Bibliografía de William Gibson (en la que se me cita) en este sitio web sobre ciencia ficción:
Intercom Science Fiction Station. "William Gibson: Una bibliografía 5 (2003-2012)." Intercom Science Fiction Station.*
http://www.intercom-sf.com/modules.php?name=Encyclopedia&op=content&tid=27603
2022
¡El último Garcialandia! https://t.co/JkrkeFse9Y #repentinitis #oann
— JoséAngelGarcíaLanda (@JoseAngelGLanda) February 8, 2022
El despoblacionismo masivo está de moda, en versiones neomalthusianas, genocidas, utópicas o apocalípticas, a elegir. Algún magnate iluminado lo mandó tallar en las Piedras Guía de Georgia, y cada vez más atienden a esos guías. I can feel it coming in the air tonight. No es que la cosa sea de hoy—la ciencia ficción la viene oliendo desde hace tiempo; en Soylent Green ya sabían mucho de estos negocios catastróficos, y fue Mary Shelley, la inventora de la ciencia ficción, quien escribió la novela pandémica El último hombre—eso por no remontarnos a tiempos del Diluvio.
Uno de los hitos populares más recientes al respecto fue esa película de Los Vengadores, o era de los X-Men, en la que Thanos, un villano maléfico pero quizá racionalista, un Malthustalin posthumano, eliminaba a una gran parte de la población mundial así de golpe. Por el bien de todos: entiéndase que estas cosas siempre se hacen por motivos idealistas, como idealistas eran Hitler y Pol Pot. Y prácticos y expeditivos sobre todo: ya cogida una dinámica, se sigue con ella to the bitter end si no paramos antes al filántropo. Hay algunos con gran vocación de despobladores, como el abortero Gates, que ya nos explicaba que con suerte podríamos reducir la población en un 15% gracias a las vacunas. Otro Despoblacionista es su amigo Klaus Schwab, un reptiliano humanoide que ya parece teletransportado aquí desde un futuro peor.
A la espera de mejores soluciones para eliminar a la gente que sobra, Gates ha pasado a vendérselas a todo el mundo, sus vacunas alteradas de nueva generación, que quizá te salven o quizá te despueblen— las coloca a través de la OMS y de políticos de cultivo en laboratorio, agentes infiltrados y globalistas plantados. ¿Estarán en lo de la despoblación, real y literalmente, los de las farmacéuticas, cuando hablan entre ellos? Es tan difícil asegurar eso como asegurar que todos los viales de vacunas que supuestamente contienen la misma Sustancia contienen en efecto la misma Sustancia. Tiene mucho de ruleta rusa, esto de la vacunación—si no con la primera dosis, ni con la segunda, entonces con las de refuerzo o de recuerdo, como las llaman ahora. Los ictus, infartos y lesiones varias se multiplican, pero la mayoría de los Vacunados aún pueden decir que han pasado por la vacuna y siguen vivos. Muchos se felicitan por ello y van a por la siguiente.
En la novela de William Gibson The Peripheral (Nueva York: Putnam's, 2014) aparece un episodio de despoblamiento masivo, que es en cierto modo el centro oculto no visto de la novela—lo que separa un antes y un después. En la novela vemos el antes y el después, dado que parte del argumento tiene que ver con un complicado puente temporal entre realidades virtuales o alternativas del presente y del pasado. La protagonista, Flynne, puede asomarse al futuro a través de un avatar que la hace personarse virtualmente en un androide (un "peripheral") que sustituye su cuerpo en ese futuro que ella vislumbra a través de la red. Un personaje de ese futuro, Wilf, también la visita aquí, viajando al pasado en modo pantalla a través de un androide más patatero, un robotito actual conectado a la red llamado un Wheelie Boy.
Y, respirando hondo, Wilf le explica a Flynne qué es lo que pasó en medio, entre la época de ella y el futuro desde el que él le habla, ¿qué pasó para que el mundo de 2100 se haya transformado tan radicalmente? Pasó lo que llama "the jackpot". What's that, Wilf, the jackpot? Oigan una historia plausible del futuro:
... So she'd gone out to the chair and sat in it with Wilf in the Wheelie Boy, and he'd started to explain what he called the jackpot.
And first of all that it was no one thing. That it was multicausal, with no particular beginning and no end. More a climate than an event, so not the way apocalypse stories liked to have a big event, after which everybody ran around with guns, looking like Burton and his posse, or else were eaten alive by something caused by the big event. Not like that.
It was androgenic, he said, and she knew from Ciencia Loca and National Geographic that that meant because of people. Not that they'd known what they were doing, had meant to make problems, but they'd caused it anyway. And in fact the actual climate, the weather, caused by there being too much carbon, had been the driver for a lot of other things. How that got worse and never better, and was just expected to, ongoing. Because people in the past, clueless as to how that worked, had fucked it all up, then not been able to get it together to do anything about it, even after they knew, and now it was too late.
So now, in her day, he said, they were headed into androgenic, systemic, multiplex, seriously bad shit, like she sort of already knew, figured everybody did, except for people who still said it wasn't happening, and those people were mostly expecting the Second Coming anyway. She'd looked across the silver lawn, that Leon had cut with the push-mower whose cast-iron frame was held together with actual bailing wire, to where moon shadows lay, past stunted box-woods and the stump of a concrete birdbath they'd pretended was a dragon's castle, while Wilf told her it killed 80 percent of every last person alive, over about forty years.
And hearing that, she just wondered if it could mean anything, really, when somebody told you something like that. When it was his past and your future.
What had they done, she'd asked him, her first question since he'd started, with all the bodies?
The usual things, he'd said, because it was never all at once. Then, later, for a while, nothing, and then the assemblers. The assemblers, nanobots, had come later. The assemblers had also done things like excavating and cleaning the buried rivers of London, after they'd finished tidying the die-off. Had done everything she'd seen on her way to Cheapside. Had built the tower where she'd seen the woman prepare for her party and then be killed, built all the others in the grid of what he called shards, and cared for it all, constantly, in his time after the jackpot.
It hurt him to talk about it, she felt, but she guessed he didn't know how much, or how. She could tell he didn't unpack this, much, or maybe ever. He said that people like Ash made their whole lives about it. Dressed in black and marked themselves, but for them it was more about other species, the other great dying, than the 80 percent.
No comets crashing, nothing you could really call a nuclear war. Just everything else, tangled in the changing climate: droughts, water shortages, crop failures, honeybees gone like they almost were now, collapse of other keystone species, every last alpha predator gone, antibiotics doing even less than they already did, diseases that were never quite the one big pandemic but big enough to be historic events in themselves. And all of it around people: how people were, how many of them there were, how they'd changed things just by being there.
The shadows on the lawn were black holes, bottomless, or like velvet had been spread, perfectly flat.
But science, he said, had been the wild card, the twist. With everything stumbling deeper into a ditch of shit, history itself become a slaughterhouse, science had started popping. Not all at once, no one big heroic thing, but there were cleaner, cheaper energy sources, more effective ways to get carbon out of the air, new drugs that did what antibiotics had done before, nanotechnology that was more than just car paint that healed itself or camo crawling on a ball cap. Ways to print food that required much less in the way of actual food to begin with. So everything, however deeply fucked in general, was lit increasingly by the new, by things that made people blink and sit up, but then the rest of it would just go on, deeper into the ditch. A progress accompanied by constant violence, he said, by sufferings unimaginable. She felt him stretch past that, to the future where he lived, then pull himself there, quick, unwilling to describe the worst of what had happened, would happen.
She looked at the moon. It would look the same, she guessed, through the decades he'd sketched for her.
None of that, he said, had necessarily been as bad for the very rich people. The richest had gotten richer, there being fewer to own whatever there was. Constant crisis had provided constant opportunity. That was where his world had come from, he said. At the deepest point of everything going to shit, population radically reduced, the survivors saw less carbon being dumped into the system, with what was still being produced eaten by these towers they'd built, which was the other thing the one she'd patrolled was there for, not just housing rich folks. And seeing that, for them, the survivors, was like seeing the bullet dodged.
'The bullet was the eighty percent, who died?'
And he just nodded, on the Wheelie's screen, and went on, about how London, long since the natural home of everyone who owned the world but didn't live in China, rose first, never entirely having fallen.
"What about China?"
The Wheelie Boy's tablet creaked faintly, raising the angle of its camera. "They'd had a head start," he said.
"At what?"
"At how the world would work, after the jackpot. This," and the tablet creaked again, surveying her mother's lawn, "is still ostensibly a democracy. A majority of empowered survivors, considering the jackpot, and no doubt their own positions, wanted none of that. Blamed it, in fact."
"Who runs it, then?"
"Oligarchs, corporations, neomonarchists. Hereditary monarchies provided conveniently familiar armatures. Essentially feudal, according to its critics. Such as they are."
(...) (The Peripheral, cap. 79, "The Jackpot", 319-22)
Muchas cosas suenan familiares, ¿verdad? No es de extrañar, visto que el futuro este de finales del siglo XXI está inventado desde 2014.
Pero entre tanta desilusión y tanto pesimismo y tanto cinismo sobre la futura cleptocracia ("the klept") hay un punto de ingenuidad en el catastrofismo de Gibson. Vemos que nos ofrece la versión políticamente correcta, la versión Justin Trudeau-Greta Thunberg, de los desastres que nos acechan. El cambio climático será el despoblador. Con la consabida pulla a lo trumpistas de rifle y biblia que no se ocupan del cambio climático, que es la gran amenaza inmediata según el relato de Gibson o recibido por Gibson. Y por tanto, predicando con las marionetas, Gibson es relativamente ciego a quienes mueven a esas marionetas—a Trudeau, Thunberg, Macron, Draghi, Sánchez, Biden.... you name it. Los titiriteros globales. Que son, quiénes van a ser si no, THE KLEPT, no la cleptocracia global de 2100 sino la de 2020.
Vemos que los malvados ricos de la novela de Gibson son relativamente benevolentes. Entiéndanme, van a lo suyo, pero les cae tanta riqueza encima a partir de la crisis ("the jackpot") que sólo tienen que poner la gorra y recoger lo que va cayendo. No tienen nada, nada que ver con la génesis ni la gestión activa de la crisis, sólo son oportunistas—como Soros, si no los expolio yo los expoliaría otro. No están pensando en despoblar el mundo.
Y la ciencia es enteramente benéfica. Gracias por la ciencia, que limpia el aire. Bien se vale de la ciencia, que nos pasma y nos ilusiona, un rayo de luz mientras el mundo se va hundiendo en la mierda, y un rayo que va limpiando, organizando, reonstruyendo el futuro. Esto es casi cienciolátrico, porque la ciencia al parecer no tiene nada que ver con la matanza, ni con la masacre, la gente se muere... ¿de qué? ¿de hambre al parecer? ¿de sed? ¿de matanzas a palos? ¿de mortalidad variada? De picaduras de abejas no es. Sea como sea, los hombres de ciencia y las vacunas no tienen nada que ver con este Gran Despoblamiento. Salió solo. Nadie lo organizó.
En nuestro mundo somos un poco peor pensados, y muchos tendemos a pensar que si hay una gran fortuna que hacer con una gran masacre gradual, con una pandemia de ésas que no acaban de ser la gran pandemia final, pero—entonces seguramente va a haber magnates/mangantes interesados en promover todo esto con un poco de ciencia, que para eso está. Para reorientar el mundo a un curso que nos beneficie aún más, y para reducir la población a proporciones más razonables, visto que el aborto y la eutanasia no dan suficientes frutos, que las guerras nucleares de momento se hacen esperar o no parecen oportunas, y visto que el cambio climático te mata de calor a veces, pero no acabas de morirte realmente. En cambio, con la ayuda de esa nanotecnología tan útil que ve perfilarse Gibson para fines benéficos, seguro que le podemos dar al despoblamiento el empujoncito que estaba necesitando. Gibson no parece vislumbrar que las pandemias podrían ser plandemias, inducidas para "ganancia de función" (ganancia de función genocida) mediante un virus frankenstein. Pero la realidad supera a la ficción, y hay mucho dinero que ganar diseñando virus genocidas.
Y si encima conseguimos que nos paguen previamente por el veneno, a precio de oro, aquellos de quien vamos a heredar—entonces sí que podemos decir que nos ha caído el premio gordo. Que nos paguen por el veneno y por la cura que.... ¡sorpresa! ¡también es venenosa, y cara!
Pero no se me alarmen. De esta pandemia de vacunación podemos decir por el momento que es como la inflada plandemia que ha servido para promoverla. Que no acaba de ser la definitiva, vamos, sino una más de las que están siendo diseñadas y promovidas por quienes más saben de estas cosas—sobre todo cómo vender jarabe de perro y medicina bien pregonada al público, que está dispuesto a matarse por ella, por muy averiada que esté.
Contra la insensata vacunación obligatoria
—oOo—
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"Someone told me that cyberspace was 'everting'. That was how she put it."
"Sure. And once it everts, then there isn't any cyberspace, is there? There never was, if you want to look at it that way. It was a way we had of looking where we were headed, a direction. With the grid, we're here. This is the other side of the screen. Right here. (....) The world we walk around in would be channels" (64).
There was a cab, she saw, the driver reclining behind the wheel, possibly asleep, dreaming perhaps of the fields of Azerbaijan. She passed it, a weird exuberance rising in her as the wind, so wild and strangely random, surged along Sunset, from the direction of Tower Records, like the back-draft from something straining for takeoff. ("White Lego", 4).
"The locative (...) lots of us are already doing it. But you can't just do the locative with your nervous system. One day, you will. We'll have internalized the interface. It'll have evolved to the point where we forget about it".
