Elfwood is the worlds largest SciFi & Fantasy community.
- 119873 members, 4 online now.
- 23806 site visitors the last 24 hours.
|
Stories / Stories / 
Deborah Cullins Smith / Text 11 of 19 / Rise of the New South
"Rise of the New South" by Deborah Cullins Smith
SciFi/Fantasy text 11 out of 19 by Deborah Cullins Smith. ←Previous - Next→
| A new era in society is rising in the Southern States -- with the help of technology and a new breed of servants. But can the South truly rise again? And who will lead them to prominence? It's The Stepford Wives --- with a twist! This story was part of the Projects with James Bowers. And enormously fun to write! |
   |
The
Rise of the New South
by Deborah J Smith
by Deborah J Smith
Douglas sat in his wing-back chair by the fireplace.
Rain spattered the windows with soft pings against the deepening shadows of
waning daylight. He enjoyed those late afternoons when he could engross
himself in the great literature lining his library walls. But four o’clock
tea time was fast approaching and Ellen would be joining him any
moment.
Douglas had spent a pleasurable afternoon reading Margaret Mitchell’s epic Gone With the Wind. He didn’t think much of the feminine aspects of simpering southern belles. However, Scarlet O’Hara’s hard-headed Irish business sense did appeal to him, and he realized how out-of-character she was in the civilization of her century. The South had fallen to its knees after the Civil War and the end of slavery. But now, Douglas was witnessing the return of Southern values in his own lifetime, and he took pride in helping to raise the current standards to an enhanced reflection of those old Days of Glory. Yes, even slavery was returning to the South, and it was good in Douglas’ eyes. After all, there were those who were well-suited to servanthood. They would never possess the intelligence for positions in the world, and should not be expected to attain worldly status. Was it not better for them to be taken care of, provided for, and given useful lives of service?
Yes, the Old South of 1860 had the right idea, but the wrong application. Intelligence was not based on color. That was the downfall of the Era of King Cotton. In this century, the world was properly balanced and slavery was re-instituted for those of inferior intellect, leaving world affairs to those capable of management without the hot-headed passions of their 19th century counterparts.
The tall grandfather clock in the corner chimed the four o’clock hour. On cue, Ellen entered the library in a tan sheath dress and cream cardigan, pearls circling her slender neck and studding her ear lobes. She carried herself with a grace that never failed to turn heads, and Douglas smiled appreciatively as she swept into the room with Arthur close behind, heavily laden tea tray in his capable hands.
Arthur was the perfect manservant. He would never win awards for intelligence, but he kept to the strict schedules of his master and mistress, and ran an impeccable household. Servants of Arthur’s caliber were worth their weight in gold.
Silently, Arthur set the tray on the low polished table before the fireplace and proceeded to raise the lights in the darkened library. He stoked the dying embers of the fire, added another log, and replaced the screen that shielded his masters from stray sparks.
“Will there be anything else, Madam?” Arthur asked with the dignity of a British manservant.
“No, Arthur,” Ellen said absently. “Thank you. That will be all.”
Ellen smiled at Douglas as Arthur slipped silently from the room. “Did you have a good afternoon, Darling?” she asked.
“Yes, quite enjoyable,” Douglas said.
Ellen poured out and handed Douglas the bone china teacup of Earl Grey with a touch of milk, no sugar. She sliced a generous wedge of pound cake and ladled sliced strawberries over it, added a blueberry tart to the plate, and handed it to Douglas before preparing her own cup of tea, (two lumps of sugar, no milk) and plate of fruit-laden confections in smaller portions.
Oh, yes, life was the picture of perfection. They chatted casually, and took a few moments to review the social obligations for the coming weekend. A reception for Senator Cardswell topped the agenda, and the ball following dinner at Charleston’s fabulous Middleton Plantation was going to be the event of the season. Douglas always enjoyed the invigorating discussions such social engagements afforded, while Ellen reveled in the whirl of high society. Senator Cardswell was one of the shakers and movers in the Rise of the New South, and being included in his social circle was quite the plum in Charleston’s High Society. Douglas and Ellen were in that coveted inner circle, and rising higher with each passing month.
“And how was your afternoon?” Douglas asked Ellen. Ellen’s tastes were bent toward watching the story unfold in movies rather than exercising her mind to visualize the written forms of entertainment. And that was why their afternoons were spent in separate rooms!
“I watched The Stepford Wives,” Ellen said with a mischievous gleam.
“Oh, Ellen,” exclaimed Douglas in exasperation. “Again? How can you stand that ridiculous movie? It’s too preposterous!”
“I know, Douglas,” Ellen said with a laugh. “But it’s the absurdity that fascinates me.”
“But, Ellen, really! People creating robots to replace people? Ridiculous! Surely you would create a being with more sense than those commercial-quoting zombies. That horrid movie has to be the worst one in your entire collection.”
Ellen giggled, then tried unsuccessfully to assume a contrite expression. “But, Darling,” she murmured. “At least I’ve relegated it to my afternoon viewing while you’re here in the library. I don’t ask you to watch it with me anymore.”
He laughed out-right at her compliant expression. Ellen’s taste in entertainment was not what one would call intellectually stimulating, but she did possess a charming quality that made life quite pleasant. And she was an extraordinary hostess, a scintillating companion, and one of the most socially adept women he had ever known. Some of his friends were cursed with wives whose social graces were not only lacking, but whose faux pas had caused great political distress to their spouses. On such occasions, he breathed easier knowing that his own wife was not cursed with that dreadful “foot-in-mouth disease”. She always seemed to know the right things to say. She had even become adept at keeping other wives in their social circle from committing unpardonable blunders by steering the conversations into safer waters when she could foresee problems arising.
He remembered the evening Harold Carter’s wife, Bessie, had touted her views on the evils of slavery to Senator Cardswell. Bessie had been blissfully unaware that the Senator was responsible for bringing slavery back to the New South. She almost ended Harold’s social livelihood right then and there. Harold was choking on his martini, while the Senator glared at Bessie with a stony face.
Poor Harold Carter, Douglas thought. Bessie Carter is like a bottle of nitroglycerin, always exploding without warning. Thank God for Ellen!
And while Douglas and Ellen flitted about in the Gardens of the Politically Correct Aristocracy of the New South, Arthur kept their home running like a well-oiled clock. He appeared and disappeared with the ease of a magician, and kept the household immaculate, ready for both the expected and the unexpected contingencies of life. Arthur was a gem. How had they ever managed without him?
A soft rap at the door signaled Arthur’s return. Quietly and efficiently, he cleared away the tea tray and departed.
“Arthur is such a wonder,” Ellen remarked.
“Yes,” agreed Douglas. “He was well worth the price Old Bagsby charged me. I thought it was exorbident at the time. But now I’m glad we made the deal. Senator Cardswell talked me into it, and I am so glad he did. He owns stock in the company, you know. When he told me about Bagsby’s research, I was not expecting anything even remotely like Arthur.”
“I heard Harold Carter was pea-green when you outbid him,” Ellen said with a smirk.
“Yes, quite,” Douglas said. “His manservant, Charles, isn’t anywhere near as capable as Arthur. Arthur isn’t exactly a brain surgeon…”
“…but we don’t need a brain surgeon to run this house,” Ellen finished for him. “We needed a manservant who can cope with our busy schedules, keep the house running smoothly, and plan a dinner for twelve guests at the drop of a hat! And Arthur is quite capable of that.”
“Yes,” Douglas agreed with a sunny smile. “He certainly exemplifies the perfect manservant, doesn’t he?”
They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, thinking about the perfection, which surrounded their daily lives. Life was charming in the New South.
“You know, Ellen,” Douglas began, “I think Senator Cardswell is going to ask me to run for Congress next term.”
“Oh, Douglas!” exclaimed Ellen. “Do you truly think so?”
Douglas smiled as Ellen’s eyes shown with excitement. The social whirl of the Capitol would be right up Ellen’s alley, and, of course, she would be perfect for a life of politics. The South was indeed rising from the ashes of Her former glory. There was consternation in the North over the resurgence of slavery, but even the Yankees were being won over this time. And many homes in Boston, New York, and even Chicago boasted slaves like Arthur. It was a miracle in this day and age, and Douglas felt the thrill of victorious achievement that he was on the cutting edge with the men who were making it all come to pass, like Senator Cardswell.
Technology was a wonderful thing. That’s why that movie of Ellen’s was so ludicrous. Stepford Wives indeed! When the Senator had told Douglas about his company, Cardswell Chemicals, Douglas had been intrigued, but felt that robotics were still decades away. Then Cardswell had introduced him to Bagsby, his prototype. Bagsby, in turn, was responsible for refining the technology and cranking out servants like Arthur, and the Carter’s manservant, Charles, among many others. They were the perfect servants. No longer the mindless hunk of robotics that Hollywood of the 20th century depicted, these servants were free-thinking individuals. Arthur could rationalize, anticipate, plan ahead without supervision, and he required no maintenance. No, he was not a brain surgeon, but he was a fully independent, intelligent being. Oh, yes, the South was going to rise again.
With servants like these, men were free to pursue political careers, business ventures, imports and exports, anything they desired. And the wives were free to support their husbands, keep themselves immaculately groomed, improve their minds, promote their husbands’ social interests… and leave the mundane household chores to the servants. Life was perfect.
“Look, Darling,” Ellen said, interrupting his train of thought. “It stopped raining.”
“Would you care for a stroll through the gardens, my dear?” Douglas asked with a fond smile. “We do have time before we have to dress for cocktails at the Millers tonight.”
Arthur watched Douglas and Ellen drift along the paths through the roses, raindrops still glistening on their petals. He activated the receiver in his ear and flipped up his collar to reveal the miniature microphone clipped under his lapel.
“Yes, Sir, Mr. Bagsby. They are in the garden right now… Yes, Sir, I can talk freely… No, Sir everything is going fine. Yes, Sir, I’ve programmed the sleep system just as you suggested. It’s ready to activate tonight. I’ll make sure I set the program when I go in to turn down the bed tonight. Yes, Sir… the brain stimulator program is safely hidden in their pillows and seems to be in perfect working order… No Sir, they have never suspected a thing.
“Oh, one more thing, Mr. Bagsby… Yes… Does Charles have Bessie Carter under control this time? Or should I modify some of Miss Ellen’s programs to improve her trouble-shooting skills? … Yes, Sir… Yes, I can handle that… Yes, Sir, I do believe they will serve our purposes quite well at the Capitol… No, Sir, I don’t think they know that Senator Cardswell is one of us…
“Yes, Sir, Mr. Bagsby, modern technology is a marvel…”
Douglas had spent a pleasurable afternoon reading Margaret Mitchell’s epic Gone With the Wind. He didn’t think much of the feminine aspects of simpering southern belles. However, Scarlet O’Hara’s hard-headed Irish business sense did appeal to him, and he realized how out-of-character she was in the civilization of her century. The South had fallen to its knees after the Civil War and the end of slavery. But now, Douglas was witnessing the return of Southern values in his own lifetime, and he took pride in helping to raise the current standards to an enhanced reflection of those old Days of Glory. Yes, even slavery was returning to the South, and it was good in Douglas’ eyes. After all, there were those who were well-suited to servanthood. They would never possess the intelligence for positions in the world, and should not be expected to attain worldly status. Was it not better for them to be taken care of, provided for, and given useful lives of service?
Yes, the Old South of 1860 had the right idea, but the wrong application. Intelligence was not based on color. That was the downfall of the Era of King Cotton. In this century, the world was properly balanced and slavery was re-instituted for those of inferior intellect, leaving world affairs to those capable of management without the hot-headed passions of their 19th century counterparts.
The tall grandfather clock in the corner chimed the four o’clock hour. On cue, Ellen entered the library in a tan sheath dress and cream cardigan, pearls circling her slender neck and studding her ear lobes. She carried herself with a grace that never failed to turn heads, and Douglas smiled appreciatively as she swept into the room with Arthur close behind, heavily laden tea tray in his capable hands.
Arthur was the perfect manservant. He would never win awards for intelligence, but he kept to the strict schedules of his master and mistress, and ran an impeccable household. Servants of Arthur’s caliber were worth their weight in gold.
Silently, Arthur set the tray on the low polished table before the fireplace and proceeded to raise the lights in the darkened library. He stoked the dying embers of the fire, added another log, and replaced the screen that shielded his masters from stray sparks.
“Will there be anything else, Madam?” Arthur asked with the dignity of a British manservant.
“No, Arthur,” Ellen said absently. “Thank you. That will be all.”
Ellen smiled at Douglas as Arthur slipped silently from the room. “Did you have a good afternoon, Darling?” she asked.
“Yes, quite enjoyable,” Douglas said.
Ellen poured out and handed Douglas the bone china teacup of Earl Grey with a touch of milk, no sugar. She sliced a generous wedge of pound cake and ladled sliced strawberries over it, added a blueberry tart to the plate, and handed it to Douglas before preparing her own cup of tea, (two lumps of sugar, no milk) and plate of fruit-laden confections in smaller portions.
Oh, yes, life was the picture of perfection. They chatted casually, and took a few moments to review the social obligations for the coming weekend. A reception for Senator Cardswell topped the agenda, and the ball following dinner at Charleston’s fabulous Middleton Plantation was going to be the event of the season. Douglas always enjoyed the invigorating discussions such social engagements afforded, while Ellen reveled in the whirl of high society. Senator Cardswell was one of the shakers and movers in the Rise of the New South, and being included in his social circle was quite the plum in Charleston’s High Society. Douglas and Ellen were in that coveted inner circle, and rising higher with each passing month.
“And how was your afternoon?” Douglas asked Ellen. Ellen’s tastes were bent toward watching the story unfold in movies rather than exercising her mind to visualize the written forms of entertainment. And that was why their afternoons were spent in separate rooms!
“I watched The Stepford Wives,” Ellen said with a mischievous gleam.
“Oh, Ellen,” exclaimed Douglas in exasperation. “Again? How can you stand that ridiculous movie? It’s too preposterous!”
“I know, Douglas,” Ellen said with a laugh. “But it’s the absurdity that fascinates me.”
“But, Ellen, really! People creating robots to replace people? Ridiculous! Surely you would create a being with more sense than those commercial-quoting zombies. That horrid movie has to be the worst one in your entire collection.”
Ellen giggled, then tried unsuccessfully to assume a contrite expression. “But, Darling,” she murmured. “At least I’ve relegated it to my afternoon viewing while you’re here in the library. I don’t ask you to watch it with me anymore.”
He laughed out-right at her compliant expression. Ellen’s taste in entertainment was not what one would call intellectually stimulating, but she did possess a charming quality that made life quite pleasant. And she was an extraordinary hostess, a scintillating companion, and one of the most socially adept women he had ever known. Some of his friends were cursed with wives whose social graces were not only lacking, but whose faux pas had caused great political distress to their spouses. On such occasions, he breathed easier knowing that his own wife was not cursed with that dreadful “foot-in-mouth disease”. She always seemed to know the right things to say. She had even become adept at keeping other wives in their social circle from committing unpardonable blunders by steering the conversations into safer waters when she could foresee problems arising.
He remembered the evening Harold Carter’s wife, Bessie, had touted her views on the evils of slavery to Senator Cardswell. Bessie had been blissfully unaware that the Senator was responsible for bringing slavery back to the New South. She almost ended Harold’s social livelihood right then and there. Harold was choking on his martini, while the Senator glared at Bessie with a stony face.
Poor Harold Carter, Douglas thought. Bessie Carter is like a bottle of nitroglycerin, always exploding without warning. Thank God for Ellen!
And while Douglas and Ellen flitted about in the Gardens of the Politically Correct Aristocracy of the New South, Arthur kept their home running like a well-oiled clock. He appeared and disappeared with the ease of a magician, and kept the household immaculate, ready for both the expected and the unexpected contingencies of life. Arthur was a gem. How had they ever managed without him?
A soft rap at the door signaled Arthur’s return. Quietly and efficiently, he cleared away the tea tray and departed.
“Arthur is such a wonder,” Ellen remarked.
“Yes,” agreed Douglas. “He was well worth the price Old Bagsby charged me. I thought it was exorbident at the time. But now I’m glad we made the deal. Senator Cardswell talked me into it, and I am so glad he did. He owns stock in the company, you know. When he told me about Bagsby’s research, I was not expecting anything even remotely like Arthur.”
“I heard Harold Carter was pea-green when you outbid him,” Ellen said with a smirk.
“Yes, quite,” Douglas said. “His manservant, Charles, isn’t anywhere near as capable as Arthur. Arthur isn’t exactly a brain surgeon…”
“…but we don’t need a brain surgeon to run this house,” Ellen finished for him. “We needed a manservant who can cope with our busy schedules, keep the house running smoothly, and plan a dinner for twelve guests at the drop of a hat! And Arthur is quite capable of that.”
“Yes,” Douglas agreed with a sunny smile. “He certainly exemplifies the perfect manservant, doesn’t he?”
They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, thinking about the perfection, which surrounded their daily lives. Life was charming in the New South.
“You know, Ellen,” Douglas began, “I think Senator Cardswell is going to ask me to run for Congress next term.”
“Oh, Douglas!” exclaimed Ellen. “Do you truly think so?”
Douglas smiled as Ellen’s eyes shown with excitement. The social whirl of the Capitol would be right up Ellen’s alley, and, of course, she would be perfect for a life of politics. The South was indeed rising from the ashes of Her former glory. There was consternation in the North over the resurgence of slavery, but even the Yankees were being won over this time. And many homes in Boston, New York, and even Chicago boasted slaves like Arthur. It was a miracle in this day and age, and Douglas felt the thrill of victorious achievement that he was on the cutting edge with the men who were making it all come to pass, like Senator Cardswell.
Technology was a wonderful thing. That’s why that movie of Ellen’s was so ludicrous. Stepford Wives indeed! When the Senator had told Douglas about his company, Cardswell Chemicals, Douglas had been intrigued, but felt that robotics were still decades away. Then Cardswell had introduced him to Bagsby, his prototype. Bagsby, in turn, was responsible for refining the technology and cranking out servants like Arthur, and the Carter’s manservant, Charles, among many others. They were the perfect servants. No longer the mindless hunk of robotics that Hollywood of the 20th century depicted, these servants were free-thinking individuals. Arthur could rationalize, anticipate, plan ahead without supervision, and he required no maintenance. No, he was not a brain surgeon, but he was a fully independent, intelligent being. Oh, yes, the South was going to rise again.
With servants like these, men were free to pursue political careers, business ventures, imports and exports, anything they desired. And the wives were free to support their husbands, keep themselves immaculately groomed, improve their minds, promote their husbands’ social interests… and leave the mundane household chores to the servants. Life was perfect.
“Look, Darling,” Ellen said, interrupting his train of thought. “It stopped raining.”
“Would you care for a stroll through the gardens, my dear?” Douglas asked with a fond smile. “We do have time before we have to dress for cocktails at the Millers tonight.”
Arthur watched Douglas and Ellen drift along the paths through the roses, raindrops still glistening on their petals. He activated the receiver in his ear and flipped up his collar to reveal the miniature microphone clipped under his lapel.
“Yes, Sir, Mr. Bagsby. They are in the garden right now… Yes, Sir, I can talk freely… No, Sir everything is going fine. Yes, Sir, I’ve programmed the sleep system just as you suggested. It’s ready to activate tonight. I’ll make sure I set the program when I go in to turn down the bed tonight. Yes, Sir… the brain stimulator program is safely hidden in their pillows and seems to be in perfect working order… No Sir, they have never suspected a thing.
“Oh, one more thing, Mr. Bagsby… Yes… Does Charles have Bessie Carter under control this time? Or should I modify some of Miss Ellen’s programs to improve her trouble-shooting skills? … Yes, Sir… Yes, I can handle that… Yes, Sir, I do believe they will serve our purposes quite well at the Capitol… No, Sir, I don’t think they know that Senator Cardswell is one of us…
“Yes, Sir, Mr. Bagsby, modern technology is a marvel…”
|
Loading...
Kim
| ||||||||
'Rise of the New South':
• Created by:
Deborah Cullins Smith• Copyright: ©Deborah Cullins Smith. All rights reserved!
• Keywords: Books, Civilization, Library, Servant, Sleep, Society, Tea
• Categories: Robots, Androids, Humanoid Warmachines, Techno, Cyber, Technological, A.I. (Artificial Intelligence)
• Views: 874
More by 'Deborah Cullins Smith':
| Wings of the Dawn | Aftermath |
| Silver Lining | Just Another Pet Story |
| Defeated | Picnic |
Related Tutorials:
Timothy Pontious
A.R. George
Elfwood™ is a site for Fantasy and Science Fiction art and
stories created by Thomas Abrahamsson and
helpful
assistants and moderators, owned by the Elfwood
corporation. [More...]