Dreamscipline and Finish

Sam hadn't thought Ssssssss’ssssss-ssssss had the brains to lead him into a trap.
Rintrah roar'd and shook his head. "It looks as though Sam won't be able to dine at the big people table this year." He started in on cooing and gagagooing. "Lookie little biddy Sam--ahh, look how CUTE! A wubby widdy burrbymunkin, ohhhh." They'd cut away his clothes; Sam was now dressed in nothing but a diaper. When he tried to speak up, Rintrah's goons socked him with a shoehorn behind the ear. They were Blaketshburrr'n, some of the hundred and fifty or so who'd taken control of Blaaket and subjugated the rest of their race, now looking to extend control beyond the puny little planet that spawned them. Religious. Sam had heard rumors among questionable circles the Blaketshburrr'n had been working comfortably into illicit trafficking circles. Still, he though Afrytsgferg had better taste than to deal with cult whackos.

The lady Blaketshburrr'ns were all cloistered, 150,000 to a 'city-center'--really inflatable, industrial tents. They were small, hot and importantly, self-contained. The males, a few thousand or so left on the planet, went about the centersservicing them andharvesting eggs. The opaque, inflatable domes littered the entirety of the now dust-brown planet, just some few small patches of which were visible at those spaces where the edges of the city centers partedthe little tan anes of a burnt-out planet. There was never any news out of Blaaket, which, the ruling council boasted, meant theirs was the most content world in the galaxy.
The people were close to human in appearance, but disproportionate. They had the shape of enormous infants and walked not on feet but shins, the better to support their hugely fattened masses. Members of the ruling council lived off-system aboard satelite bodies and occupied themselves with the production of video programming. Even the ruling Blaketshburrr'n didn't like to leave their native atmosphere, which smelled of lady-concentrate. But there they were--100% revolting.
"Now listen up, you little baby--stand him up and get the hood on." The goons raised Sam to his knees and Rintrah began to lecture on the 'history' of Blaaket from the religious text Economiae Chicagau. Though Sam couldn't see, he imagined his facial expression, was sure he felt the phrasing punctuated by spittle.
"This is a ritual, you see. Certain conventions apply--the shrouded initiate will hold out his arms, in offering. Now, hold them there, at a ninety degree angle from your wicked body. The shroud will allow you to hear the more effectively."

* * * * *

the short version

Unconventional for religiousy tales, the history of the "Home-planet of Freedom" begins with the establishment of paradise on Blaaket. The ghost-author of the book, Conomias, inhabited a mound of the orphan dung that was then imported as nutrient for the soil. He "spoke unto" the prophet, the second-son of a farmer--no small trick for the throatless.

The prophet then inspired the revolutionary committee to destroy all of the false-gods and books and temples and the small band of humans who inhabited the planet, whom he termed the 'Old baddy-bads'. He instructed them:

teach the people. They shouldn't live independently, violent bands and rogue families, but as one family under one banner. Bring them together--but privately, so that they cannot but be with God. Show them the rewards of heaven.

"They should be like children," said dear Conomia, "under your tutelage."

The ritual reading went on as if from a table of contents, all in sections and subsections, points a through g. In the two-thousand years since the revolution on Blaaket, no female had locomoted more than eight feet, the confines of their cells, which radiated the four central video screens of the city-centers. There had been no war, no unrest, and a steady in-out stream of goods. The harvested eggs made delicious mcmuffins and mcgriddles. The 'good woman' watched a constant videostream of Good News. Video diaries by the ruling council's offspring, outlining the cosmetic surgeries they desired or dating gameshows in which the contestants spoke more to the camera than to their companions. In all of the programming, the subjects praised, preaching that after life all Blaketshburr'n could be so lucky.

It didn't matter: among the television viewing, generations of solitude had hampered the capacity for speech. They watched silently, groaning only when the video feed was interrupted or during feeding. The males who see to their care by collecting eggs and spreading the feed (malted, processed orphan dung now enriched the people directly; the ruling council early decided that work only distracted the Blaketshburrr'n from their true calling-Reverance) are prohibited to watch the videoscreen with the women. As they go about their duties they are subjected to 24 hour talk radio. (Although it is completely unnatural to the high broadcast technology of the Blaketshburrr, the radio contains an audible hiss to give it an authentically hateful tone.) Disembodied voices go on endlessly about the value of the Blaketshburrr'ns' work, about the strength of their faith and the price all other beings will pay after life. Religious stuff.

In the closing subsection to the 5,037th Quarterly Report the High COO Blintaroon predicted, based on growth analysis, that all divisions would merge sometime in the 1500s of our time. While the council could see to population control minimally, he wrote that in fact our economy was "doomed to succeed" in perpetual growth. Based on the writings of the Founder, if the council were ever to restrict growth unnaturally the great bear of heaven would descend upon the satelite palace and lay them to financial ruin. Regulation was not an option--but how, he speculated, can the council prevent the eggeers from entering the dirty world of human language when their quarters will eventually grow together?

* * * * *

Beyond the hood Sam could sense only his voice and my own aching knees, chrissakes could the baby blab. Overwhelmed by the ripe scent of the factory-planet he was choking fighting choking and sobbing to breathe. "Ssssssss’ssssss-ssssss," Sam said, (brokenly--it sounded more like 'Ss'sss's'ss'ssss(gasp)ss-'ssssss') "where the hell's Afrytsgferg... I don't need this whacko lesson. If I want his opinion, I ask God. So unless someone here's gonna buy that tow I flew in on, tell him he can drool on someone else."

"ooh, little baby babblswabble. him think him a big man. HAhaha--listen to that garble, Afrytsgferg. He can be your little baby playmate."
"Jibby-yah, yah BOOSul, Rintrah!" Sam didn't believe it; though he knew the gravelly voice, he hadn't known babytalk to be among Afrytsgferg's languages. He was, indeed, one on the most solemn crime figures on the black market scene at times even using a German accent for effect. And yet it was his voice, his angry baby jibber.
"You two! what adorable little baby-lumpkinsssssssssssssssssssss. Weeawy wittle babiessssssss, cwankerth fo' dey napsssss."
"Yes, yes. He does sound cranky-- I think baby needs to go down for a nap. Ssssssss’ssssss-ssssss, give him his shot." Sam heard a [blam] and then a [gasp] and then a [thud]. That damn lizard!

* * * * *

"Rintrah!" shouted Sam--"Shut up, you damned insolent child!" Someone forced Sam's head to his knees. "I've had enough whining from your sister over there. You're going to learn what's right and you're going to do what I tell you, because you're a little baby and I'm a real adult. We've let you people run wild long enough like the space-babies you are. It's time for you to learn, and you're going to learn from us."

"I'm sorry, but," Sam was insolent, indignant, "aibood dobby dai, dobby dobby. What the? What's happenappadobb to mama, maamaaa voice? A blurbalurbalurb!"

"Praise Conomia! For it looks as though this savage is finally being made a proper vessel. A vessel for our holy work. Now, stop wasting your baby breath; you can't speak, not intelligibly. You see, you're finally dedicating your mind to listening carefully. You need the whole of your mind just to understand our holy orders. We have a mission uniquely suited to you, space-baby, back on Blaaket. We can't do it, it's proscribed by our scripture-- but that's where you fiendish little evil babies come in. You are blessed by Conomia to do the dirty work of the Home-planet of Freedom."