. So the "unity" the government and the big businesses were always advocating were lies, cover. Their lies took all forms: big lies, little lies, maintenance lies, disguised lies. Williams called them "they." They were the people behind the lies coming from the radios and the images and government agencies. They were always trying to get everyone to think and act in certain ways.

And Williams noticed this most of all: they emphasized the bad things his people had done, and did, but barely mentioned the bad things the others did.

Williams' instincts had become strung tight as a bowstring, and his reasoning power outraged so long -- insulted and vexed so long -- that he feared he was going insane. He lived in an ocean of lies, a thousand feet deep in it, surrounded by people who pretended they believed the lies. He concluded that the only way to save himself was to stop listening to the lies.

But that turned out to be impossible. He might run away to live in the mountains, where he wouldn't hear them so often, nor see so many people, but he didn't want to run. So he must hear them. And he realized that an intelligent person cannot avoid reasoning, does it with the same autonomic drive by which all animals breathe. So his strategy of not thinking about what he heard and saw failed.

Then Williams tried something else. He decided that he would go ahead and listen and watch freely, and reason freely, but he would guide his thoughts. He would channel them away from bad conclusions, to good conclusions (which wouldn't trouble him). He would not categorize people. No; judge not lest ye be judged.

Still, after years of trying not to judge, he found he could not do anything but give in to wherever his reasoning took him. And also, he could not ignore its conclusions: he must accept the judgments he passed on others. And so he decided that his hate for people who were not his own people, those others who lived amongst his people, in a land his own people had settled and from which they'd hewn this civilization (to which all the alien peoples of the world were flocking, or hoped to), was real and just.

Further, he could not live much longer among these aliens. As individuals these people, these browns and blacks, were fine. But there were too many, and the world does not run by the force of billions of individuals, but by natural collectives, and people collect with their own kind. Tigers run with tigers, not lions, and doves with doves, not pigeons. The othes had collectives that were in effect organic wholes -- and their distinct cultures proved it. They were nations. And Williams' people were in their land, their own land, a nation; the browns and blacks were not of his nation or of his nation's land.

Things had been going badly in the civilization that Williams' people had built. There was prosperity, but in pockets, some far away from the browns and blacks. In many places his civilization was dirty and dangerous and unpleasant all the time, but they had not become so until the browns and blacks arrived there. And their numbers were growing while his own people's were not. Williams was starting to hear comments from his people such as he'd never heard before, nor thought he ever would: comments about the blacks and the browns. They were unkind comments, even hostile.

And all of this returned to him, as he considered his own condition, though he hated to think of himself, hated to imagine he might be selfish about anything. But he was not doing well in any way except with friends. Those he had enough of, and good ones. But he was underemployed, and his income was too low, and he felt terribly lonely all the time, like a pariah. And his divided inner self bothered him still. On the blacks and browns, his cleft heart and mind were driving him to psychosis, because he saw these people affecting his own. He was sure their great and growing numbers were bad for his own people because he saw more and more of his own people suffering and miserable, and he thought their lives would be better if the aliens were gone.

Not only was there less to go around than the government and big business asserted, but the identity of his people was draining away. They appeared lost, unhappy -- even the wealthy ones. Williams could no longer work his best or behave like a gentleman; his division and concern for his people was sucking his vitality and decency. He was becoming somebody new, he found -- horribly, something like a fanatic, or machine. A lens of coldness and distrust stood now between his eyes and the world, filtering everything he saw. He realized he was at war. He was starting to hate, and it was becoming a force itself.

Once Williams understood that his Hate had arrived -- that it had erupted from his experiences, was its own master, and would defy the lies and his reasoning -- he yielded to it. He let it talk, he let it run. At first the "liberty" he gave it, he was sure, would drive him to do something which would destroy him. But Williams grew. His tension diminished.

His Hate never pushed him to anything. He waited years under its increasing power, expecting the State to come down on him. Williams feared his Hate would black him out and he would commit a "crime" -- and the State would murder him. But this blackout never came. His Hate grew, but to his astonishment, he grew cooler. Even more astonishing, he sensed himself unifying. His attitude toward the browns and blacks did not change -- but his behavior did. He acted, out of instinct, increasingly mild, inoffensive. Nothing in his personality could possibly alarm them. When Williams' Hate took over, his body and mind mended. Thus another lie was exposed: hate was not a destroyer, but a healer. And it also warmed him toward his own people.

They kept pushing Williams' people. They focused on his people. They broadcast again and again, in hundreds of allegories in their entertainment, and thousands of lies in their "news": "Hate destroys the hater... Hate is ungodly and rots the soul." And he had once believed this -- and still did, because he had witnessed some truth in it. He had seen hate take down members of his own people. He had seen them turn alcoholic, thuggish wrecks, layabouts and whiners, and he swore he would never hate. Not the way they hated. It had all been open then, because he hadn't been sure what "hate" was.

But Williams' own hate had taken over, and it had turned out to be a CLEAN FORCE. From his instinct. From his mind. From himself, a man of people drowning in the land their ancestors made and intended FOR THEIR DESCENDANTS to have, in perpetuity. The physical civilization and means of life were meant, Williams realized, to carry the bloodstream forward, the culture forward, through time, upward, to mold their civilization into ever higher forms. This vision of a golden people rolled 'round in his head for years, as the years carried his physical body through stages towards that end all beings move to, physical death. His Hate was his mentor, riding along, part of himself, an evolutionary presence, the entity which arose in him from his blood for himself and his people. This, in an environment that was poisoning the bloodstream of his people. Poisoned blood is fallen blood, and the death of the national body.

Yet the pressures were terrible, and Williams sought refuge in knowledge. Williams had come to believe his Hate was a teacher and divine PROPULSION toward the golden age of his race.

* * * The civilization the ancestors of Williams' people had left them was dying. As the proportion of brown and black aliens grew, the civilization crept ever closer to becoming like the homelands of the browns and blacks. That is, more and more areas were dirty, dangerous, ecologically damaged, and their governments corrupt and inefficient. The schools unquestionably were indoctrination camps and holding pens for juveniles until they reached the age at which they were legally employable. All this rising power of the other peoples eroded the position of Williams' people -- most of them. For, Williams saw a few of his own flourishing. This, while most were suffering decline: through over-taxation, diminishment of their property values and liquid wealth, the quality of their living space, in their mental balance. Williams did not understand this at first. The prospering ones seemed unconcerned and untouched by the erosion, and this started him thinking. He rarely saw these wealthy ones places other than restaurants or passing in their powerful, expensive cars. They lived so much differently from the mass. They seemed always in a hurry, and were always well-dressed. Their eyes were darting, hard. He wondered what they were pursuing so intently. When he realized it was money, when he learned that their children did not attend public schools, and they lived in all-White areas -- and worst -- that they were often the ones broadcasting the lies or firing White people and replacing them with non-White workers, Williams knew who the enemy was.

His Hate shifted. His Hate could focus now. But Williams was segregated from them: gold and position blocked his way. He didn't know how to reach them. H needed to touch someone, something. He must make a start. Theory, he realized, wouldn't take him much further toward his goal: liberating his healthy people from the aliens and traitors. Time passed.

* * * "Excuse me," Williams said. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

The kid stirred reluctantly, and looked up at him. His eyes were slits: savage, inscrutable. He had been feigning sleep. Williams knew he had seen him coming down the aisle. The bus was crowded, and swaying through the insane rush-hour traffic. The black kid closed his eyes, and maintained his slump across the width of the seat.

The entire bus was watching. Williams could feel their eyes, although they averted his when he looked. He could feel more than curiosity from them, more than the rising fascination for a violent encounter; there was, more than anything, a HOPE. Most of the passengers were White, heading uptown toward that last section that remained White. It was a ride that required some time, and one taking it felt like he or she was reaching out for a dwindling, doomed place.

Williams guessed, as he watched the nigger, that he had a White girlfriend up there, or was trying to get one. Or that the nigger was doing what niggers do: check out the White parts of town, just to see civilization, or what they could pillage. Williams was returning home from his job, as most of the passengers were doing. He could see they were as tired as he. Tired of many things. Williams regarded the nigger again, though he had already made up his mind what he must do. He looked at the nigger's baggy pants, the too-large athletic jacket, the black bandanna on his head, the bizarre athletic shoes. The kid had maintained his sprawl across the double seat, and his long, skinny legs stuck far out into the aisle.

Suddenly Williams felt the pain again, in the center of his chest. These pains did not come often, and they departed quickly, but they were sharp. He could not conclude it was his heart, because he felt no echo, no weakness, after the pain left. No, the pain came like a shot, instant, did its work -- was it a message? -- and departed. Whatever. He did not care to know, because he knew the body paid its owner as the owner treated it. He was strong; he didn't care. And anyway, he could not afford the fee a doctor would ask for examining him. But looking down at the nigger, who was waiting for Williams to move, Williams thought of the public money that no doubt was behind the nigger's story, and the husbandless wench who bore him.

There it was. Williams' eyes clicked right, toward the front of the bus, at the old lady again. She was bent and hanging on a support bar. No one had offered her a seat. None of the Whites had bothered. Yes, the decades of lies had taken hold -- degraded them, suppressed their White instincts. The sign on the wall ordered them to surrender their seats to the old and weak, but Williams guessed the weak could not read.

The bus was struggling and squealing in the sea of car roofs, pedestrians, the din of horns and hissing brakes. People were everywhere. Dirty, overtaxed, over-crowded, the city, like all non-White cities, was sliding down, and disease was multiple and aggressive again, such as had not been seen in a century or more, although the government refused to fully report it.

Well, there was nothing more to it, then. When the bus next stopped for passengers, Williams drew his CZ pistol from under his jacket, pointed, and pulled the trigger twice. "Tap tap," Williams thought, disciplining himself; recovered the point, and again: "tap tap." The first slugs tore into the nigger's chest, the second volley walked upward, catching him in the face and forehead. Williams liked the way the nigger jerked as the slugs slammed into him. It was natural law, coming to visit. It was over in four seconds. Williams slipped the safety catch on, slid the pistol into his beltline, and stepped out the rear exit. He walked steadily, calmly, down the street which he knew thoroughly, on which he had rehearsed physically and in his mind, many times. He knew all the streets. Turn here; half a block, turn again. Stow the pistol in the secret spot. Walk on. Stop in the certain alley, change jackets, put on a hat. It was going smoothly. He listened to the police sirens gathering, closing in on the bus. He went on, knowing his Hate was guiding him, and would not let him down. He had paid it respect. And he could imagine the scene inside the bus.

Someone had moved, and the poor, old woman had gotten a seat. The shots and the smell of burned cordite would have shocked everyone -- maybe into awareness. And there would be the corpse of one jungle nigger, never to plague White people again. It had been a good day for Williams. He had made a start. Now he would work his way up the chain. His Hate was content, for he had obeyed it, trusted it. He had diminished the power of the lies a bit.

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