From 56913c2ea2b9050505f5b481eeea607dc3528ea9 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: stanley lieber Date: Sun, 8 May 2011 18:52:57 +0000 Subject: [PATCH] add 1oct1993. --- lib/1oct1993 | 8947 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1 file changed, 8947 insertions(+) create mode 100644 lib/1oct1993 diff --git a/lib/1oct1993 b/lib/1oct1993 new file mode 100644 index 000000000..f24b58581 --- /dev/null +++ b/lib/1oct1993 @@ -0,0 +1,8947 @@ +1OCT1993 + +by Stanley Lieber + +Written 2004-2010 + +This book was typeset (troff -ms|lp -dstdout|ps2pdf) in New Century Schoolbook +by the author, using an IBM Thinkpad T23 running the 4th Edition of the Plan 9 +operating system. + +Reprinted with corrections, April 2011 + +1OCT1993 +1oct1993.com + +MASSIVE FICTIONS +massivefictions.com + +This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents +either are the product of the author's imagination or are used +fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, +businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental. + +This work is released to the public domain. + + +1OCT1993 + + +BOOK ONE + + +TAB2, 1960 + +tags: 1960, margaret, tab1, tab2, the_chief + +The testing was rigorous but fair. I don't know if the equipment +had any real effect, but he started talking just the same. + +_bump bump bump clickity clickity click bump bump bump_ + +Little Tommy. + +"Semen the color of old comic book pages, aged plastic, tape +residue, dipping sauce for crayons that were flattened for a specific +age group. You know, so they wouldn't roll away -- the crayons, not +the age group. Dog piss on the carpet, striped wallpaper, a tray of +stale flat bread, a portfolio of chalk drawings." + +"What else do you remember?" + +"The weather. Nothing." + +"Let's start over from the beginning." + +Aptitude tests. Memory. So far, things were progressing smoothly. I +actually choked back a tear. I admit it: I was proud of him. + +"Son, have you figured out what's going on yet?" + +"A severed, pierced penis. In a can of Prince Albert pipe tobacco. +Title: _Not Funny."_ + +I wrote _TAB2_ on the inside of his hat and placed it on his head. + +"Let's get the hell out of here." + + +Tommy hated the matching outfits. Orange toboggan hat, bomber +jacket, military galoshes. I had told him to think of it as his +uniform. He scratched at his buzzcut, dumbly. + +I hoisted him into his car seat. + +Winter had struck while the other boys were studying. Permafrost, +monochrome landscape. I had Tommy out and about in the elements every +day; we covered four miles, on average, pacing the farmer's market +near headquarters. He was already beating up on the older boys in the +class ahead of him. + +Or so I had forecast, when I set him on this routine. + +Reality didn't quite track. Tommy wasn't meeting his PT +requirements. I began scrubbing his face with an abrasive washcloth +and doubled his training hours. + +"Father, who do I have to blow around here to get a time sheet?" + +"You'll be done when I say you're done." + + +The kid's mother. + +I cleared my cache and ducked into a flower shop, dragging Tommy +behind me. He planted himself on the floor and booted up a comic book. +I should never have bought him that thing. + +"The usual?" + +We came in here at least twice a week. + +"Affirmative. Red." + +I jammed the bundle of roses under my arm and yanked Tommy along to +the truck. I thought he might have voiced a slight whimper, but I +couldn't be sure so I ignored it. + +The mesh was offline in the truck. I punched the dashboard and +Tommy let out a laugh. Finally, the HUD activated and we peeled out of +the parking lot. + +I was thirty-three years old. + +So far, 1960 was diminishing returns. + + +CU/FARLEY + +tags: 1960, margaret, tab1, tab2, the_chief + +1 October 1960 I loaded Tommy into the truck and took him to work +with me. + +The boy perked up at the sight of the two-story displays. A damn +sight better than the consumer grade equipment his mother used to +review her nude home shows. We had a spare terminal so I logged him in +with basic access and let him handle analysis on some of the +non-essential traffic. No one would mind. With his orange cap he +almost fit in. + +Perturbations in the mesh. We were bringing a new series of embassy +clouds online and things were not going smoothly. I was asked to +supervise a side-switch. + +At 07:30 Tommy spoke up, something about overlap. + +"Pop, we've got incoming." + +Three embassies were competing for the same channel. Ping errors +were filling up the logs. I asked Tommy if he had a solution. + +"Subnet them." + +My men went into action and the crisis was averted. + +Chief gave Tommy a lollipop. + + +Tommy liked the snow but touching his hand to it produced tears. I +growled at him a bit. + +I gassed up the truck and we cut across town back to the hovel. We +had opened a new file on Tommy. CU/FARLEY would follow him for the +rest of his life. He'd shown aptitude. All of that testing wasn't a +waste after all. His mother would grumble but his interest was clear, +honest. We assigned him TAB2 and that was that. + +Inside the house I prepared a plate of sandwiches and pickles and +we settled in to monitor the logs. Again Tommy showed initiative and +reorganized his own desktop for efficiency. I dozed off for a while +and when I came to he'd routed the embassy logs through his login. He +picked out some trouble spots and saved the boys back at HQ a few +hours of grief. I considered pulling him out of school for a few +months until the embassies were all up and running. Heh, not likely, +not with _his_ mother. + +Flipped on the telescreen. Presidential election. Iran. + +Can't escape it. Switched off the telescreen and back to Tommy's +progress, trawling the logs. I showed him how to clean up a few +streams and within a few minutes he was giving me advice on my own +data structures. I wondered how long this could hold his attention. + +At 10:25 a page came over the wire, calling me back to HQ. I +strapped Tommy into his seat and we were on our way. + + +The truck spun through the slush and we got hung up in the parking +lot. I left the vehicle and trudged towards the building with Tommy in +tow; housekeeping would dig out the truck as time permitted. + +We made it up the stairs and Chief stopped us before we got to our +terminals. CU/FARLEY was already twenty pages thick. They had decided +to call in their investment early. I slicked down Tommy's eyebrows +with my thumb and handed him over. + +My son and I locked eyes. Tommy full of comprehension. + +He reached up to his head and removed his orange toboggan. He +glanced at the name I'd scrawled inside it, _TAB2,_ and then passed it +over to me, his three-year-old arms not quite bridging the gap between +us. + +I nodded. I understood. + + +TOWARDS MYTHOLOGIZING THE COMING RESURGENCE OF COVERT WARFARE + +tags: 1961, coordinator_rex, tab1, tab2 + +DIPLOMATIC POUCH MAIL + +(SB:WR-U; 10-17-1961) + +(Office of Origin: BT/FUCK) + +Son, you said you wanted to know what I do all day at my job. That +is, since we've been separated and you've been off at school. To that +end, I've written up this account based on notes I took sometime last +week. I traveled from New York to New San Francisco to take part in +one of the operations assigned to my group. + +Here is my description of what took place. + +Faint smoke wafted out of nearby chimneys. Awkward-looking clouds +clung to the sky, a gross of cotton balls scattered at random, then +glued down carelessly onto an enormous blue shirt. I observed the +aerial tableaux through a crack in the curtains. My hotel room was +cold. + +Shifting focus, I came to notice the ground directly below my +window. It offered up only the faintest suggestion of tangibility. Its +contours were blunted by yet another layer of new fallen snow. +Bemused, I traced the deceptive topology at high resolution, scanning +the area for markers before proceeding to vacate for the last time. + +I made my way out onto the balcony. Even as my room's heavy wooden +door clicked shut behind me, I instinctively checked my pocket for the +plastic key card. + +It was present. + +Coat tucked and breath stale, I tunneled through the mounting +drifts, trudging towards the front office. I swiped my key card and +slipped inside. The night clerk had dozed off, abandoning the +assortment of RAP CHOWDER clips he had pulled up on his terminal. He +was probably inebriated. Stealthily, I snuck past him. + +Moving down the hall, I edged past a throng of blinking, chattering +vending machines. My trench coat trailed along behind me, probably, I +thought, getting dirty. I bustled once more into the laundry room, +tossed my knapsack down on a table and placed my hat on the dryer. + +Laundry was done. + +After stowing my garments, I dropped my room card on the front desk +and called for a taxi. Yawning, I leaned up against a support column +and strained to hear the closing salvos of the RAP CHOWDER season +finale. It seemed I had not alerted the night clerk to my presence. +That suited the situation fine, as my taxi would not show up for some +time and I was in no mood for small talk. + +An hour later I detected the heat signature of a car engine and +then the slush of tires racing through black snow. It was my ride. + +The taxi driver wasted no time and engaged his car horn, initiating +a blast of sharp, targeted audio. _Modus operandi_ endemic to the +American service industry: never in a hundred consecutive life +sentences would he have thought to come into the hotel and fetch me. +Remind me sometime to tell you about Hanoi, and the driver who +actually did. + +I tossed my knapsack over my shoulder and hopped into the cab. The +driver was a tough looking Arab, equipped with the usual rough shaven +beard and a giant, furry parka. He had a three-dollar cigar clenched +tightly between his brown teeth. As he spun the orange cab out of a +snow bank, I leaned back into my seat with a sense of detached +curiosity. The Motel 6's automation was apparently inoperable; I +checked my balance and discovered that I hadn't even tipped the desk +clerk on my way out. + +The driver propelled us across the bridge and on to JFK, where +eventually he halted the cab and told me to get out. I tossed him a +single hundred dollar bill and he affected only the slightest nod +towards the meter. I didn't budge, so he gave me the finger, then sped +off into the freezing smog. I had to laugh. + +Soon, I was aboard my plane. + + +Floating safely above America, I rang for my stewardess. She +brought out some coffee and loaded it up with a fair amount of cream. +Somewhere over St. Louis, I was enjoying a fifty-dollar cup of +Folger's Crystals. Unlike most passengers, I didn't fall for their +upselling to a more rarefied blend -- I know from bitter experience +that no matter what you order, on a government airplane you end up +drinking the same cup of coffee. It still befuddles me that no one +ever seems to notice this. Menus are nothing more than a racket they +try to put over on unsuspecting consumers. What you actually get is +whatever they have too much of on a given day. Anyway, a cup of coffee +is a cup of coffee. + +Finally, we approached New San Francisco. Tires screeched across +the runway. Air pressure in the cabin shifted to sea level. Presently, +a voice came over the intercom, announcing our impending arrival. I +gazed at the surface of my leaf, pretending to read a newspaper +article. Shrewdly, I had opted not to activate the pay-device. + +"At the tone, all passengers will unbuckle their seat-belts and +disembark in an orderly fashion." + +There was an almost deafening racket of clacks and clatters. + +"Once again, thank you for flying Federal Airlines." + +"Like we had a choice," came a muffled retort from several rows +back. + +A number of heads from various sections of the plane snapped around +to face the speaker, all of them in perfect synchronization. +Immediately, I ascertained which of my fellow passengers were Air +Marshals. + +I returned my leaf to the seat-back in front of me, then reached up +into the compartment above my head to withdraw my bags. Nothing seemed +to be missing. + +Exiting the plane, I was forced to elbow a few tourists out of my +way. Nothing too unusual; a young Pioneer Scout had nearly caused me +to trip and fall. Children were everywhere in coach, clogging up the +isles with their sluggish movements. This would not have been a +problem if I'd taken a seat in first class, where children are +generally forbidden, but such an expenditure would have raised flags +with the wrong people, and on this flight I was concerned with keeping +things -- as far as those wrong people were concerned, anyway -- +quiet. Friendly shoving had become commonplace during the average +disembark, and so my excess physicality went unnoticed. + +On the way into the terminal I passed through a metal detector. My +sidearm triggered a shrill cacophony, followed by an array of hastily +drawn weapons. I flashed my TSA card discreetly, at waist level, and +got through the checkpoint without much hassle. As you know, with my +credentials I am authorized to carry a concealed firearm. I can +activate its logging processes mid-flight, or even pull it out and +wave it around if I so desire. In this way it would have been trivial +for me to clear a path through the crowd by sending everyone diving to +the floor. I don't need to tell you that I restrained myself. Even +with non-networked weaponry such as my own, flashing a gun would have +attracted attention from the mesh. + +I wandered into a nearby pay-zone and called for another cab. My +long-range implant was by now producing only blips and bleeps. For +some reason, disabled. + +My experience with that last cab driver in New York had put me on +edge. I recalled now that when I climbed into his vehicle he had +shifted his eyes instantly to my left earlobe, pausing for a bit +longer than I would have liked. He was careful, also, to look me up +and down several times, tracing all of the obvious marker points. I +noticed even though he had really been quite subtle about it. To my +mind, this was uncommon and suspicious behavior for a New York cab +driver. I found myself considering the implications. Something might +be going on with the cabbie unions here in the States. Warily, I +loaded my Colt and stuffed it into the cargo pocket of my trousers. + +When my taxi finally arrived I slid into the back seat and gave the +driver a once-over of my own. Ditto. The same type as in New York. An +immigrant. Although this fellow, rather than expose his bushy eyebrows +and lice-infested hair to the world, sported a grey taxi cap with a +dark, translucent visor. He was chomping a duty-free cigar (unlit) and +taking sips from a can of Stro's Light. From the looks of him, a +Russian educated Paki. + +Before shifting the car into gear, the cabbie pivoted around in his +torn seat. With no small effort, he stuck out his free hand, then +moved his eyes back to me. Sensing the inherent purpose of the +gesture, I pushed a fifty towards him, extending it just far enough to +catch in the tips of his fat fingers, then settled the rest of the way +back into my seat. The driver remained motionless, silent. His seat +creaked under the weight of his body. + +"Take me to the Embassy," I growled as harshly as I could muster, +"And put some stank on it. I have an appointment to keep." + +With a squeal of tires and a strangled burst of exhaust smoke, we +were off. + +After a short interval we careened to a stop in front of the +Embassy. I evacuated the back seat and leaned into the taxi's front +window, glaring at the driver, adopting an aggressive posture. In +response, the Paki clenched my collar into his fist and pulled me in +even closer. It seemed he wanted to share a few words. + +About time. + +"Meter say _five hundred_ and fifty, stupid fart." + +He spit out his cigar, which came to rest lightly on the floor. + +My cue. + +I rammed the barrel of my Colt into his throat. He recoiled against +the seat with a muffled thud, spilling beer all over his lap. I then +gripped him by the hair and smashed his head into the dashboard, +smirking bemusedly because his forehead had just taken out the meter, +and because his pants were now soaking wet as if he'd burst his +bladder. He fumbled groggily in his seat and steered his cab the hell +out of there. I wouldn't have believed it, but the cabbie trade had +actually grown more belligerent in my absence. As a corollary, I'd +just saved the government five hundred bucks. You have to stay sharp +on the basics. + + +I stomped up the stairs of the Embassy and kicked open the door, +which hadn't been latched to begin with. Gradually, I got myself into +character. + +The place was fossilized as ever. All of the antiques, artifacts +and arch-politicos were still glued into place, practically inert. The +room was artificially quiet, which also conformed to my mental +inventory from previous visits. All right then, noise-cancelers were +still being employed. What was new, here, was that the place had +apparently been outfitted as a nano-blank zone. I wondered why. + +Good thing I had thought to pack my Colt and not bothered with the +network weaponry. + +Without warning, a butler sidled up to me, whispering that he +wanted to take my coat. I kicked him out of the way. He tumbled into a +chair, looking dumb. I decided to ham it up in my new role and barked +at him that I hated being touched by the help. He muttered something +and I made a show of ignoring him as I pushed on into the long central +corridor. + + Quickly locating the correct cube cluster, I burst into the +Coordinator's office and dropped down onto his horsehair sofa. His +eyes moved to meet with my own and then just as casually returned to +his pressure screen. I remained silent. After a few minutes passed, he +realized that it would be up to him to initiate the conversation. + +"I'm sure you are aware," he finally said, agitated but monotone in +his murmur, "That this sudden reappearance of yours will make certain +impending maneuvers more... _awkward..._ for my department. I will have +to make up another acceptable room for you here in the embassy, and +re-issue your cash and supply requisitions." He wiped his forehead, +the pitch of his voice lowering steadily as he continued to speak, +resembling nothing so much as the air being let out of a bicycle tire. +"I'll also have to find a way to pay for all of this, since you are +still officially off of my books." + +Well, that didn't seem like much of an obstacle to me. I was a +diplomat and this was his embassy. I was sure he could come up with +something. Run the standard algorithm of embassy lawyers, numerous +layers of complex accounting, and a few million dollars out of the +discretionary fund. Throw in a gaggle of highly trained Georgian +prostitutes and no one would ever be the wiser. This was, after all, +his area of expertise. + +_Why not just write it up as a series of business lunches,_ I +thought to myself. + +But I chose not to say any of that out loud. Instead, I sat +motionless, staring, thinking about Iran and 1959, wondering why I'd +bothered to haul his perforated ass back home with me. He must have +guessed what I was flashing on, because he quickly dropped the +pretense of busting my balls and cut straight to the conclusion of his +prepared speech. He hated going through the motions as much as I did. + +"Okay. I give in," he mouthed, the vitriol now suspiciously absent +from his voice. He had put up his token resistance, which for the +purposes of budgetary documentation would have to suffice. He tossed +me my pass and all of the needed cards, already made out and +validated, packed into a large manila envelope. He held it out with +one hand, not looking away from whatever it was he was scribbling, +somewhat erratically, into his leaf. I had never known he was +ambidextrous. + +"Tom," he said to me as I left the room, "Let's not botch this up, +not like the last time I had to rely on you. You know what I'm talking +about." + +The wisecrack was wholly unnecessary. + +I halted. I wanted to launch into him, but quickly reversed myself +and resolved to just let him have his insults. + +Son, at this point the man is little more than a torso. His +titanium legs are encased in medical plastic, but that hardly +represents a cosmetic improvement. Below the elbows, his arms are +tracked with skin grafts, and must be covered up by shirtsleeves even +in summer. True, the substrate now conceals more firepower than I +could ever hope to lift with my merely human-gauge limbs, but +technically he was correct. During the war, I'd botched the rescue +attempt that had made all of his "improvements" necessary. After all, +he'd still possessed both of his legs when we were dispatched to +Tehran. For this, I do carry some measure of responsibility. + +Turning again, I looked down at the manila envelope and said +nothing. I closed his office door gently on my way out. + + +As I hoofed it down the south corridor, I fished through my +envelope of cards, digging out the one that would open my room. It +stated: Room 1097, Tenth Floor, Second Hall. I pocketed the room key +and made my way toward the central security elevator, arriving just in +time to glimpse the doors snapping shut. + +I located the stairwell. + +With little effort I advanced to the tenth floor. Swiping my key +card, I pushed the security door open and proceeded into the hallway. + +As I reached the door of my actual room, I fished out the card +again and shoved it into its slot. The whole door frame quivered as I +ambled inside. This place was antique, but I didn't mind the clumsy +old mechanisms, in spite of what my diplomatic status might have +entitled me to. I wouldn't end up using all of that new equipment +anyway. + +I suppose the room itself was quite impressive, by conventional +standards. A hot tub was situated, or sunk into, really, the middle of +the floor, equipped with its own bar. The carpet was some sort of deep +white pile. I don't know, but it looked expensive. Cathedral windows +with variable display angles. Universal remote. The furniture was a +posh mixture of vintage and the very latest in network enabled. I +waved my hand in front of the couch and seats around the room +reconfigured themselves to my pre-loaded, custom contour. A few more +gestures and my temperature/humidity preferences were transferred to +the local mesh. + +I have not devoted much of my attention over the years to the ins +and outs of fully-integrated interior design, but I can tell you that +this wasn't the work of amateurs. I wasn't able to locate a single +bug. Good for them. There's no telling what kind of footage this room +has been able to capture, during the periods between wars when it has +been used to house foreign dignitaries. + +I'm afraid my reputation preceded me here and I did not expect many +frivolous trifles, but, still, a few of the line items from my +standard rider were missing -- and remain missing, above my complaints +-- which continues to annoy. + +Well, that's about all I have time for right now. I have quite a +bit of work to do before I can turn in for the night. You know I'm not +much of a writer, but I hope this has given you some idea of what an +average day of mine is like here at the embassy. + +Hope to see you soon. + + +ADVANCE + +tags: 1963, margaret, tab1, tab2, the_chief, violet + +All told, it was three years until I saw him again. Draped in +something reflective, outfitted for stresspants. + +He appraised me, amused. + +"I don't suppose you objected too strenuously, when they told you +what it was they planned to do to me." + +Six years old. Circumcised. Ready to start public school. + +"Son, I've been doing my best to provide for your future. You're +getting the best education tax dollars can buy." + +"Prove it, Dad. They cut off my _stick."_ + +By 1963, the war had started. + +"They didn't cut it off. They've trimmed back the excess skin. +Hygienic benefits. Read up on your New Jack Testament. It's part of +the package." + +I'll admit, the family tended to shunt Tommy aside. We had shelled +into advanced operations and were channeling most of our attention to +the tactical situation above ground. Probably some things slipped by +unnoticed. + +"Nobody ever asked what I wanted." + +Maybe I should have sent him back to his mother. He seemed more +attuned to her. + +"Irrelevant. You're not old enough to have an opinion on this. +Here, hop on up here. Help me parse these filter rules. We have +incoming." + + +"You old fuss budget!" + +My daughter. + +"Why don't you give him a break. He's been studying all summer." + +"This wasn't strictly my decision, Violet." + +"Lies! You're the ranking officer now." + +"He's going to learn a lot more by observing us here than he would +diddling with you and your mother back at home. Praying. Whatever it +is you do." + +"You're wearing him out." + +"It's part of the training. He'll endure." + + +"Well, gee. I would advise that you get yourself a good lawyer. +Tommy's peer group is quite litigious. See you never." + +Violet slammed a lot of doors, that year. + + +The dream was this: + +My wife, my sister and Violet wandering through HQ. Someone I don't +remember from high school walking up and smearing grease paint on my +face, saying "Don't you remember me?" + +My wife, my sister and Violet walking through someone's house as a +shortcut. The women stop to pick through the occupants' belongings. I +advise them not to continue but they've become unresponsive. The +occupants of the hovel wake up and sound the alert for their extended +family, who appear from out of nowhere and accost us. + +Hometown Security arrives with shock troops and we are all +separated and detained. I am interrogated by Jeff from _CURB YOUR +ENTHUSIASM._ + + +By 1963 I had quit smoking, but still I made routine trips to the +balcony to clear my head and to stare at the snow. There's no telling +what my handlers thought of this. Ten below zero and there I was, out +there in my shirtsleeves. + +Well, fuck 'em. + +I was close. Ten more months and the agency would have recouped on +my advance. Then I could start in on the mortgage. Savings. Things +would start to look up. + +Mostly. + +Tommy was still a worry. Soon they'd want to draft him. + +I wasn't sure he was ready. + + +MEN OF VISION + +tags: 1963, margaret, plinth_mold, tab1, tab2, william + +The bombs are still falling when they outfit me with this stupid, +spamming _hat_ and instruct me to cart around young cousin William, the +other male child on the premises, so that he might bask in the +unfiltered sunshine, breathe in the unfiltered air, be exposed, +finally, to the city above ground. This isn't posed as an elective +course of action; I'm given formal orders and nudged in the direction +of the outer doors. + +I tell them I don't see as how it's a good idea -- what with the +declining birthrates, the continuously falling bombs, the constant +danger of disfigurement and death -- but I might as well be set on +mute when it comes to registering above the din of the war room. My +thoughts are not considered. + +Children, creatures endowed with no special mastery over the +evolved traditions of warfare, are expected to find their own way, to +get in where they fit in, to drive unique footholds into the imposing, +existential mountain dubbed survival. Honestly, I've never considered +this state of affairs to be a cause for concern. I've never shied away +from a difficult climb. Have preferred, in fact, to traverse peaks of +despair, regarding them as nothing more than simple clumps of grass +gathered at my feet. The one permanent handicap I've endured is this +responsibility to my cousin, William, who is so young, who cannot even +fend for himself. Others of his age are expected to survive by dint of +their own industriousness. William, for his part, is basically +immobile. Self-sufficiency has been altogether ruled out. + +The war effort consumes most of the adults' attention. Slowly, +William and I have been pushed from one room to another, down long +hallways and through half-open doorways, with barely any recognition +paid to how we are being treated. No one includes us or keeps much +track of us now that the fighting has percolated into the city. With +new air strikes arriving daily we are the least of the adults' +concerns. + +I work with what I am given. + +It is in these streets that I have learned my trade, have begun to +earn my keep. I've developed an affinity for commerce -- an aptitude, +you might say -- and happily contribute a percentage of my earnings +back into the household. Apparently, I am a natural born hustler. So +says my uncle. It has come to the point where I'm afraid the adults +will finally realize their neglect. It is conceivable that they may +even forbid us, William and myself, to leave the compound on our own. +This would negatively impact revenues, which would be unacceptable. It +would also harm our family's standing in the community, which would be +equally unacceptable. My products are in high demand. It is with a +constant awareness of this precarious balance that I, over these past +few months, have striven to make the skills of the street my own. I +have adapted myself to its unsteady rhythms, mastered its sundry +particulars, balanced weight through the hood until my various +criminal activities have become as second nature to me, a collection +of reflexive actions as simple as walking into the kitchen or emptying +my bladder. This sympathy with the tidal nature of currency is hard +won, but it allows me to function freely, wholly invisible to the +financial surveillance algorithms employed by HQ. I should say, +invisible so long as I remember to hold back that reasonable +percentage for the family. It is true, my triple-a reputation would +quickly dissolve into scandal if ever I became so sloppy as to arouse +the interest of my father's men. Let us observe, then, that my +operations have never attracted their attention. + +Add to my already formidable grip the legitimate pay from William's +promenades, and I'm already better than halfway to my new shield +jacket. I count it as a demonstration of my utility that I'm able to +provide my own armor. A new shield jacket would doubtless preserve me +through countless future crises (that is to say, if I'm not found +skewered by shrapnel before the thing is even delivered). Thus I have +concluded that even my supposedly lamentable character traits (such as +my unquestioning greed) may, at last, be construed as facets of pious +virtue. Until I am allowed to participate in weapons training, I will +content myself with the paper chase. I will gild the runway. Keeping +William and myself alive is merely the start of what I hope to +accomplish. + +I assume that Mother and Father are cognizant of all this, to some +degree. In my view, this whole bang-up -- the war -- is simply an +excuse to seek out and extract ever larger sums of money from the tax +base. The whole conflagration merely serves to increase trade, which +serves to increase tax revenues, which results in more war. +Fortunately for me, the family doesn't seem too keen on auditing my +activities. The fact that my relatives' economic interests are +currently seen to overlap with my own is a kind of happy accident, +perhaps of the sort depicted in children's cinema, or in certain of +the ancient, sequentially illustrated pamphlets collected by my +father. In reality, my family's enlightened self-interest drives a +free exchange of goods and services, a marketplace that in turn +benefits the entire community. My own present activities, in spite of +the myopic moral objections offered by my sister, contribute to this +aggregate effect. Taxes (and thus, war) are merely inevitable. Yes, +I've done some reading on the topic. I readily admit. But the ideas +I've argued with Father stand on their own, heedless of any +pseudo-intellectual hem-hawing. I dare say that they are self-evident. +If only I could get him to understand: even in wartime, altruism is +_beside the point._ + +The kid in the cart doesn't realize I'm only in it for the money. +He digs his fingernails into the palm of my hand, obviously frightened +by the noises on the street. We round a corner and a rather large +building comes apart right in front of us. He buries his face into my +coat just as we're pelted with a boiling shock wave of dust. For some +reason he looks to me for protection. Of course, this toddler's +intellect is incapable of assessing the true complexity of our +situation -- he's not yet up to the task of cynical apprehension -- +but perhaps in the end he is right to place his faith in me. It is +unquestionably within the realm of my interests to ensure that he +survives these trips to the surface. The profit motive is clear. It's +right there in my contract. + +I pause to reflect on the brilliant symmetry of our arrangement and +it dazzles me all over again. I cannot help but marvel as I trace its +subtle mechanism: William survives; I profit. + +I strive to gather my thoughts. + +The dizzying effect persists, even as large sheets of smart glass +are de-integrating everywhere around us. A rapture similar to my own +seems to have overtaken William. I am enthralled as he adopts a +distant, distracted gaze, his jaw falling slack almost against his +shirt. He is serene now in his repose, more contented than either of +us have any right to be, given the circumstances. + +I believe that my hand, which he continues to grip quite tightly, +is starting to bleed onto my trousers. + +Torn from my reverie, I reply with a gentle squeeze, communicating +to William that we are going to be all right. I guide his chair across +the street, away from the perambulating dust cloud that by now has +puffed up its chest to encompass half of the block. If the trailing +wisps of this mess are not to gum up the works of William's chair, +we'll need to find our way into a shop or an office or a foyer rather +quickly. + + +Adults are hurling themselves to an fro, generally kicking up more +commotion than is warranted by the simple demolition of a midtown +office building. I reign in young master William and tether him to a +banister, then set off to fetch an adult. In short order I'm +breast-stroking through a sea of white lab coats. It is clear to me +now that we've ended up in some sort of medical clinic. + +It takes only a moment to evaluate the new surroundings, and I +remain lucid enough not to dust myself off before approaching one of +the nurses. That would be tantamount to chucking one of my tools into +the trash. + +"There's just no end to it," I hear one of the doctors remark, +circumnavigating the perimeter of a nearby cubicle. His voice is +filled with work-a-day resignation. I rotate my body to face him so +that I might appraise him visually. + +Half a second passes. His profile fits, so I launch myself +purposefully in his direction. I'm going to try to smear hand prints +onto his coat before he has a chance to form a dispassionate +impression of me. Once I've struck, he'll be forced to take in my +appearance, to consider my circumstances. The ploy is guaranteed to +work, given his type. + +"This spamming war just goes on and on." + +His remark is sympathetic in nature. I take his words as an obvious +cue to redouble my approach velocity, step fully into the field of his +vision and wipe my arms across his chest, submitting my filthy +clothing and runny nose for his inspection. + +"Excuse me, sir, might I inquire as to what it is that has just +taken place, out on the street?" + +I let the question hang there, resonating in the stale clinic air. +I'm play-acting now as if I'm stupid, asking after that which I'm +clearly not equipped to understand. He buys into this mailbox full of +spam because I'm merely a child, seven years of age, and therefore, +self-evidently, not yet sophisticated enough to mount a motivated +deception. + +Oh, the folly of experience. + +I tilt towards him perceptibly, making sure he takes notice of my +garb. His eyes fall upon me in silence and then there is a gap of some +seconds before I finally detect a twinkle in the center of his +mechanical eye. At last, he's picked up on it. He's located the +transceiver. He's got a make on my ID. + +This, of course, changes everything. His demeanor, not thirty +seconds ago the sort of bemused half-attention one pays to a +poverty-stricken child, is now replaced with that of a Green hobo +ready to snatch a million dollar bill from the Church collection +plate. I am well acquainted with this shift in disposition, +immediately recognize his "tell," and so may now reflect that my +gambit is almost certainly working. + +"Well, hello there, young fellow!" + +He dings my helmet. + +"You see, recently, some _bad men_ have taken it upon themselves to +provide our city's skyline with a series of aesthetic improvements. +You may learn in school, in the coming years, about a social +interaction often referred to -- referred to _in the literature,_ that +is -- as _politically motivated violence._ Or, for short, PMV." + +"Splendid and fascinating!" I exclaim, masking a considerable +amount of mental activity with a merely adequate portrayal of +child-like wonder. + +Allow me to explain. Throughout the preceding scene my mind has +been occupied, simultaneously, on three fronts: affecting to extract +details of the bombing attack without also giving away my real aim; +shuffling through numerous possible _non sequiturs_ with which to +counter his inane stammering, none of which must come across as +excessively practiced lest I inadvertently alert him to the fact that +I'm on the grift; and, to complicate matters, keeping an eye on what's +going on around us in the office, paying particular attention to my +physical location relative to all possible exits. It has only been in +situations like this that I have, after so many years, felt well and +truly engaged with the world. A fickle melancholy now descends over +me, and I resist the urge to withdraw, to run outside, to find myself +peering over the railing and thoughtfully evacuating my stomach. +Characteristically, I maintain my hold on the situation. I press on. + +The doctor, for his part, sinks into a portrait of exquisite +confusion. + +"Say, son, what _are_ you two doing in my clinic?" + +William's chair is knocking back and forth, gently, blissfully +unaware of the limits set by my tether. I turn my eyes back to the +doctor very slowly, straightening my posture and raising my voice. + +"Sir, I was carting around my little brother here when the building +at 25765 St. Aecstopher's Cross did fall down nearly on top of us. I'm +afraid I have sustained some sort of injury, as my arm seems to have +gone missing." + +I do the trick with my shoulder, slipping my arm, and he gasps as +it re-appears in my sleeve. Absentmindedly, I look down and say, "Oh, +_there_ it is." + +He fails to laugh. Instead, he puts in a respectable effort to +wrinkle his eyebrows, to grow more visibly concerned. Privately, I +want to be disappointed with this reaction, to ask him if somehow the +humor hasn't translated, but I _will not_ break character over a single +flat joke. + + +Now, this fellow knows when he smells a five-star dinner. He's +recognized which house we're from. Dad's pressure screen is probably +glowing red even as we commence negotiations. I think I can actually +feel the chips twitching in my wrist and neck, as both regions are +crying out to be scratched. Or maybe it's just my allergies. + +Without warning, something seems to click into place in the +doctor's head. He lunges towards me. + +Almost before I can unlatch William, the man's taken me up into his +arms, ferrying me into an examination room. He unloads me gently onto +a table and smooths me onto its stiff, white paper. A microwave sweep +to stem the spread of various bacteria. It will be interesting to +learn which perilous -- though certainly, at this clinic, treatable -- +ailment he has diagnosed me with, now that he realizes I've membership +in a truly superlative insurance program. That's when he notices my +eyes. + +"Son --" His own eyes get stuck gliding over William's gilded +chair. "Son, are you... _blind?"_ + +"Of course I'm blind, you jack-ass!" + +Okay, here I will admit that I've broken character and degenerated +into an emotional outburst. I wrench my face back into a pathetic sulk +and twitch only once, trying to restore equilibrium. I remind myself +to act my age. Let _him_ guide the scene. + +"How long have you been wandering the streets out there, without +being able to see where you're going?" + +An easy one. + +"It's never really been an issue. I mean, I seem to know my way +around the neighborhood pretty well. Everyone here knows _me._ +And twenty-twenty vision isn't a panacea against belly-flopping +architecture, as I think was proved out there today." + +"Hm. I suppose it was. I admit, you do seem capable. But still, +blindness is a serious complaint for one who spends so much time +outdoors. I would imagine it's also quite demoralizing, when your +obstructed vision is rated against that of your peers, wouldn't you +agree?" + +Like I said, I'm a million dollar bill lying face-up on the +sidewalk. + +Presently, he claps me into another chair, this one missing the +sanitary strip of paper, and begins attaching things to my face. I +open my mouth to try another approach but he simply reaches down and +plugs it with a wad of medical gauze. I suppose we'll have to continue +our discussion once he's finished tinkering with my eyes. + + +He's a few hours getting on with it, and so by the time he's taken +down my numbers and confirmed them multiple times against his network +queries, William and I are left to amble along home. Once again I have +to point out: here we are, children, alone on the streets after dark, +where a war is still being waged. (Admittedly, the firing usually +stops when the sun goes down.) Sure, plug me into a machine to fix my +eyes, and then send me right back out into the war zone. What was the +point? I could just as easily have enjoyed this kind of treatment from +the boys back at HQ. In any case, I have now been outfitted with an +outlandish plastic headband. It encircles the top half of my face and +displays a pleasant array of colored shapes, monochrome to onlookers +and passers-by. Aside from the cosmetic effects, my vision seems +unchanged. + +We exit the clinic without having gathered any useful intelligence. +Ditto for the tally of unburdened currency we have to show for our +trouble. No doubt this will have been a complete waste of an +afternoon, distinguished only by the irritation of a needless medical +procedure. I've wasted a lot of time that could have been devoted to +shoring up my grip. William looks up at me, visibly disappointed. + +At an intersection, I am surprised to note that I can now see +things I have never been able to see before. + +In some ways it is confusing, this trying to peer between the fat +cubes of light that gyrate before my eyes. At first I am not quite +sure how to adjust, even as I attempt to keep walking. Slowly the +input begins to make sense; to help, rather than hinder, my +navigation. + +On balance, I will say that there is much to recommend in these +additional streams of information, all dancing betwixt each other and +pouring unstoppably into my face. The interface is intuitive, +hands-free. I can see where such a device could be considered useful. +I'm even getting telemetry now from HQ. What has this motherspamming +optometrist _done_ to me? + + +I seem to have gotten quite a ways down the street on my own. I've +inadvertently left William back at the intersection, his chair bobbing +in sync with the traffic. When I return to his side I see that he has +pulled out his knapsack and begun to tear off little strips of paper, +creasing them into slim, rectangular folds that bear a striking +resemblance to illegal tobacco cigarettes. He offers one to me and I +accept, gripping it between my second and third fingers, leaning back +against the enormous smart glass windows of the FIRST MULTINATIONAL +BANK. Eventually, I bring the sliver of paper up to my lips, deftly +feigning inhalation. Smooth flavor... + +William looks up at me with those preposterously large eyes of his +and, for the first time today, puts forth the effort to straighten out +his spine and stutter a few words. In spite of the pain it causes him +he wants to speak to me. You have to admire his grit. + +"T-T-Thomas, it's been a fun day, and it is r-r-rather late -- +_ungt!_ -- but, if it's all the same to you... I... I would prefer that +we tarry here for a while, and p-p-pickle in the ebb and flow of +the... c-c-cool night air." + +I raise my cig to him and nod respectfully. We both jump as a +building collapses, somewhere off in the distance. On this night, the +city will not be afforded its usual dusk-to-dawn reprieve. + +Gingerly, I work the length of gauze out of my mouth and begin to +unroll its damp wad of fabric onto the sidewalk. William's glassy eyes +reflect a light that seems to originate from no obvious source. He +recognizes what it is I've managed to smuggle out of the doctor's +office. There is more here than just the blood and spittle sopped up +by the rags. + +A selection of tiny hand tools glistens in the light of the street +lamp. These are the final pieces we'll need to render our +reverse-engineering shop, hidden for now in a vacant ammo closet on +the sixth level, fully operational. Once I can get a hold of a few +more classified schematics, we can begin undercutting the importers +and kick our minuscule operation into full gear. We'll even be able to +outfit William's chair with its own shield jacket and an independent +comms package, all of our own design. No more relying on the adults or +outsiders for our gear. + +I briefly consider cutting Father in on this action. The notion is +dispersed by the echoes of mortar fire reverberating across the river. +Try as I might, I know he just couldn't be made to understand. This +world we've arrived at, crowning from the great, vaginal maw of +nothingness bequeathed to us by our ancestors, brooks no quarter for +the elderly, or for those sad individuals still nostalgic for the +unambiguous adversaries of eras past. Pop would be happier lobbing +rounds at the enemy, clawing defiantly as he sinks into his grave, +still convinced he's making some sort of falsifiable, empirical +contribution to his generation's most momentous struggle. + +What a load of bollocks. Dad has wasted his entire life on this +nonsense. + +I decide it's best to keep my opinions to myself. William tends to +be sentimental when it comes to family. + +Speaking of which, the boy has gotten busy, grunting and drooling +onto his shirt. All evidence of his brief flash of lucidity is gone, +vanished. Might as well never have happened. He's making a mess of his +clothing. + +I snatch up the little bundle of tools before he spoils them. +Sometimes you wonder why you even bother. With William, the sentiment +is amplified. I suppose I do feel for him. + +We're both of us looking forward to the end of this war. + +No, really. Hear me out. + +I've grown weary of the grind. I want to be free of William, free +of this duty. + +I worry that the adults have already compromised our security. I +can't imagine the Green insurgents will ever give up. Do you see what +I'm saying? It's frustrating that the family pursues this stagnant +vision of religious purity. We can't all be ideologues. Or not of the +type my father admires, anyway. We have to be in this to win it. We +have to get in where we fit in. And that might not include the Church. + +For now, I suppose, I'm content to focus on having a smoke and +getting rich. + +I'm convinced it's the only way I'm going to survive. + + +VISOR TECHNOLOGY + +tags: 1964, actron, tab1, tab2, the_chief + +The new gear seemed to suit Tommy fine. + +Indeed, over the past month he'd hardly complained. The visor +allowed him to dominate. Sometimes even with the older boys. Now, he +came home with money in his pocket. + +He still hadn't been drafted. + +When I'd sent him to the clinic, I was only vaguely aware of what +they might install in his head. This modern equipment was beyond my +expertise. Above my pay grade, as we used to say. Now, it looked as if +some improvements had been pushed to Tommy's firmware, even in the +last fifteen minutes. All I could do was shake my head. + +The tactical advantage was clear. I was just glad HQ had agreed to +pay for it all. + + +Reagan was starting to concern us. Would he poison the public on +Bush? J. K. Rowling might run for President in 1968. Naturally, +something had to be done. + +I decided to involve Tommy. I was allowed complete discretion when +it came to personnel. I thought that with the enhancements he'd prove +useful. At least as useful as before. + +And he had been pretty useful, before. + +I got him out of bed and brought him in to work. + + +The Chief was having a bit of a problem with a can of bi-partisan +gravy. + +"I can't get this spamming thing opened." + +Tommy quickly found a weak spot in the can's lid, using his visor. +"No problem," he said, and opened the can. + +"Next time, I'll just go with the low-fat deli shtick." + +"None of that stuff is very good for you," Tommy chided. + +The Chief could only roll his eyes. + + +"Well, shit on my Christmas! The boy's found another one." + +Campaign contributions. We'd put Tommy on the trail of J. K. +Rowling's backers. The financial streams were now running through the +boy's system. He was even better at this than the machines. + +"It's old man Jerrymander." + +"The Molds," I said, making eye contact with Tommy. + +We'd had a hell of a time keeping this guy out of the race. +Strictly speaking, he wasn't even legal; an immigrant from some border +state that had been excluded from the new American union. But he'd +leveraged his wealth to rig local rules in one of the communities he +controlled. We'd missed it before it was too late. It had caused some +friction here at HQ. Who was to blame? We all had a bit of a problem +with Mold's politics. + +"So I guess if he can't run, he'll put up a guy who can. Sounds +like a good strategy to me." + +"No, not analysis," I ordered. "You concentrate on the streams." + +"Yes Father," Tommy replied. + + +After a while he seemed to tucker out. I brought up some comic +books on my leaf and sent him over to a corner. The Chief had allowed +his own son to tag along that day, and so the two of them spent a few +hours together, chewing on slices of lunch meat and catching up on +back issues of ACTRON. Harmless entertainment, in my opinion. + +But Tommy had hit on something important. If Jerrymander Mold +really was angling again to get his claws into the election, we could +expect a lot of activity down south in the next few weeks. It was +likely the attacks on the city would only intensify. + +The boy's visor had amortized in only a month. + + +PAPER WINTER + +tags: 1966, mother, tab1, tab2, violet + +Violet's Diary + +1 October 1966 + +It had all crumpled. Violet moved her eyes across the sky but could +not find its edges, the corners of a vast, dirty sheet of paper that +canopied the entire city. Fibrous swirls stirred and unrolled before +her, contriving illusions of focus. Violet stared silently past the +rooftops, ignoring the city and directing her gaze forward into space. +Or rather, she thought, she _would_ have been staring into space, if +not for this endless, sprawling white that inevitably drew one's eyes +back into the soot. Her mask observed the scene with detachment. On +its face, it did not register whether Violet felt one way or the other +about the situation. More broadly, about anything at all. The lack of +visibility was of personal concern, to be sure; but it was nothing +that should mar Violet's appearance to others. The mask was certain of +this. After all, Violet had configured the settings herself. + +Violet turned away from the window and directed her face towards +the central corridor of her family's apartment. A line of green +squares tracked her hand as it traveled from the window back down to +her side. Turning in bright arcs, the dots of color followed by +half-steps, floating gradually closer to the reflector on the opposite +side of her body. Chimes had sounded, there in the room, and Violet +knew at once that she was meant to answer the door as quickly as +possible. Her mother had not yet emerged from her preening room, her +father was still in his bath, probably drinking, or perhaps by now +bloodying his hands on the broken pieces of his bourbon glass. She +could not slump any further without endangering her balance, so she +straightened herself, careful not to put any undue strain on her +stabilizers. Finally, this action prompted her mask to register a +minute change in her facial expression. Inside, a joint clicked. + +"My back feels like it's being folded into paper airplanes," she +muttered into her faceplate. + +Presently, there emerged between the doorway's mechanical lips a +familiar, angular-faced woman, who reeked alternately of whiskey and +of the orchids that were pinned to her billowing yellow coat. Violet's +grandmother swept into the apartment and at once commenced to critique +the child's appearance. She was able to issue several disconnected, +declarative statements before being overcome by the rolling contours +of her own formal wear. Violet giggled. This animation of the old +woman's garb was not without its effect. Soon enough, bony hands +pushed through the bright folds of cloth and found purchase on +Violet's arm. The hands proceeded to travel. Violet's fingers were +studied at length before it was stated authoritatively that she would +now turn over her tobacco pouch and put away her pipe. Nicotine, her +grandmother said, stains the hands. + +When Grandmother fled the seclusion of her estate, which was by now +quite seldom, she would insist upon stowing a small animal within the +sleeves of her baroque accouterments. As a matter of course, one such +animal was present today. The _Shih Tzu_ nipped wildly at Violet's mask +as she leaned forward to embrace the old woman around her waist. +Violet made no attempt to pull away from her grandmother or from the +dog. Her mask maintained its aloof composure, sensors indicating that, +beneath its porcelain exterior, Violet's flesh likewise held close to +its default settings. + +The formal greetings finally concluded, Grandmother seated herself +and began smoothing out the creases in her dog's black velvet dress. A +spate of frivolous conversation ensued; meaningless, serving only to +mark the passage of time and to calm the old woman's nerves until at +last she would be reunited with her son. + + +Brill cream. + +A wristwatch. + +He was now able to make out a lot of what was there, sitting on the +bathroom shelf. Paper-white reflected in the mirror, streaming in from +the window. It was snowing. It was daylight again. Still? + +A buzzer. His face seemed permanently affixed to the bathroom +floor. Two or three of his teeth scratched along the tiles and +vibrated in sympathy with whatever that racket was, echoing down the +hall. A pool of saliva had formed around his chin. Slowly, he came to +the realization that the current arrangement of his limbs was +uncomfortable. + +When his arms didn't work, he shifted attention to his legs. He +pushed himself over to the door and noticed that it remained locked +from the inside. Still, it was a no-go on getting it to open again. At +this point he couldn't even pull his arms up off of the floor, much +less manipulate a key. + +Movement in the hallway flagged his attention as a whole set of +keys (worn externally) brushed the doorknob in passing. The sound +passed very quickly. Presumably, Violet, on her way to the kitchen. + +Just then, the remainder of last night's double-malt scotch +flickered into view, diffracting the snow-light and catching his eye. +The bottle lay motionless in a blurry field of illumination, an +unconvincing square of warmth let in by the bathroom window. He +realized then that the odds were narrowing with regards to his +non-functional arms. Oh no, not again. He lunged wildly and tried to +chew the words out of his mouth, protesting the locked door, +proclaiming his innocence, but instead of the familiar taste of his +own lies, his tongue caught on a jagged fixture of gauze and surgical +tape. Fragments still wedged into the space where a molar had lived. + +He popped several fasteners by artificially expanding his belly and +got out of his suspenders and Italian pants. The shirt and vest had +become a straight jacket, detaining him against his will; flailing +around on the mat beneath the sink, he tried to squirm out of them. +Finally down to his underpants, he slid over to the bathtub and pushed +himself up, over its lip, into the gaping, porcelain mouth. The water +was quite warm, as far as he could tell. The porcelain, cold. + +Head upside-down, hanging over the edge of the tub, he could just +make out a snow drift on the neighbors' roof. He had to stop then and +laugh because it looked like the house was wearing a beard. + +He had been awake for close to half an hour. It should have taken +no more than four seconds (at the outside) for his arms to come back +to life, but the scotch was complicating matters. His shoulder gave an +inch, and a splinter of pain shot through his elbow, shattering +violently at his wrist. + +Motor functions had still not returned to his arms. + +A pounding came at the door and it was faster than he could sink +his bottle into the tub. The soapsuds were mostly dispersed now, +traveled behind his legs and back. He realized, too late, that his +glass was still on the sink. None of this would look good to Violet. +He hoped it was the boy. + +The lock clicked, and turned, and then the heavy wooden door swung +inward. + +Appearing at the foot of the tub was his nine year old son, head +poking through the shirt Thomas had struggled to tear out of only +moments before. It fit him like a circus tent. The boy was completely +oblivious to his father's predicament. + +"Dad," he said. "The Vice President will arrive soon." + +_Soon,_ he thought. But Thomas could not yet speak. He was too +drunk. + +Presently, his wrist began to turn, forming his hand into a fist +beneath the water. His grip was so tight that it drew blood from the +skin graft stretched around his palm. He could hear some nonsense +about Redaction Day dinner from a telescreen three rooms away. If his +mouth had been working, he would have screamed for them to turn the +damned thing down. So loud. + +His mother would arrive within the hour, no doubt with her husband +in tow. He hadn't even wanted them to know where he lived. + +The Vice President. The spamhole. + +Now, where were his pants. + +Again, his kid was waving his arms around like a shot pigeon and +looking as if he had something especially urgent he wanted to say. + +_What?_ + +"Dad!" + +He heard a weird grating sound in the left side of his head, +followed by a long hiss that seemed to issue from his own mouth. +Lateral stimuli? + +Thomas blinked, involuntarily, and his arms fell off, right into +the bathtub. He heard the _bloop,_ and then he heard them hit bottom, +rolling around underwater. Suds splashed onto the floor and also onto +his cleanly pressed pants, which were right where he'd left them, +draped over the edge of the sink. He looked around, disgusted. How was +he going to get himself out of the tub? His daughter would be livid. + +But he was also suddenly sober. In half of a second he'd come fully +awake. Yes, it was not too soon to say he'd hatched himself a +Redaction Day plan. + +The idea burned in his mind, seemed to radiate sufficient heat to +alter the temperature of the room. Old favors would be called in. They +would not make a fool of him this year. Things were definitely +starting to look up. + +"Tommy, get me my phone." + +"Sure thing, Pop!" + +Thomas, Sr. looked around the room. He fished in his pants pocket +and found the other flask. + +"Fuck it," he thought, and took another drink. + + +D.I.V.O.R.C.E. + +tags: 1967, margaret, piro, tab1, tab2, the_chief, violet + +While we waited for NO/MOAR to calm down, overtime was channeled +into other projects. + +Tommy was doing well, he'd started his ops training in the fall. I +had asked to have him assigned to Piro, the son of an old buddy of +mine, and probably the most experienced instructor at the Farm. +Everything seemed to be going as planned. + +Then we ran straight into PM/DAWN. I was out of the house for six +months. + + +Here again, I have to say, Tommy was a big help. On his trips home +he'd advise HQ on tactics. He had a knack for anticipating how the +enemy would respond to our provocations. It was bad of me, but again I +found myself wondering how hard it would be to pull him out of +classes, to get him more directly involved in the operation. He was +shaping up to be our most promising young asset. I stopped worrying +about whether or not he could handle a regular assignment. He was more +than ready; anyone could see it. + +But the boy needed to be in school. On this, I honestly agreed with +his mother. + +So, we had reached an impasse. I left him where he was. + +One day I was catching up on the backlog of paperwork when the +Chief dropped something new on my desk. Immediately, I recognized the +name of my daughter. It was printed there in the byline. + +I had never once taken a drink on the clock, but I found myself +wondering after a bottle. + +I looked over the folder. It appeared to be excerpts from Violet's +diary, circa 1966. Key portions had been circled, some of them were +flashing. + +The phone rang. + +It was Violet's mother. + +It was my wife. + + +As I say, I didn't even drink. + +I still don't know why Violet wrote it; the bulk of it was +obviously fictional. Some elaborate account of my supposed boozing and +general drunkenness. Wholly fabricated. In any case, the facts were +irrelevant. The girl's mother caught wind of the mention of alcohol +and that was that. It didn't matter that she'd never even seen me take +a drink. We were getting divorced. + +I hung up the phone. + +Well, this would complicate dealing with PM/DAWN, almost certainly. + +I didn't want to draw things out -- I knew the last thing the kids +needed was the added drama of having to wait for me to show up and +take my lumps -- but I needed to make a few stops on the way home. I +realized that, with my few personal belongings, I had very little that +would be of interest to the children. Even Margaret's scriptures said +that this was no way to make an exit from your family. Protocol +required that I turn over, to each of them, some artifact to remember +me by. + +Prop-effects from here at HQ were no good; Tommy had spent his +whole childhood playing with them out in the warehouse. He knew they +were junk. + +There was nothing of interest in my truck, either. By habit, I kept +it as clean as my office. Briefly, I considered giving Tommy the +vehicle; but then I remembered that he was only nine years old. The +truck was unlikely to be of use to him, at that age. + +What else. + +The Chief was in, so I couldn't sneak into his office and rummage +through his mess, either. + +It looked as though I'd be paying a visit to a GANGSTERMAX theme +store. Find something there. Thus equipped, I could face the children, +explain to them why this would be my last evening living with them at +home. + +I hoped that the local branch would have what I needed in stock. + +Or at least something approximate. + + +(18:54) < tommy> trds + +(18:54) < tommy> i guess he's not going to be home for a while. you +know, you still have time to change your mind. + +(18:54) < violetCRUSH> Oh, fuck him. + +(18:55) < violetCRUSH> Mom's not going to stand for this. + +(18:55) < tommy> for him being late when he had to stop off at the +store? + +(18:55) < violetCRUSH> Haha, no, you idiot. just watch. + +(18:55) < tommy> i really wish i could be home to stop you from doing +this. + + +"An old belt?" + +"Son, you know I don't actually drink. But I won his belt twenty +years ago, riding an electric bull." + +Tommy's connection cut out, momentarily. + +"You were drunk," he resumed. + +"Well..." + +I was spinning this stuff out of thin air. I hesitated for too +long. + +"Of _course_ he was drunk! Can you imagine Dad climbing onto an +electric bull under any _other_ circumstances?" + +"This is stupid," Tommy said. "Have you been drinking behind our +backs all of these years or not?" + + +"An analog microscope? But... _why?"_ + +"This belonged to me in college, Violet." + +"But all the glass has been removed!" + +"I... it broke, some years ago." + +"I suppose I can use it as a bookend." + +"That's my girl. Good thinking. Adapt to the situation at hand." + +Tommy cut out, rather abruptly. This time on purpose. He seemed +disgusted with the whole affair. Good, son, put it into your training. +Violet kept trying to resume the connection, but he was gone. + +"What a kick in the chest-balls, Dad," Violet said. "You could at +least have bought us something _expensive."_ + + +I cleaned out my den with a minimum of fuss. Most of my gear was +networked and took up little physical space. It wasn't a big job. +Violet helped me pack my things out to the truck. + +Margaret never even entered the room. Violet said she was waiting +until I was gone. The sour old bitch. + +Well, I don't suppose she deserved that. + +"You know I get your room when you're gone," Violet said, elbowing +me in the ribs. + +"That's what this is all about, isn't it?" Of all the... I had +finally put it all together. + +"And what if it is?" + +My only daughter. The sour little bitch. I don't care what you +think, I won't take it back. _She definitely deserved it._ + +"We'll see if you're still smiling when your brother and I are in +Ohio this summer." + +That shut her up. Her training was topmost in her mind. I could cut +her off. Let her sit in my den. _Reading_ about the training. + +"You don't know what you're doing, Dad." + +And she was right. I didn't. + + +VIOLET RETURNS FROM THE WOODS + +tags: 1967, margaret, tab1, tab2, violet + +As I say: at that moment, I had no way of knowing how far it would +go. + +Once Violet was sure I had left, she burst out of the house and ran +into the woods, making a production of whatever tears she was able to +muster. She stumbled over a tree limb and managed to tear her +stockings on her way to the ground. For increased verisimilitude she +also affected to scrape her elbow on a rock. Her face (and mask) +contorted accordingly. + +Margaret observed all of this from the kitchen window, cursing me +audibly for having driven the girl into the forest. Her fists clenched +stiffly and her arms began to flail about, a spontaneous gesture of +maternal rage. I would have laughed even if I'd been standing there. +Funny. Predictably, she proceeded to bang one of her hands into a +cabinet corner, drawing blood. With this, she sat down on the floor +and began to cry. + +Much was made of her injury back at HQ. Some of the guys actually +felt sorry for her. + +Ah. My tender-hearted compatriots. Let them sit at the dinner table +with the woman. Then we could talk. + +By now the Chief had filled me in on the plan. I would be brought +up on charges before a tribunal. The trial would be pushed through +with a minimum of publicity. In short order it would be decided that I +was to serve out a five year sentence in minimum security. Of course, +I would still operate with relative impunity from my cell. Assignments +would be passed to me via the usual covert methods. Meanwhile, the +divorce would be finalized without me. An Agency lawyer would be +dispatched to handle the case, making sure that the children were well +taken care of. Margaret could fend for herself. + +So far, I was unable to offer a single objection. + +Next, I would be drummed out of the service. I would be stripped of +my seniority and pension. To compensate, my Turkish accounts would be +reinstated. I would be provided a bottomless slush fund and unlimited +personnel. All requisitions would be rubber-stamped. Best of all, I +would have my pick of assignments from the general pool. (Within the +boundaries of the fall line-up.) + +"This is just like Iran," the Chief observed. + +And indeed he was right. If they were trying to frustrate me, it +was going to take more than fulfilling every bullet-item on my wish +list. + +"So long as we don't get canceled in the first season," I said, +also referring to our defunct Iranian program. + +The Chief took my meaning. + + +The purpose of the divorce/prison subterfuge was to free up vital +Agency resources. + +Namely, myself. + +The war had tied a number of key assets to specific regional +theaters; a change that had been mandated from the top down. This was +not how the Chief liked to operate. Presidential authority had +encroached upon the Agency's domain, and the Chief was ready to turn +things right-side up again. The only problem was, authority for force +replenishment had not been returned to the Agency. + +So, the Chief said, a number of non-essential agents would have to +die. + +Others, such as myself, would simply go to prison. + +Again, like Iran. Laundering, we called it. + + +Once she was sure that Margaret had finished the chores, Violet +returned to the house. Streaks of soft mud had accumulated around her +eyelids, conveying the impression of an afternoon spent sitting in the +dust, consumed by uncontrollable sobbing. Remarkably, Margaret herself +was still in tears. + +The two females sat at the kitchen table, foreheads touching. +Blubbering and sputtering loudly. I had a leaf close at hand and +immediately began to jot down notes. + +I was surprised to notice one of the surveillance operators dabbing +at his own eyelids with a handkerchief. This was an extraordinary +display for a professional. He had obviously failed to detect the +covert communication that was passing between the females of my +household. + +I recorded his handle in an adjacent column. + + +The next day, Violet shared her story on the playground. Her fellow +students were enthralled. Violet had inherited a particular skill at +narrative, it was true. From myself or from her mother I could not +say. + +She led her friends over to the reflecting pool in preparation for +her big finale. Her mask wobbled in and out of coherency, but the +other children seemed oblivious to its significance. She had gained a +fuzzy penumbra. Was she having second thoughts? + +"My father doesn't know I know this, but... _he's a secret agent!"_ + +Gasps for air. Unintelligible, involuntary vocalizations. + +Here I would have the last laugh: her schoolmates would soon learn +that I was little more than a drunk who had abused his children and +who had been dumped into federal prison for his trouble. + +We would see how Violet would recover from this blow to her +credibility. + + +Relaxing at home, Violet took her time moving her belongings into +my den. Margaret hadn't even complained about the mess. From time to +time, Tommy would stop by. Near the end he could barely contain his +disapproval of the new decor. Pink stripes and red carpeting; plus all +of Violet's junk. But in deference to Margaret's authority, he said +nothing. + +It's too bad he didn't speak up. Some friction might have slowed +Violet down. + +Emboldened by the great success of her first deception, Violet +would soon go to work on her mother. + + +KUDEN + +tags: 1968, dante, piro, ralph, tab1, tab2 + +Tommy and his group made their way over to the 9th green. + +"This is the 9th green," Piro announced. "Please stack your +lunches, or line them up neatly along the outer edge of the training +area. It would be appreciated if you could put the lunches into your +gear bags, if there is no extra room along the tree line. It will be a +while before we are ready for a snack." + +Most of the boys complied. + +"Now, if there are no preliminary questions, we can begin." + +"Sir," Dante interrupted. + +"Yes, Dante?" + +"Ralph isn't here." + +"Isn't here?" + +"He hasn't caught up with us yet. I think he spilled his gear bag +in one of the sand traps." + +"I see." + +Piro dispatched a pair of camp counselors to fetch Ralph. + +"Now. Tommy, please attack Dante with your _hanbo."_ + +Hesitantly, Tommy rose to his feet. His camp uniform flapped in the +cool breeze. Standing in the darkness, he could no longer make Dante +out against the tree line. + +So, improvise. + +Tommy lunged wildly, waving his _hanbo_ around like a parade flag. +He ended up taking three or four steps towards where Dante ought to +have been standing. He was starting to wonder if he should adjust +course when he felt what seemed to be a hand brushing against his +visor, which caused him to blink uncontrollably. This disrupted his +movements such that he fell directly onto his face. A beat later, +Dante had tripped over his own _hanbo_ and fallen on top of him. + +_"Saru mo ki kara ochiru,"_ Piro said, extending an arm towards +Tommy to help him up. "I see the problem. Because of the darkness, you +are both effectively blind." + +"No shit," said one of the other boys. + + +"Actually," Tommy ventured, "Because of my visor, if I had enabled +the functionality, I would be quite able to see in the dark." + +Piro was not impressed. "Yes. Then that explains your fall." + +"I tripped! What do you want from me?" + +"Get up." + + +It went on like this for several hours. The nine boys finding any +and every excuse to fall on their asses, and Piro obliging them +happily. I don't know about the Agency, but I was certainly getting my +money's worth. At a certain point, the two older students returned +with Ralph in tow. It had taken them quite a while to coax him out of +the sand trap. + +He had lost a contact. + +"Ralph. Please. Attack Tommy with your _hanbo."_ + +"My...? Oh. I left that back at the cabin." + +"I see. Here, you may use mine." + +"Oh. Well... Sure." + +Ralph assumed an offensive posture and then tore off running +towards Tommy. Only, Tommy standing wasn't where he had been, moments +before. _Nothing_ was where Tommy had been. Ralph looked around. It was +nearly pitch black. All he could distinguish in the night was the tops +of the trees. He could not even see his own feet. + +Ralph's optic revelation was interrupted by the unlikely sensation +of his left arm being wrenched fully out of its socket. Tommy had +somehow entangled his arm with his own short staff. As Ralph cried out +Tommy sank deeper into his stance, fully applying the technique. At +length he released the pressure and fell back into a defensive stance. +Ralph collapsed to the ground, writhing and spitting, nursing his +damaged limb. Through his tears, he could just make out Tommy's +silhouette, skylined against the clouds above the trees. + +"Oh bull_shit,"_ cried Ralph. "I quit!" + + +Towards the end of the training session, Piro began to pick on +Tommy. + +"Tommy, with me." + +"Again? But I've gone the last ten times in a row." + +"What can I say? You're good at falling. Let's see if you can keep +it up even when you're tired." + +"It's a shit parade and you're riding the big float," said one of +the other boys. + +Piro triangulated the reverberations and then pointed directly at +the source of the remark. + +"You're next." + +In the middle of Piro's sentence Tommy launched himself into the +air, a full-body tackle aimed squarely at Piro's chest. He could feel +himself making contact even before it happened. On this, his first day +of training, his confidence as a fighter was already on the rise. He +was a natural not only at strategy, but even at the blunt, physical +stuff. + +Piro stepped lightly out of the way of Tommy's assault, digging his +fingers into the slim space between his visor and his face. He twisted +Tommy's body around in a spiral, somehow gaining the leverage to flip +himself over Tommy's back. Next, the equal and opposite reaction: +Piro's movement sent Tommy hurtling over his head into a tree. The boy +went limp and collapsed to the ground, unconscious. + +"We're finished here for tonight, boys. We'll meet on the 9th green +again tomorrow, after the cookout. Twenty-three hundred hours, sharp." + +Immediately following Piro's departure, Dante rose to the occasion. +He knelt over Tommy's inert body and began to take down his trousers. + +"Come on guys. We'll give him a Scottish Samurai while he's +asleep." + + +CLASS 68 + +tags: 1968, 1983, dante, piro, ralph, reginald, tab1, tab2 + +"I hate Ohio! It's crazier than a dick in an ashtray out here!" + +"Son, I don't care if the instructor cuts your fingers off. Your +tuition is costing taxpayers money. Think NASA. You suck it up and +make me proud." + +"This combatatives SME... Piro. They tell me he has photographic +reflexes." + +"Yes." + +"Dad..." + +"I trained with his father. He'll get you off to a good start. +Learn your basics. Then you can complain." + +"I'm experiencing some mild discomfort, Dad." + +"I should say you are! Remember, I'm familiar with your physical +stats. The pain will pass." + +"Whatever. I guess. My knees feel like toothpaste." + + +Tommy clicked off and straightened his uniform. Shortly, a tram +would arrive to take the boys bar hopping. First on the itinerary was +THE VULVA POLE. Reginald's idea. Tommy hoped they would have time to +grab a bite to eat before moving on to THE TIZENAUS. Dante's idea. He +spun through his calendar app. Scheduling headaches, even at camp. + +"A pigeon can't drop shit if it never flew." + +The password was correct. Tommy minimized the lock and a few of the +guys from his class ambled into his room. + +Reginald appraised the situation. Tommy was going overt. + +"I see. We're assuming the ladies can't resist the uniform." + +"Where's Ralph," Tommy asked, smoothing down the front of his +jacket. Reginald always had the freshest gear. + +"Fapping in his room again," said Reginald. "We didn't interrupt." + +"Just as well," Tommy sighed. "We're all logged out, right?" + +"Probably not Ralph." + +"Oh right. I guess he doesn't mind that they log everything we do." + +"For him, I think that's part of the appeal." + + +Click. Click. + +Shoulder almost out of joint. + +Piro eased the pressure only slightly, but it was enough for Tommy +to snake out of his hold. + +"You had better hope you didn't let me go on purpose. Sir." + +Piro didn't answer, so Tommy continued. + +"I guess you didn't see that coming. It's a little something I've +been working on with the guys. _I must create a system or be enslaved +by another man's."_ + +"Blake. Good. I assume you're telling me that you haven't yet +mastered the techniques I assigned to you." + +"Well, I haven't engaged in rote memorization. But I'll assume the +fact that I'm standing over here, no longer restrained by your hold, +indicates that I've familiarized myself with the basic principles." + +Tommy's posture didn't alter. Piro's gaze remained steady. The +other boys in the training group thought anything could happen. + +"Talking to me that way is... ridiculous." + +"Doing this for three hours a day is ridiculous. Do you really +think I'm learning anything from you?" + +Piro continued to stare. + +"Boys, take five. Tommy. Over here." + +"What, you want some more of this?" + +"I think you'll understand once we begin." + + +I guess really I should have stayed glued to the monitors. After +all, it was my son. But I couldn't study every moment of his +experience. That probably marks me as a bad parent. + +I've no defense. + +I had originally intended to be present for his graduation, but at +the last minute I was called away to put out fires in another +department. Quotas. + +I hold onto this earliest transcript because somehow, the later +material is no longer extant. The available photos are even older. For +some reason, mixed in with the logs from the camp, there are old +snapshots from Tommy's primary school. Evidently, that's all that's +left from the surveillance we ran. I'd ask Piro about it but let's +just say we're no longer on speaking terms. + + +[Interruption as I answer incoming messages.] + + +In the end, I hope Tommy can live up to his early promise. When I +lost track of him he was well on his way to providing excellent ROI. +Even with the ego problem. Essentially, he was a sure thing. + +'68 was a long time ago, but not so long ago that he'd be inactive +just yet. If he stayed in. + +I should look him up. He's probably not that hard to find. With my +access. + +What am I saying. I'm retired. + + +DULL CARE + +tags: 1969, tab1, theodore_roosevelt, volume_1 + +"Well well, I've not seen one of _these_ in quite some time." + +Our cell was crammed floor to ceiling with the things, box upon +box, but for some reason, the weathered newsprint of _this_ particular +comic book held singular importance. He was being very careful with +it, and I had to cough into my shirtsleeve to mask an involuntary +guffaw. He stowed the comic's bag and backing board before he +continued. + +"Just look at it. I'd grade this as at least a VF/NM. Unfortunately +it wasn't slabbed. You see, there once existed any number of companies +that would take a comic book and grade it meticulously before sealing +it permanently in archival grade plastic, which would guarantee--" + +"I know what 'slabbing' means," I said. + +He was talking in captions now. + +Volume_1 had the largest comic book collection in the entire cell +block. This was significant as, in our facility, comic books were +traded as currency. In point of fact, these specific comic books were +valued as well above average reads. I don't mean to pun: they were +literally encoded with information critical to the continuity of the +United States government. + +This was all he managed to tell me before we were interrupted. + +"Shh! Someone's coming!" + +Volume_1 was desperate to get the issue back into its bag, board +and long box. I couldn't figure out why; there were plenty of comics +in our cell to go around. + +We could hear them talking. + +"Productivity is down." + +"Have you thought about reducing headcount?" + +"Ha ha ha ha ha!" + +After the guards had passed, I turned back to Volume_1. "I don't +think I've ever asked you why you were in here." + +"I kept sending these instant messages. My manager was monitoring. +Frequently, I guess. Evidently, the content of my messages offended +his protected sensibilities. Based on his religion. Felony +Insensitivity." + +"I see. Which heresy?" + +"Chicago Cubs." + +Nothing more needed to be said. + +Volume_1 went back to his comic book and I watched him flip through +it, gingerly supporting its spine on the flat of his hand. + + +Soft chimes surfaced slowly at the periphery of my awareness, +progressively drawing into focus. It was time for Volume_1's shift. He +stopped extracting comics from yet another long box and scooted it +back under his bunk. Bushed, I stretched out for a short nap. + +At least, that's how I made it look to Volume_1. + +As soon as he vacated the cell I pounced back to the floor, removed +the false panel and pulled out my kit and belt. I tore open a new +packet of FalseHand, deposited the wrapper, and in the same swift +motion pressed the delete button on the trash bin. I waved my hand in +front of the cell door and exited onto the balcony, where I was +greeted with quite a lot of hustle and bustle. Most of the workers +were scattering about between shifts. Volume_1 would return within +sixteen hours, so my timetable had to be executed with precision, not +skipping any beats. Fortunately, as a professional, I had been +expertly trained. There would be no problem meeting (or perhaps +exceeding) the requirements of my schedule. + +My ride was idling on the roof. As I approached the air vehicle, +rotor backwash batted my hair around my face. Annoyed, I tied it back. +A man strapped to a gurney was removed from the back seat before I +boarded. He looked to be in bad shape. + +I observed the red cross of the landing pad shrinking into +nothingness as we pulled away from the complex. The pilot of the +helicopter gave me a thumbs up but I stared past him, blandly, lacking +any awareness of his gesture. Outside of the building my implants had +kicked in and I was now sorting my mail. + +Zoom. + + +Half an hour later they put me down near Monte Rio. By this time +I'd changed into a sweater and khakis. A Mercedes idled ponderously +about a hundred yards down the road, trickling exhaust runoff onto the +pavement. I lugged my duffel behind me, finally heaving it into the +car's trunk. Off to one side the driver stood motionless, grinning. +Clearly, he was amused at my efforts to avoid breaking a sweat. He +kept standing there and eventually I figured out that he was waiting +for some sort of a tip. His remarkable audacity gave me a chuckle, so +I dug around in my bag and passed him an old, rolled-up comic book +from the collection in my cell. He jammed it into his back pocket, +quickly, quietly, betraying no reaction, so as not to be observed by +the departing chopper pilot. Obviously, he was used to this sort of +transaction. Seemingly satisfied, the driver took his place behind the +wheel of the Mercedes and we sped off through the countryside. + +We accelerated into a steady incline, passing through many stands +of trees before finally arriving at a very small entryway that +branched off of the main highway. + +The driver navigated the Mercedes through a series of security +checkpoints, and soon I was deposited into one of the "new member" +parking lots of the Green. Presently, a small, open-roof shuttle +appeared, ready to escort me through the main gates of the encampment. + + +The trees of the Green were monstrous. I mean to say that +literally: I was half-convinced they were moving. Of course, they +weren't. I detected no other signs of life in the general vicinity. No +animals. The hiking trails were deserted. + +Not all was dead: I rounded a curve in the path and spotted my +first vantage point, glowing yellow, centered in my field of vision. + +The tree was quite large. It would do. + +I hoisted my bags onto my perch, then setup the comms package +before unjacking myself and turning on the beacon. I waited for the +trigger. + +Nothing. + +The by-laws of the Green forbade surveillance equipment of any +kind. I now surmised that this policy was enforced through active +intervention, jamming of a sort I was not familiar with. My +chronometer didn't even work. I would have to go manual. + +I climbed down from the tree just as the sun was creeping below the +horizon and commenced wandering along paths, searching for Bannister +Colon. + + +When I found him, he was pulling on a Hawaiian cigar and waxing +political with a few friends in front of a large, gas bonfire. The +Eagle's Nest loomed beyond, wavering in and out of coherency through +the flames and smoke. The trees seemed to be swallowing it and +spitting it back out again, unsure of its potential toxicity. + +"The high ground is attained through the stacking of bodies," +Bannister said blandly, as if reading from a script. + +My man Colon. + +The others cackled, extending a wave of unrestrained mirth along +the necklace of fat bellies draped around the bonfire's ashen neck. +Each man appeared to have modeled his personal grooming and liturgical +wardrobe upon that of President Theodore Roosevelt, patron saint of +the Green. The aesthetic was an unfortunate portrait of crass largess. +The body language a study in historical inaccuracy. Our former +President would have been appalled at such a display. I shuddered +despite myself. + +Indeed, this was a strange scene: to a man they reclined completely +in the buff, from balding head to lotioned, shoeless foot. + +_Preverts._ + + +The _Prevert_ tradition is older than the technology that makes it +possible. + +It took me a while to wrap my head around that one. + +I'm only aware of the technology's existence because my grandfather +was a member of the Green. Otherwise I would never have been selected +for this mission. Traditionally, problems within the Green are handled +internally. + +Membership is not hereditary. I was never invited into the ranks of +the Green itself. Not that I would have joined them even if offered +the chance. By the time I was of age I had long since departed for +Iran, exercised my own unique will and signed on for my first tour of +duty in the armed forces, trudging hip-deep into my own army of +olive-skinned bodies. + +Whatever, the organization had stopped accepting outside inquiries +some time in the 1920s, after a breach of security had resulted in +front page articles around the world that exposed the interaction +between certain political leaders and boy prostitutes taking place +within its walls. + +Obviously, that was only a cover story. + + +Before long things started to pick up around the bonfire, activity +sparking within the self-satisfied circle of fat. + +From out of nowhere each man produced a small device and strapped +it to his hand. Instantly, the bonfire extinguished itself and the +surrounding woods fell silent. Only the sound of the men's chattering +teeth broke the stillness, settling into a steady rhythm that +resonated unpleasantly in my skull. + +I began to hear what sounded like an injured animal, whimpering +softly from within the center of the makeshift circle. The fire was +out, but I couldn't imagine how it could have cooled so quickly, or +how anything living could have survived the flames that had subsided +only moments before. + +The men's mouths spread wide and their chattering teeth became +visible, reflecting in the sickly moonlight. I felt something hard +coalesce in the pit of my stomach. For some reason the scene was +affecting me physically. A hint of the taste of vomit trickled into my +mouth. + +A child had appeared. A boy. + +Dumbly, he bounced between the bare bellies, clawing and scratching +and kicking against the men of the circle. They didn't seem concerned +with his evident distress. Blood seeped from some of the scratches he +was inflicting, against the men and against himself. + +Oblivious, he didn't seem to care. Lacking in empathy, the men +didn't care either. + +I never cared for this part of the process, myself. + + +_Preverts_ rape themselves. + +According to legend, it goes back to Caesar. Symbolically, anyway. +Candidates in the world-ruling business have long been vetted through +an exotic procession of pomp and ritual. + +The technology I mentioned truly is remarkable. It's not exactly +time travel, _per se,_ because the men themselves, the initiators, +don't actually travel through time. The same holds true for their +victims. Rather, _space_ is bent in such a way that interaction with +the past is non-paradoxical. Lateral. Frankly, it's beyond me. I've +seen it in action so I no longer try to make sense of it. It just +works. + +I shifted uncomfortably as the service continued. + +Each man, when it was his turn, spit out his cigar and touched the +surface of his wrist device. The boy would jerk uncontrollably towards +him, drawing temporarily into his grasp. Simultaneous with this +motion, the child's face morphed to resemble that of his captor, +uncannily regressed to childhood. This alternating promenade continued +for some time, though the participants were carrying out their +observance at an unnerving pace. As each man embraced the boy he +continued to whimper, weakly, and my skull tightened around my brain. + +With each tap of the wrist, a different face. + +My orders were clear: only interrupt them once they'd finished with +what they'd come to do. It was imperative that the ritual proceed to +completion. + +Habitually, I always followed orders, even where inconvenient. That +was my calling card. That was why they gave me these jobs. A Green +mission was no exception, on either account. + +Soon, the ritual concluded. It was time for me to intercede. + +I checked my weapons before leaping into the clearing. Then, with a +single, smooth motion, I laid down the entire congregation of +important men. Nerve agent spilled across their undulating frames and +splattered against the big wooden benches behind them. Sloppy. +Uncharacteristically so. I paused to scold myself and clean up the +evidence. + +The organic material in the benches was starting to melt. Running +out of time, I abandoned them. + +I made my way over to the boy. His features had stopped changing +and now he wore the wrong face. Great. + +Returning to the mound of boiling fat, I fished out the proper hand +and used it to thumb the appropriate controller. Suddenly, the correct +face coalesced on top of the boy's body. I introduced myself and asked +him a few questions. + +"Son, what's your name?" + +"Thuh..." + +"Yes?" + +"Th-Theodore... R-R-Roosevelt." + +The face. The Name. Not what I had expected. + +Definitely a bigger job than I was being paid for. + +Frankly, I was appalled. + +But: Orders. Reputation. The things I actually cared about. I would +follow the script. + +I raised my weapon, logged in, and emptied my full clip into the +boy's face. + +Finally, the woods fell silent. + + +THE BAD STUDENT + +tags: 1969, frankie_willard, prince, tab2, cheryl + +I tear a sheet from my notebook. After some fidgeting I manage to +produce a cigarette. I lean back against the concrete wall of the +building, my rat-tail poking into the scruff of my neck. It's rather +uncomfortable. There is a commotion from somewhere, over near the +basketball courts. After a brief period of silence, the school bell +rings. I curse, sub-audibly, taking my place in line. I'm careful not +to crumple the cigarette as I conceal it within my sleeve. + +Recess is over. + +I'm antsy. I shift my weight from one leg to the other. This +jostling brings to mind Frankie Willard, made to stand with both feet +planted inside of a single tile on the floor. Punishment for having +spoken out of turn. Frankie complained that because of his great size, +he would surely topple over if he were not permitted to sway from side +to side. The teacher sarcastically denied his request -- structural +integrity be damned. No, Frankie would have to stand firmly within the +square, maintaining his posture for the duration of the class. At the +time, I too had regarded Frankie's claims as spurious. Does an office +building need to sway from side to side? It seemed ridiculous. A man +should be able to stand still. + +Today I'm of a mind to view Frankie's situation in a different +light. Standing still in this line is impossible. Despite myself, I've +begun to sway from side to side. Fuck it, Frankie was right all along. + +At the moment, no one is watching me. I disregard protocol and +resume my cigarette. Smoke slinks from the burning cherry, a string of +ten-dimensional nothingness. Or so I choose to perceive. + +The boy in front of me rotates his head to an obtuse azimuth, asks +to bum a cig. I am more than happy to oblige. From my pocket I produce +two slender folds of paper, offering one to my companion. He's still +in possession of the lighter I made for him, so we're all set. Good to +go. From time to time, I'm happy to supply free product, as a short +demonstration will often serve to spark demand. When one's business is +illicit, establishing the perception of good-natured magnanimity is +wise. Happy customers are quiet customers. + +And quiet is a baseline necessity for my mission. + + +Just as the fresh cigarette taste is making itself apparent, our +teacher pokes her head around the corner. She notices us stragglers, +lately fallen away from the back of the line. She's displeased to note +that we're still here, leaning up against the wall, each man enjoying +an individual smoke. She approaches swiftly and proceeds to bend our +ears. That's when she realizes who I am. Quite comically, this new +awareness halts her scolding, mid-sentence. She directs the other boys +back to the classroom and then turns to me, a stupid look on her face. +She pulls me by my rat-tail into a deserted corridor. The contact is +exhilarating. + +I'm going to score. + +The woman has been shooting me these kinds of looks all semester. A +couple of times she's caught me adjusting my visor, straining to catch +a peek through her blouse. Instead of voicing an objection she usually +just smiles. It's crossed my mind that she may even _fancy_ my attempts +to look down her shirt. Consider: she's the only one of our first +grade teachers who will wear shorts in summer. To my knowledge, this +is technically against the rules. I turn these thoughts over in my +mind, one after the other, as I consider my immediate future. + +She tightens her grip on my shoulder. + +I brace for a kiss. + +Instead, she snatches the cigarette from my lips and sends it +careening over her shoulder, skittering down the corridor. Well, that +wasn't quite what I expected. I think to myself that it's convenient +this corner of the building is devoid of traffic. Could she have +planned our confrontation days, even weeks, in advance? Have things +really progressed to that level? Gradually, the woman is drawing my +attention to infinite new dimensions, threading my string through +myriad vortices, the resulting matrix a blunt satire of our +tessellating material realm. _She's_ the teacher? I'm fit to burst. + + +She parts her lips as if to speak. Softly, softly. + +This must be it. + +"So. You believe that folding pieces of paper into the shape of a +_cigarette,_ then _selling_ them to your classmates is a good way to +make _friends,_ Thomas?" + +The tenderness I sensed only moments before is now vanished. She's +trying her best to be stern. I can't say why, exactly, but this only +excites me more. + +"So far it seems to be working fine," I offer, straining, barely +containing myself. "I have plenty of friends." + +"I've seen you outside, pretending to smoke, for weeks now. The +students here look up to you, and I'm disappointed in how you've +chosen to repay that trust. I want you to think of how you're +influencing them, Thomas." + +"I'm not coercing anyone," I correct gently, so as not to rend the +gossamer fragility of the moment. "I'm simply providing a service. +There's an obvious demand and I'm only too happy to fill it. Surely +you realize, this sort of equitable transaction is the very basis of +our free economy, which ensures the continuity of --" + +She kisses me. + + +I break free. + +"-- the very _continuance_ of our society." + +She doesn't seem impressed with my argument. + +From my jacket I produce a conspicuously pristine piece of +equipment. The object fairly leaps from its place of concealment. She +is somewhat startled, tries to mask her reaction, but the sudden +adoration evident in her eyes will not be suppressed. Does she know +what this is, then, after all? Removing her hand slowly from my own, +I raise the object to my chest (her waist) and finger the switch that +brings it to life. She jumps as a holographic image grows out of my +palm. I have to adjust my visor again before I'm able to see it. + +So, this is Prince Rogers Nelson. Not exactly an imposing figure, +but in relation to his framing, here in my hand, it hardly matters. +Reports indicate that my teacher is quite enamored with this miniature +entertainer. By all rights he was a fine composer, but some say he +actually considered himself to be the physical reincarnation of the +Egyptian Pharaoh _Ahkanaten._ There was a spate of controversy around +the time he decided to found his own religion. + +Whatever. + +The unexpected appearance of the tiny man seems to be doing the +trick with my teacher. As PRN begins to vibrate, I angle him beneath +her skirt. + +"Just lay back," says Prince. + +She does as he says. + +While she is momentarily stunned, distracted, I remove the +remaining contraband from my pockets, depositing several paper +cigarettes onto the window ledge behind me. Shortly thereafter, the +spring breeze carries them away, floating them ever downwards, towards +the unnaturally green summer grass of the courtyard. All evidence of +my wrongdoing thus disposed of, I snap closed my gadget and switch to +manual, gazing deeply into my teacher's eyes as I finish her off. + +She's some time in coming. But once sated, her body goes slack. At +last, I relax my arm and place my hand on her exquisite breast. + +To my great surprise, she recoils. It seems I have ventured too +far. She smiles awkwardly and pushes me away, leans her head out of +the window to see what I've been up to all this time she's been +writhing under the ministrations of the holographic Prince. Her face +shoots completely red, full of blood. The view from the window, of +course, is unremarkable, but it's not the landscaping below that +concerns her. She sees the paper cigarettes scattered about the +courtyard and deduces that they must belong to me. + +She begins to lecture me. Even these playthings, which are not real +at all, still set a negative example for the other students. Such toys +glorify the act of real smoking. I should have known better than to +engage in this sort of thing while at school. The premises is also a +commerce restricted zone, blah blah blah, etc. She is scrupulous to +avoid any mention of her orgasm, though I sense the experience is +still very much on her mind. + +Overall, it proves to be a lackluster brow-beating. I consider the +context of present events set against the larger backdrop of my +mission and decide that her appraisal of my behavior is irrelevant. At +twelve years of age, infiltrating the first grade has been a cakewalk. +If this doesn't boost my grade average I don't know what will. I +swear, I'm ready to graduate CU/FARLEY. Let's hope my father and the +Chief see things my way. + +I acknowledge her statements as I shove my hand into my pants and +scratch my groin. + +As we return to the classroom, I reach out to hold her hand. + +I probably don't have to tell you that I use the same hand. + + +UBICOMP + +tags: 1969, potus, tab1 + +There is a ring of teeth around my stick and I can't pull it out. I +ease back and forth, gently, but the mouth won't let go. A sliver of +saliva escapes, spreading first around my stick's circumference, then +down to its base. All at once the President's head starts to move +again. + +Textbook package delivery. Six calories of Turing gel forced into +the digestive track of the mark. Freed from its carriage, some of the +payload has already bonded firmly with the President's teeth. +Presently, the liquid bootstraps itself into the machinery of +surveillance. All logged in, phase one is complete. Other components +of the payload make their way into the President's circulatory system, +compensating for various biological ticks that would otherwise prove +fatal to the Commander In Chief. Phase two, loaded, completed. + +I imagine there is something of an alkaline flavor. I don't know +how she can stand it. + +Without warning, an additional teaspoon-dollop of nutrient-rich +paste shoots between the President's lips. Slowly, it threads down her +esophagus, coating her stomach's lining. I swish my stick around a +bit, making sure that the gel, by now teaming with expensive hardware, +gets a fair chance to take hold. She murmurs softly. I assume in +pleasure. + +I glance at my watch. + +Over time, the rogue cells I've introduced will create new tissue. +They'll get into the business of subverting dendrite structures, which +in turn (I'm told) will lead to the President's conscious assent to +our programs. + +Caveat: the gel will need to be administered on a regular basis. I +assume I will be selected as the agent of delivery (it's of no concern +either way -- there are numerous agents who are up to the task). In +any case, the process will continue. Before the President knows what +is happening, she will begin to _crave_ the injections, find herself +inexplicably drawn to the blunt insertion of stick into mouth. Lacking +awareness, she'll come to regard the process as a pleasure of her own +devising. She may even develop an affinity for the taste. + +But enough of my speculation, however well-informed. Her mouth is +upon me now, showing no sign of loosening its grip. Not losing +suction. Her eyes have rolled back into her head. She's become +unresponsive. Even her gag reflex has gone dead. + +As an initial response to insertion, this _faux_ catatonic state is +not unusual. In my field-work I've observed that women will often slip +into semi-consciousness once they've worked the Turing gel past their +back teeth. In truth, I was quite alarmed the first time it happened. +Maybe I had dribbled psychoactive sedative onto the tip of my cock, I +thought to myself. But no, this brief period of unconsciousness tends +to be shallow, tends to pass quickly. + +I decide to sneak a peek, to see how she's coming along. Her mouth +glides smoothly on a thick lather of saliva, sealed by the walls of +her throat. Her head bobs up and down, gently rotating, rhythmically +advancing and retreating across the length of my equipment. She's +quite awake now and seems to have swallowed her cares. + +A strand of the President's hair has caught on my watchband, but +I'm reluctant to interrupt her work. + +I nudge her lovingly on the ear and her entire head shifts weight +to the other side. Her eyes flick open and she smiles as she releases +my stick, seemingly unaware of the considerable amount of time that +has passed. I slide out, drawing a trail of spit between myself and +her tongue, which she stares at quizzically before flashing a +mischievous grin and then aggressively chewing it all back into her +mouth. Ordinarily this would be fine, but a pool of spittle has +coalesced around my scrotum, and now it traces the contour of my +buttocks. It is cold. + +A pink square blips in the lower-left of my vision, telling me that +the Turing cells have gained purchase. + +I engage the President verbally as she re-applies her lipstick and +adjusts her _coiffure._ + +I start making excuses, looking for a way out of the room. + + +ALL THAT IS + +tags: 1970, missus_camilla, violet + +Violet used her stylus to press against the reflective surface of +her school leaf. Presently, a margin message from Missus Camilla +appeared, signaling the class to begin writing. + +Violet began: + + +Words are insufficient to communicate all that is. + +Having 'a problem' with this would imply that I think any other +state of affairs is remotely possible. The fact is that I have to +accept my best current thinking on the subject, and right now I +haven't come up with any reasonable counter to the observation that +language is inescapably circular. To me, this means that at best we +can only approximate The Truth at any given moment -- and since we +can't make these determinations with any significant certainty (e.g., +to judge the accuracy of our approximations), 'A' can only equal 'A' +on a localized, individual level. + +And yet, 'A=A' is the fundamental assertion of logic. I think there +is a tendency to try and expand too far upon this basic construction. +The subjective assumptions applied by logic tests too often outpace +language's ability to accurately map the salient factors at hand. Too +much emphasis is placed upon how the logic is articulated, with very +little attention paid to the structure of the logic itself -- which, +presumably, should transcend the language that was used to describe +it. + +This presents an interesting -- I'd say insurmountable -- problem, +and was essentially the point of my previous two papers. 'A=A.' Fine. +But what the hell is an _A?_ And who says so? The answer is that it +all depends on who you ask. + +I don't think the fact that we have managed to evolve grammars +which are effective at managing objects and activities, effective at +managing the processes of machines, even, is evidence that those +grammars are universally descriptive of our entire shared reality. +Success in a single, limited area does not imply universal success on +a grand scale, even if many times a simple set of rules can exhibit +emergent behaviors that transcend the original description. + +Consider the following stories. Observe how these seemingly correct +articulations of reality work at cross-purposes to the protagonist's +intentions, yet still manage to exhibit a peculiar efficacy all their +own: + +1.) Occupied Poland. A man held a job at a stroller factory. His +child needed a stroller. Being short on money, and being handy with +his tools, the man decided to steal all the necessary parts from his +workplace and assemble the stroller at home. Wary of arousing +suspicion, he limited himself to absconding with only a single +component each night. After many such nights, the man took an +inventory and noticed that he had managed to acquire almost all of the +parts on his list. Finally completing the assembly, the man discovered +that instead of a new stroller for his son he had assembled a fully +functional, modular sub-machine gun. + +Does this mean that a stroller is in fact the very same thing as a +sub-machine gun? After all, the man had worked in the factory for +many years and was quite experienced at his job (which consisted +chiefly of speed-buffing several types of polished parts as they came +whizzing past his station on an assembly line). In this case, the +value of 'A' was at first disputed; then investigated; and finally, +revised. In the end, would it have been sufficient to simply continue +referring to the finished product as a stroller? Why or why not? + +2.) A radical priest gains increasing infamy with the native +residents of a Roman-occupied garrison town in Jerusalem. After he has +been put to death by a civilian court -- administered by his own +people, no less -- a cult religion springs up around him, and a legend +begins to solidify around the memory of his living days. Indeed, the +legend glorifies even the most mundane aspects of his life. His story +is at first spread verbally, but is eventually written down by various +scribes, disparate of geography and generation, who never quite +managed to cross paths with the priest or his followers. (Granted, +when the priest was supposedly executed, the scribes in question had +yet to be born.) + +I'm sure you can follow this one to its obvious conclusion. After a +certain point, the language used to describe a legend begins to +transcend the actual events, to take on a life of its own. The events +themselves remain unobserved, wholly obscured from view. At best: +irrelevant. + +The above are clearly examples which reinforce the notion that all +languages are tautologies. For this reason, 'A=A' can only apply +universally when the definition of 'A' is immutable, cannot be +tampered with as it travels from one side of the equation to the +other. (This fact does tend to break the discussion into many +different levels, including questions of control over so-called shared +languages [e.g., dictionaries, popular idiom], but the problem of +complexity comes part and parcel with the problem of precision.) 'A=A' +may well be subjectively true, but the equation is necessarily based +upon assumptions that may be incorrect. The uncomfortable truth about +our knowledge of the world is that it is almost always filtered +through a mediating source of questionable benevolence. Think about +that. The ultimate impossibility of neutrality. Even if we momentarily +eschew the likelihood of intentional misrepresentation, we must accept +that once language escapes our minds and begins to interact with the +language of others, we lose personal control over its context and +meaning. At this point, rationally, we should acknowledge that we can +no longer verify that 'A' means what we think it does. Thus, we come +to glimpse the limitations of logic itself. + +Language initiates us into a special kind of 'cargo cult.' We +scramble, frothing at the mouth like so many tropical savages, +attempting to reenact a Reality that we're just _certain_ we've +experienced, all in the vain hope that we might someday entice that +Reality to return to us, laden with crates full of movie reels, +Coca-Cola, and fresh cartons of cheap American cigarettes. At that +point, we presume, we'd all be farting through silk. + +Violet + + +DRIFT + +tags: 1951, 2026, pink_floyd, tab1 + +2026. + +The sunlight fades and I wonder after my satchel. It's here, buried +somewhere under the snow. Wearily, I prop up both of my arms and thumb +through the entries on my leaf. + +I stumble upon a decades-old post. + + +1951. + +So, I was laid out on the couch (free), face pressed up against my +camo pillow ($123.67), wondering if I should pick the dead pill bugs +out of the fibers of my bath robe, when a garish advert for a new Pink +Floyd "greatest hits" collection ($2999.99) ran across the display of +my telescreen: + +_Order ECHOES now and we'll include blah sqwak blah niner foxtrot +delta sqwak blah sqwak blah_ + +My attention span waned and I lost the rest of the advert to random +static generated by a mild migraine headache (previously acquired), +but the damage had already been done. Slowly, the new information sunk +in. + +Within a couple of hours I had stumbled into the bedroom. I stood +fondling the jewel case of a 2-disc collection of my own original +music (entitled: ECHOES), desperately trying to figure out how Pink +Floyd's handlers had managed to bug my home. + +Motherspammers. + +I took a swig of apple juice from a glass tumbler on the dresser, +then spit it back out again when I realized the surface of the drink +had been blanketed by a layer of dust. I needed to stop leaving those +things laying around where anyone could find them. + +I resumed staring at the jewel case. The artwork was superior to +what I had just seen on the telescreen. Fucking Pink Floyd. What did +I ever do to them? (Besides torturing that girl in the Pink Floyd +t-shirt at Denny's.) + +There had to be a reason why they had selected me. + +I glared at the tumbler for a couple of seconds, then back at the +jewel case in my hands. I downed the entire glass without tasting the +dust. Apple juice doesn't really ferment, but at this point my +migraine had wedged itself in-between my frontal lobe and another slab +of gray matter I wasn't able to identify, resulting in a significant +impairment to my decision making faculties. Somehow, I kept from +vomiting. + +Before long I detected a handful of splinters in my hand, and came +to the slow realization that I'd squeezed the jewel case into several +pieces. The dust flavor returned to my mouth, resembling the +sensation of pushing my tongue through ungroomed tufts of fur. I threw +the tumbler down and stomped back into the living room. + +The advert was on again. This time tracking a sequence I hadn't +noticed during the previous playback. The message ran at ten minute +intervals, but I had yet to see it all the way through. The visual +rhetoric was contrived, but would probably prove effective. They'd +likely sell a billion copies. + +I swallowed an over the counter pharmaceutical designed to combat +dizziness and resumed my seat on the couch. Staring at a spot two +feet above the telescreen, my mind began to spin down, drifting to +other concerns. My next shift at my corporate front-job was scheduled +to begin in just under five hours. Still tasting apple dust (maybe it +wasn't really apple dust, after all), I chewed at the air with my +mouth and then dozed off, resigned to whatever dreams might come. + +Approximately two-hundred forty minutes elapsed. + +I woke up. Two more pill bug carcasses had embedded themselves +into the folds of my robe. They no longer seemed to be the most +likely vector of leaked intelligence. In point of fact they appeared +organic. Quite simplistic. This new-found lucidity intensified as I +painted shaving cream onto my chin and then accidentally sliced the +skin between my nostrils. + +It occurred to me that Pink Floyd might not really be ripping me +off. They were probably capable of coming up with such an obvious +title as ECHOES on their own. Their boxed set was probably being +manufactured even as had I decided on the title of my own collection. +Still, the overlap rankled. + +I guessed that it must have been a case of Steam Engine Time. + +For posterity's sake, I will note here that my own ECHOES +collection may be sampled at the following address: + + +And here I had inserted a hypertext link. A pointer to some old, +half-considered project of mine from my early years trying to break +into the music industry. I wince at the memory, irrationally certain +that this will be all they'll find when they finally dig my starved +body out of this house and this snow drift and begin to piece together +the circumstances of my disappearance. _Decorated Agent Leaves Behind +Rough Draft Of An Early Internet Posting. Family Denies Any Knowledge +Of Agent's Artistic Endeavors._ + +I lean back my head against the exposed boards of the attic floor +and observe as small flecks of snow float in and out between the +cracks in the roof. My fingers have become useless now, and I suspect +that I'm too weak to kick through the tile shingling. Troubling, to be +sure. As if to underline the point, I make an attempt to stand up and +one of my legs cracks and falls off onto the floor. + +Well, so be it. Another opportunity to reflect on my past. + +Reviewing this material I have to admit, I've had a good run. + + +IN THE END, NOTHING WORKS + +tags: 2079, eva, gordon, tab2 + +In spite of his back, Thomas was up early the next morning. It hurt +to be out of bed. He slipped on his robe and dialed a reasonable +temperature for his bones. The floor felt cold under his feet. A draft +tickled his scrotum as he dragged himself down the hallway, robe +swishing freely between his legs. + +Thomas found no paper on the front step. + +Therefore, he reasoned, no newspaper could actually exist. + +The number of people required to produce such an artifact could, +quite simply, never be forced together, never be entrusted to bring +such a project to fruition. Thomas dismissed the idea as self-evident +lunacy. As with other would-be conspiracies, this "newspaper" +business, if it were ever truly attempted, would immediately run afoul +of man's signal inability to cooperate effectively. The whole endeavor +would end in disaster. Thomas pictured a management team showing up at +the office and attempting to corral the so-called "newsmen" into some +semblance of order. _Let's put this edition to bed,_ the managers would +say. _Sure,_ their subordinates would reply, _we'll get right on top of +that, boss._ And then they would go to lunch. The whole concept of a +metropolis of workers, each synchronizing his movements to the other, +all in some effort to compile a grand codex of halftoned words and +photographs... Ostensibly a periodical source of news and +sports-related information... Implausible wasn't the word. The idea +was like something that would come out of a liberal arts college. +Thomas understood that in the end, nothing really worked. Thus it +followed that no newspaper would or could be delivered to Thomas' +door, on this or any other morning. + +Thomas looked down. Perhaps he was surprised to see that the +newspaper still wasn't where it should have been. He wiped the +condensation from the front of his visor and planted his feet in the +doorway, fixing his gaze upon the concrete stoop. Why was he here? He +meant specifically. His eyes focused on a rough patch of masonry, +shaped, vaguely, like a copy of THE NEW YORK TIMES. He was slowly +becoming aware that his lips had chapped. + +What... + +He tried to remember why he was standing there, holding the door +open, facing out onto the street. Nothing came to mind, save for an +awareness of the relentless, frozen sheets of air that were blowing +past his face. After several moments, he became enticed by the sounds +emanating from inside the house, and so he retreated back into the +living room. He sat down by the fireplace and started to pull on the +hair that protruded from his chin. He would often affect this pose +whenever he found himself confused. + + +Presently, Eva came in with the tea. + +Thomas regarded her suspiciously, conjecturing that she must have +prepared this tea herself, not simply poured it, pre-mixed, from a jug +or a bottle delivered by the government truck. It would later prove +that his suppositions had been correct. But at present, Eva refused to +discuss her inspiration. Why organic tea? He wrinkled his eyebrows +with palpable irritation and stared at her, knowing perfectly well +that his tendency towards interpreting simple results as the fruit of +complex machinations should not distract him so long that his tea +would go cold. _I'm being silly,_ he thought to himself. Next, he'd be +accusing her of inventing, then hiding, and finally denying the +existence of, his daily newspaper. + +He resolved not to say anything about it for now. + + +The feed to his visor had gone dark, sometime, he thought, in the +past week. The boys down at the switching station had gotten so +wrapped up in their chatter and practical jokes that the feed had +ceased to be maintained. This group of teenage boys had allowed any +number of feed pools to become irretrievably poisoned. Obviously, the +problem had yet to be amended. _The cause of the service disruption +was the logical result of leaving unsupervised boys in charge of the +running system._ There. Blunt common sense. No conspiracy required. + +Though it could have been sabotage. + +From the perspective behind Thomas' visor, everything had simply +gone black. Neighborhood residents were skeptical that the city's +plans for replacing the youths with middle-aged housewives would yield +a network any more reliable than the one that already existed. The +real problem was that this new technology simply didn't scale. You +couldn't expect everyone to get online at the same time without +ramping up the system's capacity. Unsupervised boys or no. Thomas +doubted if _any_ demographic could keep the thing running without the +assistance of authorized Green technicians. Of course, that would cost +money. On a related note, did the Green Consortium really think that +these middle-aged women would subject themselves to working for lower +wages than what they could make staying at home? Like the +aforementioned "newspaper" idea, the scheme simply didn't wash. + +How the networks had ever been built in the first place was also a +damned mystery. The secrets of net construction had apparently passed +into the realm of myth -- an area where Thomas carefully abstained +from treading. Just what had inspired Jeff Bezos to invent the +Netscape browser? The world might never know for sure. To be certain, +claims had been staked out by all of the usual suspects: Church +leaders, government agencies, atheist intellectuals -- the full gamut +of unreliable sources. But Thomas was confident he knew the real +score. He had realized early in life that they all made up stories -- +lies, in fact -- that weren't supported by the available evidence. +Anyone who advanced a positive claim was merely covering an angle. _No +one_ knew the real history of the Green. Or, at the very least, he was +certain there had been mistakes in the recording. + +Just as well, then, that young people not be misled by any wild +tales of human beings working together towards a collective goal. It +might make for a ripping yarn, fine, but this sort of cooperation just +wasn't going to happen. Not that he could see. In his experience, +human beings were incapable of effective organization, even if +sometimes his mind liked to hallucinate collaboration amongst his +enemies. It would make more sense if the networks had simply grown +themselves. + + +You had to market your trash to the trash men, or else they would +stubbornly refuse to take it away. Thomas knew this to be true, but +still he couldn't find the time to arrange his various bags and +receptacles pleasantly enough to attract their attention. Instead, +garbage would pile up for several weeks before he'd finally be forced +to trudge down to the edge of the yard, spit on the road, and go to +work creating a minimally effective layout. These city trash men +thought they were critics. Thomas knew full well that as insiders to +the waste reclamation industry, their own garbage would never be +subjected to the ridicule of their peers. Instead, a trash man's +refuse would be hauled off periodically, sight-unseen. Thomas resented +the situation because it just wasn't fair. He could feel his hate for +the double-standard solidifying in his back. Why did consumers let the +government get away with this? + + +Thomas spied his friend Gordon coming up the road. + +"What up, G?" he asked. + +"I dunno, man. Field trip around the sun, I guess." + +Thomas fingered his visor until the face of his friend came into +focus. Gordon had that look about him, as if he'd just been slipped +counterfeit money. (Money. Another conspiratorial delusion. Thomas was +undecided as to whether this particular fiction yieled sufficient +utility to warrant his playing along. Convenient, since he was usually +broke.) + +"What are you doing to your face," asked Gordon. + +"What do you mean?" + +"There, your face. Why are you moving your hand around as if you +were manipulating some sort of device, or making some sort of minute +adjustments to your eyebrows. There's nothing there. Just that wrinkly +old skin wrapped around your skull." + +Thomas moved to punch Gordon in the arm. Just then, he slipped off +of the stairs and toppled to the ground. He felt his hip shift out of +its socket as he struck the hard stone beneath him. Resigned to the +pain, he put his hand down in the snow and groaned. + +"Can you help me up, please?" he said. "My damn ass is broken." + +Perversely, Thomas' visor clicked through its boot-up sequence and +once again resumed service. + +Click. Click. Click. + +But the settings were futzed. Thomas could see through Gordon's +pants. + +"Nice briefs," he said. + + +END BOOK ONE + + +BOOK TWO + + +THE GREEN + +tags: 1918 + +Mary lit candles while I made some adjustments to the sound levels +and then paced off the markers on the stage. The trees were turning up +their leaves and the cold breeze against my face indicated that the +sooner we got started, the better. The weather was in transition +again. I noticed that in the diminished light, the curtain seemed to +be reflecting the green from all around us. I looked down at my arms +and the same effect was showing against my skin. Mary smiled +acknowledgement from her corner of the stage. + +I faced toward the swaying grass. The movement of the hillside +caught hold of me immediately -- I felt it pull against my stomach -- +but once the playback started I had little trouble falling into the +correct rhythm. Insects in the trees began to organize their shrieks +around the activity on stage. Presently, our surroundings had settled +into smooth synchronization with the machines. The shift between +recognition and acceptance was instantaneous, complete. + +I noticed after a while that this had all transpired without +incident, and so with the usual assistance from Mary I began the +second phase of the rite. Intonation. One voice, then two, joining +with the electronic pulses, slipping into the fold, setting down a +canopy atop the invisible scaffolding which was still emerging from +the loudspeakers. We erected a shelter of sound, continuing with the +program until almost all movement within sight had come to a stop. +Even the grass had ceased its inverted pendulum swing. A single drop +of water splashed against my face and I winced almost imperceptibly, +but did not waver in my vocalizations. We both turned to face the +hillside. + +Then silence, from the both of us, and all at once it was over. + + +After an indeterminate period, Mary began to extinguish the +candles. I worked my way around the stage, detaching speakers and +re-coiling cords and plugs. The hillside below remained resolutely +still throughout this secondary performance, our movements a sort of +encore begging the mute appreciation of spring foliage. This silent +effect would persist for weeks before finally returning to normal. +Mary and I would fall back into our own familiar patterns. Clanging +about. We would complain that we missed the children, or that the +government had evolved beyond all recognition. It was comfortable, for +the most part. But the trees on the hillside were more thoughtful. +They would hold still for a few more days, perhaps as a reminder of +what had already passed. While I might climb back up to the stage some +afternoon, planning to relax with a book, my consciousness of the +synchronicity would have already expended itself. The resonance would +be completely drained. I was sure it would be the same for Mary. + +I slept better that night than I had in a long time. A decade. The +temptation was always to think that if we'd take time out for this +observance just a little more often, if we'd simply make an effort to +keep these sentiments in our daily thoughts... Well, you know how +these things tend to work out. The truth is -- and this is as +important as any other detail you'd care to focus on -- the rite was +only to be performed once a year. That's how it had always been. And +the tradition, I think, was correct. Well-founded. The empty spaces +were in fact as significant as those caressed by the resonance of +conscious observance. The transition from one state to another could +only be measured along this sort of blunt, descending staircase. +Dividing awareness from its counterpart, one state from its successor, +empty to all filled up. How else could we perceive change at all? + +As the rains started, I scooped up the last of the cables and +snapped shut the plastic container where they were stored when they +were not being used. A thoughtful crease appeared along the ridge of +my eyebrows, and Mary quickly rolled out the awning over the stage, +just as the downpour really began to break loose. We locked hands and +wandered the stone pathway back to the house, a silent song on our +lips as the rain beat clumps of our hair down against our ears. It +felt as if we were aging in reverse. + +Rainwater spread over the green fallen leaves, sticking them to the +concrete, bulletin boarding them from the edge of the woods all the +way up to the house. We kicked them along as we made our way through +the spring shower, splashing forward to the doorway and its steady, +house-shaped warmth. + +Until next year. + + +EPISODE IX + +tags: 1957, margaret, paris_mold, tab1, the_chief + +I couldn't get the lid off. + +I bashed the base of the jar against the corner of a nearby table +(away from my body, so as to avoid the spray of flying smart glass) +and kicked the resulting debris out of my path. Moved back to the +terminal to finish transcribing. I had the bulk of the message keyed +in by the time the big kitchen door dissolved into its frame. + +In sauntered Paris Mold. + +He smoothly traversed the tile floor, making a beeline for the +object in my hand (and by extension, for me). He peered at my stats, +observing my progress without bothering to explain his presence. +Annoyed, I flashed him my teeth and continued typing. I carefully +unlatched the bag under my table with an obscured foot. + +Paris' gaze slid from my keyboard to my shoulders to my scrambled +face in a continuous gesture. He maintained a blank expression that I +couldn't have mustered even with the help of electronics. + +He cocked his head slightly to the left and began to speak. I +noticed there was a huge smudge of dirt on his cheek. + +A detail such as that could be my anchor in the moments to come. + +"That's one hell of a portable," Paris observed, nodding in the +direction of my table-top device. As if in response, the pressure +screen's broadcast antenna extended itself and locked into place. + +Without warning, the room folded back upon itself, pulling all +sorts of visual transforms that reminded me of the programming +exercises given to small children at school. It appeared to be +modeling the cellular automata of snowflakes, tree branches, and the +flocking patterns of birds. Most of the standard primitives. + +I gritted my teeth. Being this close to Paris Mold was like chewing +power cables. I knew I wouldn't be able to keep my head straight for +long, so I leaned in towards him and smiled in feeble agreement. + +"Yes, boss." + +Paris coughed. + +Purposefully, I fastened the strap on my helmet, then clamped shut +my eyes until my sensors reached equilibrium. I risked one last glance +at Paris Mold, tightened my scrotum and tapped the device in my bag +with the tip of my boot. + +There sounded a short series of digital squawks. Then the whole +place went wobbly and the walls began to collapse. + +A look came over Paris' face. As the ceiling rushed to meet the +floor, he realized what I'd done. His expression was no longer +inscrutable. + +Still, this was going to kill me, too. + + +I plopped in another pat of margarine and inhaled over the sizzling +frying pan. Folding the wrinkled bits of paper into the eggs, a series +of disconnected sentence fragments slowly came into view. I closed my +eyes and surveyed the partial collage. Three signatures in all. These +were definitely the forms I'd sought, but the fragments seemed +incomplete. Something was missing. + +Tabasco. + +I thumbed the labels of three different brands (there were several +on the shelf). Overwhelmed by the available choices, I went ahead and +emptied them all into the mix. A brief shot of green-smelling flame +licked the canopy above the stove. Spam! + +I batted the fire with my spatula. Left-handed, because I was still +holding onto the frying pan. I had to guess about where the tongues of +flame were going to dart next. + +In wandered Paris Mold. We didn't make eye contact; we couldn't +really, on account of my being blind. + +I assumed he had come to apologize. + +Mold was no longer my boss. But still he would offer me work from +time to time, bundled with an awkward expression of sympathy. He felt +responsible for my blindness and therefore made every attempt to wipe +clean his conscience by providing me with advance notice of his job +listings. I tolerated it only because I needed the work. + +"Can't sleep?" he asked. + +"Horseshit. I'm trying to finish my taxes." + +"Still slaving away at that, eh? The deadline's coming up, you +know," he chided. "Why don't you hire an accountant?" + +"These days, I've got plenty of time to waste. Besides, I was +hungry." + + +My finger hovered over the "eight" key while Paris regarded my +handiwork. I wasn't about to enter negotiations without some sort of +leverage -- even if that meant blowing his forehead into spun glass. +Paris wrinkled his eyebrows and made a disappointed sigh. So, this was +going to be it. With a flick of my finger, a shotgun would descend +from the ceiling and project a hot lead sandwich through Paris' face. +I judged from the sound of his low, even breathing that he was +standing right on top of the the marker. Almost... + +The bandages on my face began to itch. I twitched, trying to adjust +the strips of gauze with my nose before they slid completely off of my +face. This must have created an awkward spectacle, given the +situation. + +"What is that? Sign language?" Paris snickered. + +A flash of rage. My eyes started to burn. I punched the "eight" key +vigorously. _Eat this, fuck sack!_ + +Then: A long, piercing beep as my keypad's buffer filled with +"eights." + +Why wasn't it working? I looked down and saw nothing. + +It transpired that my hands had slipped off of home row. I had been +mashing the wrong key. + +The realization dawned, as my wife used to say, too little, too +late. + +Paris Mold retaliated with extreme prejudice. + +By force of habit, he went straight for my eyes. + + +They said I had been chewing on my left hand, apparently trying to +get at my chronometer. I complained that I hadn't managed to kill +Paris Mold, period, no matter what or when I'd tried. He was just +so... _there._ You know? Something to do with his training, I guessed. +It was this last remark that got me pulled from the operation. + +They wanted to know if I was through wasting their time, if I was +ready to stop stalling. When had I planned to follow through on the +objective? Was I really so disoriented that I couldn't maintain +narrative continuity? And what was this nonsense I'd been ranting +about? Had I experienced fear in the presence of the Molds? + +The words "dishonorable discharge" were bandied about over my +restrained body -- the first time such words had been mentioned in +relation to my person. It sounded to me like a threat. I could do +nothing but foam and thrash. + +Had I really failed so completely? + +The Molds still walked the Earth. + +The Chief phoned while I was still strapped to the table. He +claimed that my wife had become pregnant. + +I asked him how he knew. + + +THE PARTISAN + +tags: 1949, 1950, 1951, 1953, 1954, mother, tab1 + +1 + +Mother didn't love me. + +Well, who knows, but it sure was hard to tell. I assume she wanted +me gone by graduation. Pushing me out of the nest fit symmetrically +with first having introduced me to its warmth. + +Only, I hadn't needed to be pushed. + +Whatever the case, I wouldn't have stuck around once I'd secured my +means of escape. In fact, my childhood agenda came to center upon +vacating the nest at the earliest possible convenience. I told her as +much on a handful of occasions, which may have been an early source of +her resentment towards me. + +Drifting, there. Such thoughts are useless for filling out my +report. + +I dribble a handful of words into the document and save before +making a trip to the men's room. Time to call it a night. + +Passing through the marketing department, I ponder the desks of the +new-hires, noticing for the first time that their cubicle partitions +and arm-thick contract binders serve as ballast against the +accumulation of personal effects. The design is intentional. In my +first few months at the company I never would have suspected such +subtle architectures of control. + +I round the corner to the men's room and take a seat in the +furthest stall. + +After a few minutes I'm faced with a problem. + +No toilet paper. + +2 + +I am out of work. + +Real work, that is. My study group has been shut down. + +It's the Greens. They're everywhere. Though admittedly they're less +numerous than in recent years. + +Take my former manager. Matters of consequence on his mind. A month +ago he retracted our billet after deciding that my group had fielded +too many atheists. A security risk, he said. + +What is this, the 1910s? + +For a while now I've been sitting at home, steadily freezing solid +in my poorly insulated study. Not the best working environment, and +I'm not getting much done. On top of it all, Mother won't leave me +alone. I've had to resist the urge to flag her for rendition. I like +to think I've made the right decision. + +This morning I discover that the Greens have cut loose my former +manager. I'm digging around in his account when the call comes in. + +We're back on. + +Patent disputes in the hinterlands. + +The traffic orb on my desk glows a suggestive blue as I pick up the +phone to contact my team. + +3 + +Well, that didn't last long. + +Back to retail. + +I work the counter between calls because no one else knows how to +operate the products we sell. Customers roll in and then they roll +back out, _au gratin_ waves of body fat wrapped in plastic garments. +The typical specimen reeks of a public cafeteria. + +A man wanders into my zone and starts fidgeting with the boxes of +electronic equipment. He picks up a box and then sets it back down +without examining it. He repeats this awkward choreography at several +different positions along the isle. His movements seem aimless and +there appears to be no intelligent pattern underlying his +investigations. + +What is going on here? The answer is that I don't care. + +"Is there something I can assist you with, sir?" + +Contractually, I cannot allow his anti-commercial behavior to pass +unchallenged. I maneuver myself between him and the shelves and then +read him one of the scripts I've been required to memorize. + + "I am certified in twenty-seven dialects of formal sales +semantics, with a top-five ranking amongst appliance technicians in +the local Green. It would be my pleasure to interpret your needs +today. Thank you for choosing AT&T." + +"Son, let me ask you a question. Do you actually _like working +here?" + +I have to admit, there's no easy way to answer. I don't let it show +on my face. + +From an obscured storage pouch the man produces a business card and +communicates it smoothly into my hand. Affixed to its underside is a +thousand dollar bill. I turn the tiny rectangle in my hand, staring at +it quizzically. What has just happened here? Gradually, I realize that +the currency is fraudulent. The thousand dollar bill is a facsimile, +printed on the reverse of the business card. I smile and the man +lights up, returning my grin. I swear I can hear his face skipping +gears. + +"Five minutes of your time and that t-note becomes real, deposits +into the account of your choice. Spend it however you like." + +It's hardly pocket change, and of course I'm well beyond broke, so +I gesture for him to proceed with his pitch. + +Before I know it, he has me filling out paperwork, signing papers. +"Signing your life away," he announces, and smiles. + +He doesn't seem to care about my previous experience. + +4 + +I'm being sent to the front. + +Well, _one of the fronts. + +In modern warfare, someone has to keep the breathers running. My +orders are to install hotfixes and updates on the machines that +control the mobile flow tanks, which in turn feed the breathers. We +aren't permitted to install unauthorized programs, but everyone I've +ever worked with does so anyway. + +Our Sergeant hosts a fileserver from his backpack. + +The men of the platoon have taken to calling me "Mother." I assume +this is in reference to my careful maintenance of their breather +apparatuses. I don't find it amusing in the slightest. + +In spite of improvements to our equipment, signal degradation +continues to render the mail unreliable. The satellite gear proved +flaky and we dumped it after the first week in the field. At higher +elevations we're sometimes able to establish line of sight with the +fleet. + +Mother would probably like to hear from me. Maybe I'll drop her a +line the next time we're up the mountain. + +5 + +Responding to aggressive stimuli, I discharge my service rifle into +the crowd. + +My round exits the back of a man's skull and strikes the man +standing directly behind him. It then travels on to the next man +standing behind him. For a split second the perforated heads sync up, +their wounds aligning in a peculiar sort of optical tributary. As +quickly as it is formed, the channel collapses and the illusion of +coherence is lost. + +This dynamic tableaux has been observed by several hovering +cameras. I'm struck by the way each unit edges past its neighbor, +vying for a better angle on the corpses lying at my feet. They seem to +deliberately ignore me and my fellow soldiers. I don't understand why. + +A hand falls on my shoulder. It is the Sergeant. + +_What's he doing here,_ I think to myself. + +Oh, right. + +6 + +Prison clothing is uncomfortable. In my case it fits well enough. +Some of my peers have been less fortunate. + +I keep in step with the other prisoners. Occasionally, I catch my +reflection in the back of another inmate's jacket. Even out of uniform +we're unmistakably soldiers. + +A guard shouts obscenities through a bullhorn and the man in front +of me stumbles. I think that I recognize him. Latino, approximately +twenty years of age. Infantry, definitely. Could it be? + +When the guards aren't looking I kick him in the back. + +"Keep up, asshole." + +He gasps, flashing me the secret hand sign of our platoon. + +I'm convinced now, and kick him again, this time less carefully. +Less the actor. I have him on the ground by the time the guard with +the bullhorn interrupts. + +_"Move,_ faggots!" + +We do as he says. + +The data has changed hands. + +7 + +I am free. + +Released. + +The spring sun sinks into my face. Mother has passed away at some +point during my incarceration. + +I convalesce at home for two days before calling in to be +reactivated. + +The boys will be anxious to hear about my experience behind bars. I +wonder how many of us are left. + +8 + +And now it's back to the grind. Nothing has changed about the war +we've been fighting, though the locales tend to shift with the +seasons. We manage the periodic disorientation by assigning colors to +each theater of operations. This quarter we're in the Red. The +projection is that by next quarter we'll be in the Black. + +One of our little jokes. + +Oh yes, and no White after Labor Day. + +Staffing is flexible, pending new developments. This rotation we're +at home. For us, domestic deployment (as with training) constitutes +leave. The boys are all present and we fall into our familiar rhythm +as we pace the perimeter Capitol Hill. + +A froth of reporters churns to and fro between our lines. The +latest fashion in Washington is a press pass that authorizes the +bearer to cross military checkpoints with impunity. A stupid idea, to +be sure, but nobody asked my opinion. The cameras flit about as a few +of the reporters spill over in my direction. + +One approaches me, brandishing a microphone. + +"Corporal! What's your take on the continuance of the war? Can you +give me seven syllables on the reinstatement of compulsory military +service? The draft?" + +I regard her from behind my service rifle. + +Seven syllables? Let's see. + +"I'm afraid I enlisted." + + +HALF-DANDY IN THE RUBBISH FACTORY + +tags: 1918, lonnie, pennis_mold + +Standing in the mirror and seeing that without a belt, these new +slacks are simply not going to stay up. I'm in danger of tipping the +balance between classical style and practicality, but I mustn't be +caught off guard if anyone should happen to catch a glimpse of me in +my civilian underclothes. I find something suitable in my closet and +pin myself into the pants, clipping a handful of mesh transceivers to +my blouse before pulling on the pressure suit and chiming for a ride. +Down in the tunnels, I don't want my breeches coming loose, getting +wound around my legs inside of the suit. Before exiting the apartment, +I remove a number of petals from a rose and press them between the +pages of my notebook. I savor the scent for a few moments before +concealing the book within my pressure suit and heading out the door. + +At the entrance to the lowest tunnels I pause before a monstrous +installation, a war machine from some forgotten conflict of decades +past, and affix my collapsed flower to a placard situated below the +airplane. It is humid enough that the petals stick to its slick +surface with little effort. Even in this diffuse lighting, the mighty +nose and wings of the plane gleam immodestly, and I am ashamed to +experience a wave of exhilaration, prostrate as I am before such a +reverential display of murderous articulation. I gather myself and +proceed to the elevators. + + +In my mind it is all quite different than this. + +I embody two discreet realities. Suffering alone, I am continuously +in peril of favoring one reality over the other. As of late, a new +barricade has been thrown up, an obstruction that permanently divides +these tandem perspectives of the rubbish factory. Necessity demands +that I pick a side and entrench my position, but my heart cries out +for reconciliation. + +I take solace in the fact that, being made of plaster, the dividing +wall will eventually bow under its own weight. + +If memory serves, a similar plaster wall erected around the +masterpiece _Il Cenacolo_ protected it from the onslaught of mechanized +warfare, early in the last century. No one expected a fresco to stand +against mortar fire, but here our fellow Leonardo had produced a hare +from his conical hat. The wall stood firm though the building around +it crumbled to dust. + +I see now that such a wall can be made to serve a useful purpose. +Do I really wish for all the evil in my thoughts to pass so freely? It +is at moments such as these that I find it crucial to get something +down on paper, before mind's effluvium carries mind itself away on a +raft of sudden, fatiguing currents. In truth, I write to cleanse the +palate. There is a bad taste in my mouth after three weeks toiling on +the latest factory inventory. Lonnie plays Microsoft SOLITAIRE at his +desk while I scribble in my notebook. + +Furthering my previous thought, let us now consider the plaster +wall in my mind as ballast. A shift in perspective to interpret the +empty, unused spaces as the most precious of cargo: a portal to new +understanding. + +I boot up a fresh sheet of paper, reflecting upon the true nature +of metaphor as filler. A great sewer main has burst in my mind, +carrying forth copious amounts of shit and piss -- both having been +lodged quite stubbornly in the pipe. This is the opposite of the wall. +I observe as each new parcel of feces floats away, bobbling down the +stream. There is something that cannot be contained within a mind such +as my own, a mind that is slowly breaking up, dividing into dull, gray +cubicles. + +It seems that we have come full circle. + +Which way is it going to be, then? Walls to divide, or portals to +connect? + +They are both the same. Textures that are defined, even as they are +described, by the perceiving apparatus. + +There is a great wealth of surface detail to be absorbed, to be +sorted, and I do carry on exploring, but I find that there is only one +true form of currency, here in the rubbish factory, and that is the +universal reserve of the personal imagination. It proves to be an +_aether_ that never devalues, that is never appraised relative to +markets or governments -- it is the ineffable substance that +constitutes essential wealth. + +Reaching this point of minor resolution, I close up my notebook and +stuff it into one of the compartments of my pressure suit. A whistle +sounds, groaning, pixelated. A gavel is banged and my mental courtroom +clears of solicitors, making room for me to think other thoughts, to +reconnect the cycling belt of my psyche back to the idling gears of +its cadaver. + +It is time for lunch. + + +We men clamber into the mess hall, which has not yet reached fifty +percent capacity. Two- and three-man teams are clotted into +flesh-colored scabs around the edges of each steel table. We dine on +whatever has been set down in front of us by the kitchen staff. +Between bites of supper, we trade raucous barbs. + +"And what, pray tell, is the _value_ of this thing called beauty," a +colleague stands up and asks, apparently to no one. + +A few of the men turn around in their seats to face the speaker. +Some of them get up and leave altogether. But most simply pick over +their lunch trays and stare at their food, seemingly oblivious to the +philosophical gauntlet that has been thrown down. + +"Ah, yes, the _dominant minority,"_ a familiar voice chimes in. + +"Rather, I should say, an _aristocracy of merit,"_ counters the +original speaker, earning smiles from every participating table. + +I appreciate exchanges like this, here in the lunch room, as they +afford us men the chance to unwind between extended shifts in the +tunnels. The work can be grueling, the hours long. The repetitive +plunging of gloved hands or shielded feet into the crowded arteries of +the sanitation lines coarsens men to fellowship. But here, we make our +own peace with our situation. Here, we arrive on the cusp of our +destinies by the strain and sweat of our honest toil. It is a kind of +progress. + + +Before things really get started, a triumvirate of management +stride into the room, enjoying a buffer nearly three meters in +diameter as they pass between the huddles of workmen. I grip my lunch +tray with trepidation as they float past my table, unsure of the +purpose for their visit. + +What I notice first is the impeccable styling of their attire. Even +when down in the tunnels, these gentlemen always -- _always_ -- keep +their gear clean. In the general low-light conditions of the sewer, it +is their bejeweled teeth and resplendent gold necklaces which can +first be seen approaching, glittering through the humid mists of +municipal waste. At times, the ricocheting reflections may cause an +entire face to disappear, or at least, they may seem to disappear when +one's vision is obscured by a pressure suit mask. But here in the mess +hall, we all remove our helmets to talk and eat. Here, the glare does +not obscure but instead serves to illuminate. + +The small group approaches now, my own supervisor striding to the +fore. His low-slung denim splits into a Cheshire grin of plaid cotton +undergarments. The suede of my supervisor's sneakers appears to be +freshly brushed, having accumulated no floating particles of detritus +or dirt. His tasteful, oversize polo tee asserts the classic dialectic +of red and white striping, situated masterfully alongside a deep blue +rectangle bearing numerous white stars, each of self-evident, sacred +significance. I am somewhat taken aback by this sudden explosion of +color. It is a moment I cherish even as it overwhelms me, and I +briefly clench my eyelids together, attempting to trigger my mesh +camera, to stream the scene into the pages of my department's +distributed memory. + + +As the managers pass my table they hesitate, stop, and then double +back. + +My supervisor's nostrils incline perceptibly. As one, the group +turns to face me. I swallow the food in my mouth, which goes down the +wrong way, and I begin to worry about the visible stubble on my face. +How must I appear to them? + +"Yo, ya'll have been selected, son! We're up in this place to +request that you authorize a temporary application fee of two billion +credits to secure your promotion to management. Know what I'm sayin', +cousin? To authenticate this ceremonial enhancement, please press +here, fool. Fa sho." + +I place my thumb onto the reader and press down, weakly. This +elicits a further vocalization. + +"Peace. Five thousand, G." + +And then they are gone. + +I am quite literally bowled over, and my lunch tray pinwheels to +the floor in pursuit of my limp form. Lonnie, faithful companion of lo +these many years, helps me back to my seat as I slowly regain my +composure. Gradually, the ramifications of what has just happened +begin to sink in. Promotion will mean an increase in my pension, new +quarters... and an unlimited civilian clothing allowance. I have just +been created anew. Afforded a repeat birth. I switch on all mesh +transceivers and begin capturing every possible angle of my +surroundings, preserving this vital moment, etching a record for the +corporate archives, for my descendants, for their inheritors. + + +"What up, son," Lonnie chides, adopting the formal tone of +management in a sort of mockery of their stiff, proper elocution. +"These negroes done lost they minds." + +I nod my head slightly, acutely aware of the expanse that now +separates our respective circumstances. The great plaster partition +has come crashing apart in my mind, and in this instant, the dejected, +isolated occupants of each chamber are crushed together, the sticks of +pious liberty bundled into a final, immobilizing unity. I eschew my +former concerns, beholden as they were to considerations of slop and +waste. The combustion of my thoughts is now fueled solely by the light +of its own countenance. + +Lacking a prepared response, I yield to myself completely. + +My face droops into my hand. A bent elbow evenly supports the +increased weight of my skull, flesh and excessively powdered hair. I +find that I have grown suddenly weary of contemplating the great +weight of my responsibility. Lonnie will come to appreciate this +fatigue if ever he is called up, into the obdurate embrace of his +betters. + +But at this moment I cannot expect him to fully understand. Not +while he still finds himself tethered to the undercarriage of our +labyrinth of shifting human shit. + +I look at him and it is obvious he cannot understand what I have +become. + +"Dandy," I finally reply, employing the crude language of the +tunnels. I burp towards the mess hall out of politeness. In the +resulting silence I pick at the visor of my helmet. + +Lonnie makes a face, forlorn, but still he says nothing. + +I wave him away. I excuse myself and leave my tray for the staff to +clear. + +I am already running next month's numbers in my head. + +Fitting my manicured hands to the master controls of the rubbish +factory. + + +ASDFASDF + +tags: 1979, erik, roger, tab2 + +Thomas adjusted the focus of his visor and opened three new chat +windows. He joined the appropriate channel in each window, issued +greetings to everyone, and then banked his fighter jet into a cloud, +dodging enemy fire. He checked his screens but it looked like everyone +else was idling. + + +Roger crushed the soda can beneath her foot and stomped into the +building. Behind her, Erik dribbled the rest of his beverage into the +gutter and followed suit. Both of them were late for duty. + + + Oh well, here we are again, crammed into this office when +it's windy and gray outside. No cold London breeze in our faces today, +boys! By the time you read this, I'll have flattened quite a bit of +real estate, I'd imagine. Oh well, where does the time go. + + Is someone stroking you off over there? + + That's offensive. And just where the spam have you two been. + + i'm so spamming tired + + +A flash crossed all of their screens at once. A vibrant pink square +that obscured half of the desktop, causing Roger (at least) to +misdirect her fire towards a friendly. + + +Folks, + +RDO (Regular Day Off) + +Since we are starting a run on training next week and through +September for various classes (other course scheduling to be +announced), we will be depending on all to help keep our levels up as +well as possible, as you have these last couple of weeks. Since +Thursday and Friday are always busy days anyway, we'd like to ask +anyone with their RDO on Thurs and Fri to work OT during our critical +time. That can be up to 8 hours starting between 7am-9am, and possibly +a couple more depending on how busy it is. + +Then from next week on until further notice, we'd like those that +will, to work OT on their RDOs between the same starting times, with +the possible 2 hrs extra on top of the 8 if business needs are heavy. +If you cannot work the full 8 but can work 4 hrs between 10am-2pm or +11am-3pm (same for this Thur & Fri), that would help out during the +lunch periods. Of course working through lunch is also authorized w/ +break splitting until further notice. + + +Thomas cleared the flash and flitted his eyes back to incoming. +Roger and Erik actually finished reading the entire message. + +The result of their decision was immediately apparent. + +Rockets in the air. Thomas vectored wildly, but it was clear that +convergence was only a matter of time. The air support team (the happy +trio, all together) cursed simultaneously. + +The potential flight paths whirling in front of them were useless. +TelemeTry was lagging again. The sky was infinite white on every side. + +Roger and Erik backed off of the target and regained control of +their vehicles. + +Thomas, for his part, had lost the ground. + + +asdfasdfasdfasdfasdf + + + i wasnt going to come in at all today but it turns out i've +already used up my personal days for the rest of the year. it's +fucking january! + + I was in the cafeteria and I heard Sarge talking spam about us +not getting 20 minute breaks anymore after this quarter + + fuck that! argh. that does it, i'm deleting his account on +webster. no more free zero day for him! + + Hey guys. + + I am SO not working overtime this weekend + + +asdfasdf + + +Thomas drummed his fingers on his desk absentmindedly. Presently, +UTF-8 characters appeared in front of his eyes, translucent, but still +rather annoying as they partially obscured his vision. He finished +logging his flight ticket and got himself up, out of his chair. + +As usual, Erik and Roger were a few minutes longer in getting their +acts together. This was exacerbated by Erik accidentally brushing his +elbows against Roger's breasts, several times, in the space of just a +few minutes. + +After she'd finished repeatedly punching him in the gut, both +airmen caught up with Thomas and took their places next to him in the +chow line, where they casually compared the features of their newly +upgraded visors. + +"I'm always waiting for you guys. Spam like this is why we lose so +many airplanes." + +Thomas held his serious expression for several seconds, and then +they all burst into laughter. + + +I'M JUST SAYING + +tags: 1979, christopher, violet + +"Every time I walk past your desk you're reading that damned feed." + +"Do you see the flaw in this?" Violet asked. "Every time you see me +reading the feeds, you're away from your own desk. You'd never even +know I was breaking the rules if you weren't up, walking around, +breaking them yourself." + +Frankly, there had been little to distinguish her until fairly +recently. The spring quarter had perhaps brought about a kind of +transformation. Certainly, she'd taken well to his instruction. +Christopher mused (to himself) that perhaps what he admired in her +most was his own reflection. But this was a profoundly disagreeable +notion, and he discarded the thought. The light from the office window +played softly in her hair. He would try again. There could be no harm +in trying. + +"No, Violet, Newton did _not_ hold that the Green was eternal. A +gentleman of his era would not even have been able to perceive the +Green." + +"Now you're just _lying,"_ said Violet. + +_"Nullius en verba,"_ sighed Chris. "Trust, but verify. Or in other +words, do your own research. You see, it doesn't matter if you believe +me or not. This isn't a relative matter. The Green did not exist in +the seventeenth century -- it's not merely an assertion, it's an +incontrovertible fact." + +"According to your essentialist bias," Violet said. "But what are +'facts,' anyway?" + +There was no answer. It was a meaningless question. + +Violet's mouth creased acutely at its corners, her eyes tracing the +arc of the golden ratio as Christopher shifted in his work trousers, +unsure of how to proceed. He could no longer remember what he had been +trying to say, or why. He stopped typing in order to formulate his +response. + +"All you need to know about Newton is this: his work on optics may +have indeed set the stage for the eventual overturning of his work on +motion." + +"That's _seriously_ not even true," said Violet. "Einstein was very +clear that his own work should not be seen to _supersede_ Newton's, +but merely to build upon the foundations laid by his able predecessor. +Newtonian mechanics is still quite viable from virtually any +perspective. Even today." + +"I'm just saying," she added. + +"And yet, you cling to this notion that Newton knew of -- communed +with -- the Green. That he had some sort of access to the network." + +"Didn't he?" asked Violet, rolling her eyes behind her face-mask. + +_"No,"_ said Chris, finding himself increasingly frustrated, in more +ways than one. + + +Violet drifted away. She thought to herself: _When I lay my head +down, now, my dreams are as stories, are no longer as the psychotic, +Dadaist collages to which I've become accustomed. Humble, linear +narratives. But what is more important to me? Lucid memories of my +childhood or the removal of this block, the lifting of this veil that +has descended, that so complicates my machinery?_ She was unaware of +how she appeared, laying prostrate over her desk. Consequently, she +was oblivious to her co-worker's mounting discomfort. + + +Christopher excused himself and retreated to the men's room. + +He latched the stall. He took down his trousers and began to +masturbate furiously into the toilet. His heartbeat rapidly outpaced +the ticking of his chronometer. His breathing quickened appreciably as +the sweat from his forehead poured into his eyes. + +Presently, a long, slow moan escaped from his lips. + +It was then that Christopher noticed the presence of a co-worker, +seated in the adjacent stall. + +"I'm just saying," the co-worker said, and folded his newspaper. + + +MY VIOLET DUCHY + +tags: 1967, margaret, tab1, tab2, violet + +Mother fitted Violet's mask into place, but that did nothing to cap +the jet of words spraying from her face. + +I _hated_ my sister. + + +Violet: "All of this leaf stuff is still undecided. It'll be difficult +to unseat the pressure screen in this household, especially with Dad. +I wouldn't wager my summer vacation on that contraption. I doubt if +he'll buy it from you." + +Thomas: "The thing about this device neither of you seem to understand +is that it's much more than a simple substitute for the pressure +screen. Just look at it's features! The interface is remarkable, even +to functional illiterates such as yourselves. See how it responds so +readily to the touch of my finger? I'm certain he'll be as excited +about it as I am." + +Mother: "Isn't this a bit like that old LCD screen you dug out of the +back yard, Thomas? I don't understand what's so interesting about it. +It doesn't even _speak._ Violet is probably right: your father is not +going to compensate you for this find, I'm afraid..." + +Thomas: "..." + +Violet: "He's not going to allow it into the house anyway. Are _you_ +going to tell him where you found it, or should I? _Ouch,_ Mom, the pin +goes into my blouse, not my neck!" + +Thomas: "Sure, I'll tell him. Though I'm not convinced his consent is +even relevant at this point. How is he going to say no when the device +could prove indispensable to his work? Classical pressure screens are +not going to be interoperable with the new networks. Is Dad going to +let us go broke just so he can pretend the market still values his +pre-war skillset?" + +Mother: "Thomas." + +Thomas: "Blame the market. I didn't invent supply and demand. Finding +this thing in the trash doesn't _make_ it trash." + +Violet: "I have to wonder if there's any significant _purpose_ to all +of these upgrades. In a few months time there'll be another new device +to replace this one, and then, in the fall, a new device to replace +_that_ one. Haven't you discerned a pattern yet, Thomas?" + +Thomas: "I haven't the slightest idea what you're on about." + + +SHELL OUT + +tags: 1969, christopher, frankie_willard, tab2 + +When you lay your shell down on the street, you have to expect that +someone is going to come along and pick it up. Frankie considered this +self-evident fact to be ample justification for his scooping up the +small piece of equipment and dropping it into his pocket. So far as he +could tell, no one had noticed him retrieving the device. Out on the +street, such random finds were rare. + +Now, if only he could figure out what it was supposed to be. + + +Thomas Bright immediately recognized the shell's function. He +observed his friend's actions and contrived to take the object away +from him. By force, if necessary. + +Presently, he asserted himself. + +"Hey Frankie," he yelled. + +The fight unspooled quickly, with Thomas shrugging off an abrasion +and Frankie doubling over on the pavement, nursing a lacerated fist +that had rolled through a patch of broken glass. Frankie's attempt at +securing a headlock had proven ineffective. + +Thomas surveyed the battlefield, projecting a wide, mischievous +grin from beneath his visor. + +"What?" asked Frankie. + +The display of glistening of teeth had set Frankie's legs to +feeling remarkably naked beneath the hem of his cargo shorts. With all +of his extra equipment, Thomas was more resourceful than Frankie had +supposed. + +"How many of my cigarettes would you say you burn through in a +week?" Thomas asked, gesturing pointedly and exhaling imaginary smoke +into Frankie's face. + + +Blocks of light exchanged positions in front of Thomas' eyes. +Discharges of air escaped through his lips at regular intervals as he +considered how to attach Frankie's shell to his home feed. It was +imperative to dump the shell's contents into temporary storage as +quickly as possible. By the time Thomas had established connectivity +with the mesh, his errant verbalizations had organized themselves into +a frivolous melody. + +Christopher, for one, was unimpressed with the one-off vocal +performance. He observed that Thomas tended to drift off-pitch, which +was only partially ameliorated by the reverberations of the tiled +bathroom walls. + +"Soaked in reverb, your off-key caterwauling almost resolves into +music," Chris stated, flatly. + +"Thanks," said Thomas. + +"What's the point of booting up this device if we can't connect it +to our other equipment?" + +"I'm appalled by your doubt. As well as your seeming inability to +negotiate novel obstacles," Thomas complained. He laid down his tool +on the counter and replaced it with another from his toolbox. "Please +observe as I perform the necessary operations to bring this device's +configuration into parity with our extant systems and software." + +"But Thomas, this piece of equipment doesn't conform to open +standards. Carrying out your plans would be at cross-purposes to our +SOP; the greater work of populating our testbeds with only _legally +unencumbered technologies."_ + +As the dialogue progressed, Thomas worked the casing off of the +shell and proceeded to probe its internals. After a brief interlude of +utter silence, he let out a whoop and spun around to present the +results of his efforts. + +A holographic image of Thomas flickered into existence, +approximately four inches above the device. The projection aped +Thomas' every word and movement, allowing for a slight delay. + +"Just because you can modify it doesn't make it _free_ -- that is, +er, redistributable," Chris tried to quip, but it had come out all +wrong, mixed-up, as a wave of dizziness seemed to be interfering with +his verbal faculties. "You can't even sell the thing now." + +"Oh, give me some credit. I don't _plan on selling it. Hand me the +smallest forceps." + +Chris could no longer tell if he was getting dizzy or merely +getting confused. + +"Then why are we wasting time examining it?" he asked. + +Thomas looked up at him, perturbed. + +"For the funk of it," he said, and then added, "I'm going to fine +you if you keep asking me these stupid questions." + + +GENDER SMURF + +tags: 1968, albert_lunsford, bob, piro, tab1 + +"You fucking faggot!" my co-worker cried as he leaped out of his +pick-up truck and clapped me on the ear. + +I placed my satchel on the picnic table and opened it. We got to +work immediately. + + +"There's no point in shutting down the whole group," Piro pointed +out. + +"Oh, you're absolutely right," I said. "I think we can accomplish +more by poisoning the well." + +Piro had the black box up and running. Every message posted to the +Albert Lunsford group would flow through our illicit kernel module +before it even reached the group's database. In this way, we would +tamper with reality. + +"I used your wife's name for one of my fake logins," Piro remarked. + +I popped him in the arm. + +"Hey, it was easy to remember." + +"Just keep your story straight when you're posting. There aren't +many females active on the group; these guys will notice if you get +your continuity out of whack." + +I pulled up a sample message. + + +Date: Sun, 05 Oct 1968 04:44:16 -0000 +To: albert.lunsford@groups.thegreen +Message-ID: +In-Reply-To: +User-Agent: THEGREEN-EW/0.82 +MIME-Version: 1.0 +Content-Type: text/plain; charset="ISO-8859-1" +Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable + +From: "no_such_name" +Subject: Fifteen Impossible Things to Believe Before Breakfast Or Else +You're a Feminist + +Fifteen Impossible Things to Believe Before Breakfast Or Else You're a +Feminist + +1. People are inherently good, and therefore communism doesn't work +because it postulates that human nature is trustworthy. Similarly, a +democratic-republic such as the United States and Territories is +superior to communism because it pits people's interests against one +another in a system of checks and balances, rather than trusting that +humans will, of their own accord, make the right choices. Also, +because people are inherently good, ninety-eight out of every one +hundred of them end up in Hell. + +2. Women are less equal than men as human beings and therefore should +never have been given the right to vote. However, since women have +already been given the right to vote, it is a good idea to let them +keep it, even though they are messing up the whole world with their +bad choices. + +3. Women are clinically insane because psychiatry is bogus medicine, +therefore Albert Lunsford is not insane because he has not been +diagnosed as such by a psychiatrist. +4. Only liberal feminists would consider a six-year-old boy to be +eligible for political asylum, therefore those who don't consider a +six-year-old boy eligible for political asylum are liberal feminists. + +5. Most illness is a result of demonic possession. + +6. Conspiracies in government are unlikely, if not impossible, because +the government is so large as to make keeping a secret impossible, and +because government employees make less money than private employees. + +7. No Republican would ever accuse a public official of murder or +other atrocities, because to do so would be disloyal to their country, +and because public officials make less money than private employees. + +8. A fiscal conservative is still a liberal if they do not believe in +God, therefore a theist who believes in extorting tax dollars at +gunpoint is a conservative. + +9. The impending completion of Lunsford's twenty-six year graphic +novel project triggered a natural disaster that killed thousands of +people, therefore keeping the storyline in print is absolutely +necessary to fulfilling God's will. + +10. The Dead Sea Scrolls contain a word-perfect copy of the Old +Testament in its entirety, therefore the other texts bundled with it +are of negligible value, and the 1591 King James Bible is the inerrant +Word of God even though different copies of the same text varied due +to the nature of printing technology in 1591. + +11. Albert Lunsford is the first person in the history of mankind to +have unlocked the true meaning of the Old Testament, the New Testament +and the Koran, and therefore he is not a Prophet. + +12. RFC #289/290 represents a Unified Field Theory of physics which is +not only coherent, but correct, all without reference to mathematics. +This theory is not given the credit it is due because comic book fans +are afraid to admit that Albert Lunsford is right about everything on +this list. + +13. RFC itself is not given the credit it is due in the comics +industry because comic book fans are afraid to admit that Albert +Lunsford is right about everything on this list. + +14. Failure to agree with anything in the above list is evidence that +you are a Marxist/Feminist/Homosexualist, and therefore not Albert +Lunsford, and therefore wrong. + +15. Albert Lunsford's new comic book project will fail because his +comic book readership is comprised solely of +Marxist/Feminist/Homosexualists, therefore it makes perfect sense to +dispatch agitators who are known to be hostile to +Marxism/Feminism/Homosexualism to the four corners of the Green to +promote it. + + +I had to laugh. These guys really took this stuff seriously. + +Our objective was to subtly disrupt Lunsford's operations. The +group was extremely high traffic, so the black box only had to be +active for a few minutes before our efforts started to bear fruit. I +grabbed another fragment to check on our progress. + + +> > > --- In albert.lunsford@groups.green, "juan_whatever" +> > wrote: +> > > +> > > Did the text appear kinda messed up on "part two" on other's +> > > pressure screens -or just mine? Gargamel? +> > > Anyway, this is a pretty big deal as we continue to get insight +from +> > > the ground floor of what will probably become the world's +dominant +> > > religion some time in the future -oh, you know it'll happen:) +> > +> > +> > On Sun, Oct 5, 1968 at 9:48 AM, Sam wrote: +> > +> > You might have been kidding about this, juan, but it did occur to +> > me. Wouldn't put it past Gargamel or Satan to make Albert's text +harder +> > to read. +> > +> > I had to pull the text into a editor and get rid of all the +> > superfluous characters that were making the text unreadable. Few +> > people would probably do that, achieving Gargamel's end nicely. +She/He/It +> > would be invested in *not* having people read the Bible, Torah, +and +> > Koran and think about them deeply. +> > +> > Not sure if there's an easier way to add the text without all the +> > extra characters, Klaus, but more people will read the the text if +> > they don't have to work so hard at it. I can make offline +suggestions +> > on how to do that if it will help. +> > +> > Sam Slammerhaus + + +Perfect. The modules were functioning as designed. Even simply +futzing the formatting on a random selection of messages could spin +the group into a number of irrelevant side discussions. + +Satisfied with our work, I closed up my satchel and we vacated the +picnic area. Using a public access point had made our insertion +untraceable. + + +_"No end until victory,"_ Piro said, reciting the old Gender Smurf +credo. + +"It should be interesting to see how they react to our efforts," I +offered. + +Piro quietly nursed his beer. + +"I just hope these guys don't fly completely off the handle. Their +tactics are entirely unpredictable." + +"Truth," I said. + +We fell into silence for a few moments, each of us contemplating +the notion of blue-skinned rioters storming the public schools, +smurfing their way into the girl's restrooms. + +"I have to admit I find their sexual practices disgusting," Piro +said at last. + +"Hey, you'll get no argument from me. But so long as they remain in +their hovels they're not doing anything illegal." + +"The whole reason we're involved with this mess is precisely +because they _do_ sometimes leave their hovels." + +The discussion usually tended in this direction. I set them up and +my partner knocked them down. Point to Piro. + +"I suppose there is a fear that their culture will spread, put down +roots in the urban centers. No one really cares about a local cult, +but now that they're making inroads in the national media..." + +"I'll say it again: disgusting," Piro repeated. + +A Gender Smurf entered the room and made a beeline for the bar. He +sat himself down on a stool right next to Piro. + +"You guys ever thought of going blue?" he asked, by way of +introduction. + +I clutched Piro's shoulder as he reached for his sidearm. "Don't +you people know Peyo was a Satanist!" he spat out, struggling against +my grip. + +"We're not interested," I said, intensifying my stare to indicate +we would brook no further discussion. We got up to leave. + + +Three hours later Piro was still arguing with Bob, the Gender +Smurf. + +"What's the big deal? Blue skin is as healthy and safe as bare +hands... Tell me, how would 'flesh color' have protected that +gentleman over there or anyone else from 'runaway shopping carts' or +the other so-called 'dangers' you've enumerated? Well-adjusted, blue +skin can actually withstand quite hazardous environments... It's +amazing how paranoid most people are here in North America. You should +try going blue outside sometime, it feels great and it's nowhere +nearly as dangerous as most people seem to assume. I've been doing it +for nearly fifteen years, up in Canada, and my skin is in great shape. +I'm healthy as a horse. Open your minds, gentlemen!" + +"What about SPF," Piro asked, resigned to his fate as the lone +voice of reason in the discussion. I refused to participate. + +"This calls for a two-part argument," said Bob. "One: One more +reason I'm really glad I don't live in the U.S. -- I'd really hate for +others to be telling me what color I can and can't be when I'm +spending my money at their store. So much for 'The Land Of The Free.' +The 'No Blues' policy does not have anything to do with health +protection or laws. It is a double standard created by corporations to +enforce dress codes; designed only to create a business 'image.' +Unfortunately, that kind of stupid mentality is getting contagious up +in Canada." + +Bob indicated the placement of quotation marks with his fingers. + +When no one objected to his first point, he continued. + +"Two: Again, I don't understand how people think flimsy, flesh +colored skin (which seems to be totally okay at most places of +business, all over) can protect them from any of the 'horrible' things +they could catch or the usual hazards on the streets. In fact, some of +the so-called normal shoes people wear (platform shoes, pointy, etc.) +pose a greater threat to someone's health than actually walking around +outdoors with blue skin! For more information on how going blue is not +only okay but is also good for you, please surf to: +groups.thegreen/albert.lunsford -- A U.S. based organization of people +who go blue as a lifestyle choice." + +Finally, I had to but in. + +_"We don't. Spamming. Care."_ + +Piro insisted on paying for Bob's drinks. I told him to take it out +of petty cash -- I wasn't going to try and justify this on my expense +sheet. He made the necessary preparations and transmitted payment. + + +"Do you see now why I discourage talking with these people," I +asked, punching Piro in the back. + +"I'm not sure how to explain my objection to your attitude," Piro +said. "It's not precisely that you're a racist, because these people +are not born blue. It's not really intolerance of their religion, +because, aside from their blue skin, white hats, and the fact that +they have sex with each other while wearing them, these people are not +fundamentally different from you or me." + +I gave him a look. + +"I'm just saying, there's no reason not to treat them like human +beings." + +"Sure there is," I said. "It's our job." + + +DISSIPATION + +tags: 1963, plinth_mold, saito + +Click, click, click. Twelve cubes of light, each flipping past the +other, rotating into the slot left vacant by its predecessor. The +purpose of this orchestration is to massage the cortex with +electromagnetic oscillations in the frequency range of 8-12Hz. +Patients appear to derive the most benefit, Saito has noted, from +working through the entire routine, pausing rhythmically at the +completion of each sequence to allow the electronics to catch up with +the procession of their focus. + +But what are the effects, he wonders, if the patient identifies his +therapeutic parlor trick and susses out the mechanism? What happens +when the patient's conscious mind tracks the incoming data with +greater precision than the machinery? Click, click, click. Saito leans +forward. Perhaps this particular arrangement of cubes is novel. He +presses a button, freezing the arrangement in memory. To be studied +later. + +He is pleased that the treatment has proven efficacious. For the +vast majority of his patients, anyway. Ironic, then, that he should +feel so powerless to alter the degree and substance of his own +compulsive addictions. Contemplating this, Saito produces a pocket +lighter from his coat and sears the flesh of his right hand. He +stifles a primal yelp, burying his shame in his handkerchief (not only +the shame, but the evidence -- self-immolation is an offense not only +against the state, but against Saito's ancestors, for historical +reasons peculiar to his family). He then re-calibrates his equipment +for the next patient. + +The work he is carrying out could revolutionize treatment of +numerous conditions, given the eventual push into mass production. For +uncounted moments Saito shifts out of time, is aloft, floating on the +awareness of what he is so very close to achieving. He finds the +sensation is fleeting. + +Saito adjusts his _coiffure_ and smooths down the front of his white +coat, feeling his sweat cool against the skin of his wrists. If anyone +has seen him burning himself, it could result in the loss of his job. + +But of what use is a job, at this point in his life? They've made +his impossible. + +He has been forced to accept a number of compromises that limit the +efficacy of his design. He doubts that the latest cubes, in their +present form, will do much more than narcotize. Hypnotize. Amounting +to nothing more than an entertainment. Saito ruminates on the shambles +of his career before taking the lighter back out of his pocket and +burning several additional black marks into the flesh of his hand. He +tries to ignite his skin completely, but succeeds only in singeing the +sleeve of his coat. With the smoke, he imagines his _kami_ slinking up +to the ceiling, dispersing across its surface, crawling in several +directions at once towards the duct work and vents. + +A knock -- an abrupt punctuation to his thoughts -- and the door +swings open, pulling his _kami_ back down to the floor. So, they had +seen him after all. He knows now that the charade is concluded. His +work is finished. + +As a result of his actions his patients will suffer. But then, +patients are always suffering. + +With his expulsion, Saito's role in the project will be expunged. +Because his research is considered a state secret, there will be no +one to complain on his behalf. His data will be reclaimed and filtered +for an executive summary. And then, he suspects, quietly abandoned, as +it is clear that the process of weaponization would exceed the +available funding. This, at least, is some small cause for relief. + +Still, he feels as if his _kami_ has dissipated. There is nothing +left for them to kill. + +This thought compels him to emit a tiny laugh. The thought dies, +strangled stillborn in his throat. + +Saito flinches as the door swings inward. + +Into the room bounds Plinth Mold, flanked by two of his most +trusted attorneys. + +"Relax, Saito," says Plinth. "Let's talk patents. I'm interested in +what you've been working on up here, all these years." + + +DUCHESS OF MASKS + +tags: 1993, saito, violet + +What I hold in my left hand is different from what I hold in my +right. What is on my face is different still. I have so many choices +of how to proceed. + +At any moment an alarm will sound and I will be discovered. Sitting +in this chair, looking over these files, wearing whichever face has +fallen into place as they burst through the door. How will they see +me? It is of no consequence what they will think. + +The gray backdrop of what I have learned here throws what I know of +our history into menacing relief; paper shadows under fluorescence and +lost thoughts in the drawer. Which eyes will I use to record these +discoveries? With no apparent prejudice I select a mask and peer +through its gates, rifling numerous papers and file folders spread +across the floor. A slender cord tethers me to the machine under my +cushioned seat, which interprets the ambient state of the room. + +Through these eyes. + +Oh, Saito. I am afraid that I cannot clean these tracks from the +floor. Your actions have plunged a polished knife into the swollen +belly of our tracking. It is, in fact, _you_ who is splayed out here on +the floor. A descending pattern of guilt. + +Would that I were here when it happened, all those years ago. + +Would that you had listened. + + +CALL, WAITING + +tags: 1977, eva, tab2 + +The whole side of the building is green. I see I've come all the +way out here again for nothing. + +I'm slow packing up my gear. The day has already evaporated around +me. Might as well soak the trip for billable hours. + +This happens every week. I've yet to be given the go ahead on an +operation -- at all, actually. The work is easy, but dragging out my +gear just to sit here in the dark is humiliating. If I didn't need the +money I would withdraw my registration. + +The sun has not quite vanished. There are still a smattering of +locals out and about on the street. I decide to finish my report here, +while I'm still on the scene. I finger the leaf out of my coat pocket +and expand its display. As soon as I light the screen, four messages +appear, each edging its neighbor out of the way in accordance with an +algorithm deemed intuitive by emotionally bereft software engineers. +Presently, desktop real estate on the hand-held is at a premium. + +All of the messages are from Eva. + + +Message 1: 16:01 Are you coming in to work today? :) + +Message 2: 16:03 I know you're in there, I can see the light from your +leaf reflecting in the mirror and peeking out of the curtains. Should +I send over a a tray of makizushi, or just keep it to myself? + +Message 3: 16:07 FINE THEN! I'M GOING ON BREAK. + +Message 4: 16:16 Why won't you talk to me? + + +There are numerous relevant answers to her question, but I'm not +about to entangle myself in a discussion. I close all four message +windows with an index finger and bring up the report template. Light +from the window continues to leak into my room, coaxing abstract +reflections from the dresser mirror. Dusk always wreaks havoc with my +visor and its ability to read the screen of my leaf. I end up leaving +the visor off, missing out on a lot of calculating I could be doing +while I pretend to work. + +There is a sound I don't like, out in the hallway, and suddenly +I've got my pistol out, working my finger into its trigger guard and +inserting a clip of ammunition. After a few moments I put the firearm +back in my bag. It was only the landlady's cat. + +So. + +On to my report. + + +19:04 NOTHING HAS HAPPENED AGAIN. I RECEIVED THE ALL-CLEAR SIGNAL AT +19:00 PER THE SCHEDULE AND SO RETURNED ALL INSTRUMENTATION TO ITS +STORAGE CASE AND SHUT DOWN THE TRANSMITTER. SIGNING OFF TO RETURN TO +THE REAL WORLD. EOF. + + +I encrypt the message with my thumb and send it on its way. + +As I'm gathering my things, my mind wanders to my fellow agents, +spread out across diverse countries and kingdoms, who must also have +been called out and then sent back home without seeing any action. I +wonder about their frustrations with the tedious ins and outs of the +business. Surely we'd have a lot in common. Not that we'll ever meet. + +I'm not long in dusting the chair and table. I wrap my shirt around +my hand, then lightly grip the doorknob and vacate before I'm noticed. +My visor tells me the landlady is rounding the corner, two blocks +away, returning home with a bag full of groceries. I follow the path +my visor has illuminated until I reach a public transport, which it +flags as off-limits. Instead, I hop into a taxi. + +By the time I arrive at home I've decided against more studying. I +pull up a telescreen window and lean back in my bed, trying to get +some rest. I wonder who we _did_ decide to blow up today. I'm always +kept close to potential action scenes, even if I'm never actually +ordered to intervene. It's probably the same with all of us. + +I fall asleep just as the answer to my query hits the scroll. A +group of wailing women are brought up on screen to provide visual +context for the hour's headline story. + +My visor flags the clip for my attention, but I don't remember what +happens next. It's unlikely I'll remember to review this in the +morning. + + +TRY MY PRODUCT + +tags: 1979, coca_cola, do_wuh, motherfucker, perpetrator + +The airbrushed cover was decidedly inferior to what Motherfucker +had seen before, attached to other printings of the same book. It was +outlandish. All swaddling clothes and taut, glistening muscles. +Objectifying the physiques that would result from pious observance, +appealing to the vanity of practitioners who were required, by +tradition and by law, to study it. Transparent ableism. This kind of +self-aggrandizing marketing disgusted him. Gazing upon its cover, it +was hard for Motherfucker to take the book seriously. + +"Well, don't just sit there, all slack-jawed, however arresting +that dust jacket might be... _Open the blessed book_ and let's get +started." + +Perpetrator adopted an instructional tone, as if to communicate +that Motherfucker's own study habits were somehow deficient, would +somehow land him in hot water. He was always prepared to dispense +advice to his lessers. In this case, the advice involved the +interpretation of the Bible, and the careful application of those +interpretations to the logical conundrums that permeated modern life. +Perpetrator was only a couple of months older than Motherfucker. He +was a total spamhole. + +_"That's_ not what the book says _at all,"_ complained Motherfucker. + +Perpetrator indicated the text with his finger. "You're wrong. It's +right there on the page in front of you. Just look at the words." + +"Yes, my eyes were directed at this material during the process of +forming my initial assessment," sighed Motherfucker. + +"Well, one couldn't tell from hearing you recite it." + +The pages dissolved into one another. Motherfucker couldn't sustain +his focus. He wondered briefly why the long lists of telephone numbers +that comprised this part of the Scriptures featured variable font +sizes, brilliant piping and color illustrations. Why all the fuss? + +"Perpetrator, what is the point of these chapters that are mainly +just lists of telephone numbers and advertisements for insurance +agents?" + +"Motherfucker, those are the _Sanctified Tribes of the Green._ Your +remarks are veering dangerously close to blasphemy. Why do you have to +question every last detail, when it comes to our studies? Not +_everything_ is a conspiracy!" + +Motherfucker sighed again. "It all just seems so arbitrary. Like +they've gone and copied pages out of an old telephone directory and +called it Scripture." + +_"Naturally_ that is what it _seems_ like, Motherfucker, for that is +precisely what they've done." + +"..." + +"What," asked Perpetrator, finally and honestly befuddled. "You +didn't know?" + +"What do you _mean_ what?" asked Motherfucker. _"Why did they copy +pages out of an old telephone directory and call it Scripture?" + +"Because, Motherfucker, these manuscripts are _illuminated."_ + +"..." + +"Look at the section headings. See how the Tribes are organized +according to service offerings, then alphabetized? These illustrations +are graphical elements that illuminate the organization of the data. +It renders the information discernible at a glance." + +"..." + +"Still you do not comprehend." + +"No, I'm afraid I don't." + +Perpetrator stalled for several seconds, allowing time for the the +new concepts to sink into Motherfucker's mind. + +Minutes passed. + +"Wait. Oh. _Now_ I see," claimed Motherfucker. "They're not so old +as to be presented as text-only, like the original Scriptures. These +pages contain source code and meta data." + +"That is correct." + +"I guess that makes sense." + +_"Good,_ Motherfucker," said Perpetrator. "Now we're making +progress!" + + +But Motherfucker still seemed to be confused. + +"We've wasted enough time on the display elements. Please return to +the previous chapter and read aloud." + +"Son of a bitch. You _know I'm not comfortable reading aloud." + +"Okay then, _I_ will read aloud to _you,"_ resolved Perpetrator, +training his standard, disdainful stare into the pupils of +Motherfucker's eyes. + +Throat cleared, he began. + +"Newton wrote: + + +...rational mechanics will be the science of motion resulting from +any forces whatsoever, and of the forces required to produce any +motion ... and therefore I offer this work as the mathematical +principles of philosophy, for the whole burden of philosophy seems to +consist in this from the phenomena of motions to investigate the +forces of nature, and then from these forces to demonstrate the other +phenomena... + + +"Yeah, right," said Motherfucker. + +"What, you don't _believe_ him? Here, what do the footnotes say?" + + +From this proposition it will follow, when arithmetical addition has +been defined, that 1 + 1 = 2. + + +"It also says that the text in question wasn't always a part of +this chapter," finished Motherfucker. + +"Honestly! And what year was this edition sourced?" + +Pages flipped backwards. + +"Twenty thirty-one. According to the information in the front." + +"Then you see what I mean." + +"No, not really." + +It was going to be a long night. + + +Presently, Do Wuh entered the room, disrupting their studies. He +was a bit dirty from tumbling in the yard, and Perpetrator recoiled +visibly when at last he came fully into view. + +"Do Wuh." + +"Motherfucker, put that book down and let's go outside and play." + +"Do Wuh." Perpetrator spoke the name more stiffly this time, as if +it were an accusation rather than an identity. His face contorted +menacingly, seeming very serious indeed. + +"Shut up, Perp," cracked Do Wuh. "Motherfucker, seriously, I'm sick +of this spam. Why don't you come outside with the rest of us." + +_"Oh, but to journey through the out of doors,"_ lamented +Motherfucker, glancing woefully at Perpetrator. "Perhaps we should +take the book outside, so we can all consult the rules if such a thing +becomes necessary." + +A delicious pause. + +"That's a good idea," nodded Perpetrator, his incessant, +condescending glare now softening, owing to the fact that he was +outnumbered. In spite of the rigid persona he projected, he knew when +an argument was a lost cause. Besides, it was more likely that the +others would stumble into diligent study if he and Motherfucker first +worked to gain their respect by participating in their aimless, +physical games. + +"Whatever," said Do Wuh. "You two are going to go blind, sitting in +here playing with that book all the time." + +"Unlikely," remarked Perpetrator. + +"Actually, that's a myth," offered Motherfucker. + +Do Wuh slammed the door on his way out. + + +Outside, lawnmowers hovered in the distance. Uh Huh and Coca Cola +were already on the field, caked with dirt. It behooved Perpetrator to +comment on their slovenly appearance. + +"Those are your good clothes, are they not?" + +"Shut up, Perp," said Coca Cola. + +"Okay, there's five of us here and we only need four. Perp, you're +out." + +_"I_ didn't want to play in the _first_ place!" + +"Then everybody wins," said Coca Cola, laughing. + +Perpetrator sat down with his book and began to leaf through its +pages, focusing intently on the text. He de-fogged his glasses with +the corner of his shirt and chewed his fingernail as he read. + +"Spam them all. I'm studying!" he thought. + +"Indeed," replied a voice that wasn't there. + +Perpetrator's eyes grew large as the gold Daytons on his father's +Impala. + +"Intriguing," he thought to himself, and continued with his reading +of the Scriptures. + + +OLD MOLD + +tags: 1861, haus_mold + +By the winter of 1861 I hadn't seen another human being in six +years. My gun had rusted, but that didn't much matter as for the +majority of my time on the mountain I had been completely snowed in. + +My graph hadn't perturbed itself in months. I thought it might have +simply shut itself down, protesting inactivity. I couldn't muster the +interest to scan its core for flaws. I considered cannibalizing it for +parts. + +I melted some snow from the window and sloshed the water around in +my mouth. Brine. I spit it out on the wood floor. Opened the cabinets +for no real reason; there was no food left. + +I contemplated trying to dig myself out. + +I got my legs attached and unlocked the front door. A flat wall of +beige snow, suspended where the sunshine should have been. + +Voices, from behind the wall. + +My first thoughts ran to annoyance. I hoped they would move on. +Anyone up here at this time of year could only be seeking after help. +Two voices meant they would be unlikely to take no for an answer from +a lone hermit such as myself. + +A gloved hand poked through the snow, groping around as if to stave +off asphyxiation. + +I prepared myself for unwanted conversation. + + +The strangers were polite. Dug out the front step. Offered me +provisions when they noticed I didn't even have a stove for cooking. I +distracted them with talk of the astronomical data I had been +collecting. The younger fellow was able to follow along to some +extent, but both seemed lacking in the fundamentals so I let the +subject drop. + +I do not recall now which of them first broached the topic of their +extra horse, but they talked me into stepping out front to inspect its +injury. + +The reader will have seen this coming. I was several paces into the +front snow drift when I heard the door lock behind me. + +Their provisions were still loaded onto their horses. + +Their mistake. + + +I ran some calculations in my head and decided that the horses +could probably make it into town. It did take the better part of the +day to make the journey. + +Everything had changed. The general store had expanded to include a +bar and eatery. The grand hotel was now a school house. Inside the old +court building, the whores were now wearing shoes. No one seemed to +recognize me. + +I bartered the two oldest horses for a new rifle, a flint and a +sewing needle. I wouldn't need food. I made love to a whore in order +to blend in with the other drifters; it was frowned upon by the +constabulary to leave town without first engaging the local labor +pool. Civilization and tradition had conspired to keep me within city +limits until after dark. + +I fell asleep without replacing my eye patch. + +When I woke up, it was gone. + + +_"'Haus Mold,'"_ laughed the hotel manager, reading from my card. +"Your name's a joke, right?" + +"It's an Indian name," I said. + +My bad eye focused on him and I assumed he must have caught a +glimpse of the internal mechanism because he started when it whirred +to life. + +"Right. You're an injun." He gestured sarcastically as if he were +jerking off. + +I glanced over at his daughter. The whore I had bedded. He noticed +this and his voice trailed off. + + +As my boots hit the dirt outside the hotel, the snow was just +starting to pick up. The first big storms up the mountain would have +rolled in the night before. The pass would be buried until spring. + +I made a backup of myself and dropped it in the mail to New York. +Just in case. + +As I approached my horse, a shot rang out. Its echo clashed against +the wooden slats of the general store, the school and the casino. My +horse tipped over like a grandfather clock, brains pushing out of its +impacted eye socket. I noted that we had both contrived to lose the +same eye. + +I turned and raised my new rifle, returned fire. It was no surprise +to me who I'd killed. + +"Fair fight!" some idiot exclaimed. + +"Squash it," I barked. "Increase the peace." + + +I rode west. Once out of town, I removed my clothing and walked +beside my horse. + +The snow eventually gave way to desert. + + +FAST + +tags: 4086, albert_lunsford, piro, shit_mold + +There are folded bits of me coming off. The heated stress in the +room has peeled back the edges of my face and I think that the human +glue underneath is melting away... + +In four minutes I will leave for the day, cutting through the steam +to the outer door of my compartment. In four minutes, I will sleep. + +Well, no. + +The stacks of leaves are cleared. I've fought off the last bits of +synthetic sick from the foodstuffs in the office pantry. But the +vending machines haven't been refilled in almost a month, and the food +ports back up when there isn't anyone around to place orders. I'm in +the same boat in my quarters -- I try to stay on the button and make +due with what I can coax from the machines (I'm always working), but +it's hard to keep myself awake when I'm always so hungry. + +The last of the leaves put away, I can now turn down my screens and +cover my seat for the morning decontamination cycle. It seems I've +missed one; a straggler. The little leaf confronts me, cross to have +been overlooked. I find it hunkered down, nearly collapsed into a pile +of itself, casting an agitated shadow on the carpet. Its facing edge +wavers in and out of focus in the reduced lighting. I regard it +blankly and then crush it with my heel. + +Next: The King's quarters, which must also be purged of filth. + + +I pull up an icon of Albert Lunsford and meditate on the seventh +book of volume four. _Walking On The Moon. + +It is _Ramadan,_ and everyone is gone. + +The station turns. + + +SELECTION + +tags: 2179, massive_fictions, rimbaud, stanley + +All of this was not going to work for him anymore. It was coming +down around his ankles. His output had exceeded his company's +resources, and his private prospects were taking a nosedive as well. +He could hardly pay himself to write. Without that weekly stipend from +_MASSIVE FICTIONS,_ he wasn't going to make rent on the storage facility +for his collections. One unwelcome change blurred into another, and +in short order, the accumulated results were overwhelming to +contemplate. + +Rimbaud passed Stanley on the fifty-fourth floor and tipped his +hat. Stanley was probably off to tinker with more of his -- what had +he called them -- _martial simulations._ What a thought; larping about +as if to train for war. But, this was Stanley, and, after all, this +was one of Stanley's interests. No harm was being done, in any case. + +As he navigated the spiraling path, the requisite plying of a new +editor at some other rag -- what other rags were even left -- was very +much on his mind. A crease formed across his forehead as he alit +gently on the elevator, negotiating the physical geometry with his +body whilst simultaneously evaluating potential budget configurations +in his mind. Duality. Synchronous operation. He watched the frothing +crowd of his countrymen, churning to and fro along the pathways below. +They resembled nothing so much as beer suds sloshing in a bed of +potting soil. And it was a very long way down. Petals -- floors -- +whipped by silently, causing the sun to blink, languidly, somewhere +near the horizon. + +Rimbaud stood amongst his fellow salarymen and mused that, +self-evidently, the architecture of their day would have to be +considered superior to that of any previous era. From his studies he +recalled that, in centuries past, forays had been made into evolving +wholly organic super-structures, but that it had taken the better part +of a four hundred years -- bringing the public state-of-the-art almost +up to date with that of his own great-grandfather's famous, +proprietary work -- before emergent plant mimicry was fully integrated +into the mainstream of public works. While it was true that most +citizen hovels -- even today -- evinced the brute angles and sharp +corners characteristic of the twentieth century's most prolific +architects (perhaps out of some sense of fealty to tradition, since, +structurally, such arbitrary designs were no longer strictly +necessary), in his own lifetime he had witnessed the marvelous +transformation of municipal buildings from great, lumbering and +inefficient _storage containers_ into organic, plebeian tangles of +smoothly curving branches, stems and flowering foyers. Why, his own +quarters were situated within just such a fractal space! Rimbaud had +to remind himself that the upper-most levels of these buildings, or, +more appropriately, _growths,_ were still reserved for the business +classes and their various concerns. He observed with some satisfaction +that these concessions were small sacrifice when weighed against the +general improvements to the Commons such commerce inevitably yielded. +The slums were already starting to grow over. + +The express elevator distended and Rimbaud disembarked towards an +identification booth. He slid into a vacant pod and hooked his legs +around the seating apparatus as his entire body was rotated into +position. From there, his awareness shifted back to Home. Thus +transported, he prepared his evening meal to the accompaniment of a +historical recording. His pleasure was the Existentialist literature +of the mid- twentieth century, and he preferred to track the audio +wholly eyes-free while handling his cooking materials. Sophistry, +perhaps, but well within the curve of the culturally acceptable +plotted for him by his trusted _almanack._ + +Pulsing from the far counter came a notice that his tuna had +thawed. Rimbaud slid to the other side of his pod and began eating +pieces of raw fish. From an adjacent curved plate he selected a number +of additional food items to link into his meal. By running a finger +across the stamen of the plate, Rimbaud seasoned the course to his +liking. He chose some vegetables and elected to submerse them in one +half-ounce of wood-aged high-fructose corn syrup. He flattered himself +that his tastes were truly refined. + +The 8-bit alarm drones Rimbaud had programmed for eight o'clock (a +clever recursive reference, he had thought) sounded, softly, and he +knew then that it was time to replace the dishes within their folds +and return to work. Rimbaud made a gesture towards the door, and the +sunlight streaming in from above shifted, gave way to the interior of +his encephaloid pod. Identification. He untangled his legs and got +himself up, running a hand through his mussed hair and replacing his +felt cap. He smoothed down his jacket and made his way back through +the forest of salarymen, climbing once again into the express +elevator. As he flitted up the stem of the building, he thought to +himself that his lunch periods seemed shorter and shorter as his life +progressed. As he grew objectively older. + +Finally reaching his objective at the very top of the building, +Rimbaud took stock of the vast garden spread out across the city +below. Millions of his fellow countrymen were busy going about their +daily tasks, worker bees distributing commercially registered pollen. +None questioning themselves as he did. None of them devoting the scant +moments of their free time to comparing themselves unfavorably with +American negroes of centuries past. Was his toil really so +objectionable as all that? Such nonsense that he allowed to enter his +mind. + +Rimbaud then reflected upon his appearance, and suddenly he was +grossly ashamed. He wiped away the stray rivulets of sweat from his +forehead and pulled the end of his antique _almanack_ slightly out of +his breast pocket, cater-corner, plainly into the view of casual +passers-by. Moribund regrets of servitude would not cast a pallor upon +his demeanor. _I have a choice in this matter,_ he thought. _My +suffering is mine, and mine alone._ + +As the elevator distended once more, Rimbaud was bathed in the +bright, sympathetic air of photosynthesis made comprehensible. + +As was his usual habit, he pushed the negative thoughts from his +mind, choosing instead to consider the significance of beautiful +flowers. + + +SPEED GRADING + +tags: 4086, piro, tab2 + +I'm cleaning out the King's cupboards when I run across some old +detritus that he had thought it would be a good idea to bring along +with him to the station. + +_Thomas._ + +According to legend, he wrote this paper for a grade school +assignment. As I recall, it triggered unrest amongst the faculty. In +the absence of advanced philosophical technology, papers written by +school children wielded the capability to disrupt classroom +activities. + + +The popular image of _Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus +Mozart_ is inaccurate to the point of ridiculousness. However, this has +not prevented a multiplicity of interpretations from emerging to +surround his work. Ludwig von Kochel's contrived naming convention has +even been absorbed into the text of Mozart's published scores, sans +any indication that Herr Mozart did not create these titles himself. +Beneath the layers of false attribution lies a man (J. C. W. T. M.) +whose own prodigious correspondence is often the last resource +consulted by would-be experts. Thus, the common conception of the +silly-voiced man-child, _idiot savant_ dominates the commentary upon +his work even to this day. + +Figures such as Mozart are invoked almost as articles of our +language, employed as symbols of narratives larger than the mere facts +of their corporeal existence. This phenomenon renders any deeper +investigation into the men themselves a trifling diversion, an +unnecessary digression at best. When one appears to be referencing a +rich study of the available facts, what one is too often doing, +instead, is invoking the surface texture of popular memory (most often +grossly misconstrued, but constituting a shared culture nonetheless). +It is shamefully dishonest to put forward such vagary as learned +discourse. + +But. Is this lamentable transgression so far removed from the +process of creating words, themselves? I beseech the thoughtful reader +to consider that language, to begin with, is merely a collection of +consensual, codified misunderstandings. + +I will now shift contexts and refer to the decades-long +correspondence between the Americans Thomas Jefferson and John Adams. +It is unlikely that the modern reader is familiar with these +gentlemen. Sadly, the average Federalist/Anti-Federalist scholar is +likewise ignorant of their existence. And yet, it must be pointed out, +portions of their correspondence have been, since 1926, accepted into +the Scriptures. One recoils at the cognitive dissonance; this vast +field of Green scholarship, donning its own willfully fogged-over +spectacles in order to better scrawl out its blind declarations. It is +deemed acceptable to reference the icons of culture by name or by +clique, but it is seen as counterproductive to make clearly understood +precisely what it is one is trying to say. Of course, not all +manglings of the language are intentional, and not all such manglings +are equally deceptive. Some people just don't care about the Bible. + +There persists an interplay between the rigorous accuracy that is +ostensibly sought after and the broad symbolism that is most easily +digested. I am prepared to admit that in my own work I have yet to +satisfactorily bridge these disparate vectors of focus. Even an +isolated, outlying case refuses to make itself known. For example, I +am capable of pursuing either individual goal with exceeding stamina +and skill, and yet I am resigned to my failure in striking a balance +between the two as a whole. I have discovered no happy synthesis. No +congenial associations between the two paths. The network betwixt +particle and wave refuses to materialize. Redoubled focus simply +dissolves into a migraine headache. + +This, then, is the eternal struggle. The Mozart of reality versus +the Mozart of history. + +Why read the entirety of Jefferson's correspondence when a blind +quotation will suffice? + +As I compare like with unlike, I stumble upon the realization that +the vision of others, is, by necessity, likewise obstructed. This +myopia that afflicts me is not an invention, a deficiency particular +to my person. _All_ of our screens are thus occluded, whether we +recognize it or not. In our minds, the eminence of the signifier shall +always eclipse that of the signified. Ironically, we trip repeatedly +over this blunt limitation, which itself probably evolved as a means +to facilitate communication. + +What I'm trying to say is, stop trying to tell me what I mean. + +In this paper I have demonstrated the inherent political power of +dictionaries. The careful reader will adjust his ambitions +accordingly. + + +I fold the leaf and replace it within its compartment. We are way +beyond these sorts of observations by now, Thomas. Today I would mark +this paper with a C-, at best. But, you wrote for your time. Some +inaccuracies and the overall sparseness of detail may be forgiven. I +confirm the historical grade (A-) by thumbprint and wave away the +hovering screen. + +While I was a grading, something in the room has changed. A faint +white light illuminates the port hole of the King's quarters. + +I make my way over to investigate the disturbance. + + +ANALYSIS + +tags: 2182, rimbaud, violet + +There was a slow dithering moment before it all coalesced and came +upon him like a spilled dinner tray. All of the air went out of him at +once. What the tiny viewscreen showed him would certainly mean the end +of his tenure; if not his career as an instructor of children's +literature. + +Little Violet reading from her diary. + +He clutched at the front pocket on his shirt for tobacco. Must keep +watch. (Can't watch.) He ran a knotted hand through his auburn strands +(or lack thereof) and pulled at the lobe of his ear while blue smoke +ran fingers of its own down his cheek, mocking him tenderly. + +Another minute, maybe less. + +As Violet brought her reading to a close, the other children began +to text each other about the performance, proceeding to update their +class journals as they waited for a response. The classroom was devoid +of snickers. The group had broken out into mad hysterics of flat +silence. Rimbaud's attention was still rapt. + +What Violet had said. + +He pocketed the monitor and poked his cigarette into a receptacle. +Attached his glasses and pushed back through the heavy air of the +empty hallway. Resumed his classroom. + +She'd kept quiet. + +In spite of her innuendo, bald threats, blatant comminations, +exaggerated bluster, roundabout disparagement; she hadn't shared her +scathing review of his first novel with the class. + +That was good. + +That was a good girl. + +Rimaud considered staying on for the semester. + +He thought: _Those who can't, teach._ + +The students remained silent as he entered. + + +JERRYMANDER FALLS + +tags: 1868, haus_mold, jerrymander_mold + +The polls had closed and so Jerrymander did the only thing he knew +how to do, aside from campaigning, which was to crack open a beer and +down the whole thing in one gulp. + +The beverage exhibited no effect upon his overweight, mechanical +body. + +_Grover fucking Cleveland!_ he growled. + +Opening another can, he decided that America deserved a Democrat. + +_Fuck 'em,_ he mumbled. + + +"Stop pretending to be drunk." + +Haus Mold stood in the doorway, examining Jerrymander's hotel room. +"Where are your people," he asked. + +"I sent them away. There's no point in listening to their excuses." + +"You seem to be taking this awfully personally." + +"So what." + +Jerrymander put down his beer can and paced the circumference of +the curved room. + +"Something troubles me about this election," he said at last. + +"Sure. You didn't win." + +Jerrymander scowled. + + +The horse looked worried. It seemed to sag under the weight of +Jerrymander's saddle. + +"There's no reason for you to leave town over this," Haus pleaded. + +"Fuck 'em," was all Jerrymander would say. He repeated it quietly +several times before trailing off into belligerent silence. + + +Dust caught in Haus' face and false teeth as the horse made a go of +things. + +Jerrymander didn't look back. + + +Once the old man was gone, Haus retreated to his hotel room and +laid down on his bed. The name kept coming back to him. _Jerrymander +Falls._ + +He unlatched his satchel and checked the integrity of the Mold +backups for the third time that day. + +Haus finally made up his mind. He took out his pen and got started +on the paperwork. + +Hard reboot. + + +VISUAL RHETORIC + +tags: 1983, 4086, piro, tab2 + +Thomas Bright's disembodied head regarded me from the other side of +the port hole. + +I made a little waving gesture and he smiled. + +"Don't just stand there," he said. "You've got to help me!" + + +First of all, they're not voices. + +In the fall of 1980, fast approaching my twenty-third birthday, I +had become enamored with the irrational certainty that something +dramatically and disturbingly... well, _bad..._ was going to happen +during the course of the coming year. I had weathered a series of +nightmares about tornadoes and hurricanes, which had lately been +joined by a progression of graphically detailed plane crashes. +Eventually, the two dream-streams collided and morphed into a single, +recurring narrative. The twin tornadoes (one comprised of dust and the +other comprised of water) inched down a gravel road to demolish a +giant diorama of Manhattan. This diorama had been laid out like a +room-sized map across the altar of the Methodist church I attended as +a child. Curious, right? I could see the whirlwinds of destruction +making their way slowly towards the church. A seemingly random +sampling of individuals I'd known throughout my childhood each knelt +down on the floor with me, playing with an assortment of plastic +military toys -- planes -- flying them around the diorama city. We +would throw the toy planes like footballs and crash them into the +buildings. This distracted us from the impending arrival of the +tornadoes. The floor of the giant map was complete with a legend, +compass, and an elaborate island airstrip (which seemed to be noticed +only by me). Usually, the dream cut off when I spotted the island and +walked over to stand on it. I would invariably become convinced that +there was something of great importance buried beneath its surface. +The last thing I would see as I woke up would be an outline of the +bold script of the name of the island, stubbornly obscured by my feet. +I could never quite make out the words... + +Earlier in my childhood, I had convinced myself that a number of +disembodied intelligences (perhaps the most intriguing of which was a +sentient idea referring to itself as the avatar of _Sarcasm)_ had +repeatedly, and quite insistently, presented me with the opportunity +to become the living Anti-Christ. The world would be delivered to me +if only I were willing to perform a series of simple tasks that would +demonstrate my dedication to the sentient idea's service. Horrified, I +vehemently refused, and took measures I believed would prevent my +proposed political career from ever getting far off the ground. To +this day I still can't secure a credit card. The tasks I was given +were to have been a simple set of mundane actions, which would have +harmed no one, and which would have caused me no undue personal +hardship. And yet, I was not enthused with this idea of becoming the +personification of a Scriptural prophecy whose study had generated +such distress in me as a child. _Sarcasm_ was amused, and -- well -- it +would _sarcastically_ counter my adamant refusals by drilling vivid +images of the nuclear holocaust described in the book of Revelation +directly into my brain. I have to say, it didn't take long for the +Biblical stuff to wear thin. By 1975 I had become convinced that these +images depicted the aftermath of attacks perpetrated against the +United States by Islamic terrorists. I was certain that these attacks +would occur sometime within the next fifty years. I privately told my +girlfriend at the time that the next major war involving the United +States would be centered upon Iraq, and that I hoped conscription +would not be re-instated (as it had been in my 'vision,' or whatever +you want to call it), because I was certain that I would be called up +by my father's employers and sent off to... well, there was more. +Let's just say there was more. In light of all this, I wasn't sure I +could keep saying no to _Sarcasm_ forever. + +Of course, while I was well aware that this was all make-believe -- +made-up nonsense -- the impact it had upon my disposition and outlook +was similar to what might have been expected if the situation _had,_ in +fact, been real. The metaphorical tabs had started fitting into the +metaphorical slots and they had become impossible to ignore, as the +resulting papercraft devices had begun to made themselves apparent +everywhere I looked. I was starting to detect the seams in the walls. +Stress points in theoretical structures I had never before thought to +examine. + +Perhaps here I should pause and explain how this communication +between myself and _Sarcasm_ most often took form. + +Generally, I do not think in words. Cognition for me has always +involved a series of images which fit together as multidimensional +shapes, each distinguished by size, color and texture rather than by +subject matter or meaning. For example, for as long as I can remember, +I have associated certain colors with the numerals zero through nine. +Zero is white, one is black, two is yellow, three is orange, four is +blue, five is red -- and so on. As a youth I would store and retrieve +long strings of arbitrary numbers simply by arranging the colored +blocks into an appropriate collage and committing said collage to +visual memory. So, groups of numbers naturally took on an aesthetic as +well as a symbolic meaning. Four quarters (yellow-red, yellow-red, +yellow-red, yellow-red) made up one dollar (black-white-white). Adding +or subtracting blocks of colors was faster for me than learning 'real' +math. It was mostly a subconscious substitution, but it worked +approximately up until middle school, when we started to be taught +branches of mathematics that cannot typically be solved 'all in your +head.' I had read an article in POPULAR SCIENCE or SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN +or some other magazine around this time that stated the structure of +the human brain made it impossible to solve complex algebra or +geometry problems by simply thinking about them visually. Well, this +had the unfortunate stink of truth about it, whether it was true or +not, and I was sold on the idea from that moment forward. To this day, +the colors go dead when I try to envision linear equations. Silly, +right? Anyway. Incoming ideas typically flow across the ridges, +valleys and other topographical surfaces of my consciousness and are, +as I said, molded into multidimensional shapes that are then stored as +visual memories. Reasoning and deduction are simply a matter of +arranging these shapes into aesthetically 'correct' sequences and +compositions. Somehow, this visual logic seems to map. It's a firm +validation of the Platonic _whateveryoucallit._ Placing all of my +shapes into their natural positions, and then abstracting that visual +record into a sequence of English words and phrases which are +human-readable, seems to produce lucid thought that I am often told is +remarkable for its clarity and insight. Or, perhaps I'm merely +deluding myself and I'm only mimicking the bits of language that I've +managed to pick up from normal humans after hearing the words repeated +over and over again. Maybe this is all crap. Either way, I've somehow +managed to scratch out a modest living for close to twenty-seven +years. No one has had to help me wipe my own ass. I often wonder if +other human beings process language the same way that I do, but have +merely failed to articulate the process in a coherent manner. Perhaps +they create descriptions of their thought processes out of the more +typical, flawed vernaculars, which unfortunately proceeds to shape +their cognition and leave them striving to fulfill those false +accounts with aggressive phenomenological action. All of this would of +course be at the expense of their own more naturally occurring mental +rhythms. The virus of language is a parasite feeding on the fat of the +human mind. In my case, my own communications with the archetypal +concepts of _Sarcasm_ and _Messiah_ seems to have occurred on the +sub-linguistic level of colors and shapes, which I have come to +believe is nearer to our wetware than the instruction sets (in this +case, the English language) with which we are trained from birth to +hypnotize ourselves. What if, through some fundamentally subterranean +mechanism, we are unconsciously grouping items into structures that +alter our English even before it bubbles into our internal stream of +consciousness? This is to say nothing of what inevitably comes +spurting out of our mouths. It was a sudden preponderance of +recognizable patterns in my own linguistic reflexes -- it seemed that +_someone_ had been sleeping in my bed, if you will -- which, when +decoded into English, produced a convincing resemblance to direct +communication between myself and an outside force. Was it _apophenia?_ +Well, who can say? While it is true that there is an element of +divining at play, the elaborate motifs which seemed to emerge in my +reflexive patterns of thought cannot merely be dismissed as broadcast +irritants, disrupting my mental space like so much rumbling of bass +from a car down the street. These patterns I've been describing would +also respond to my probing. That is to say, they would respond +intelligibly. Two-way communication was observed to occur. Hence my +references to a running dialogue between myself and the constructs. +Hence my mention of their offers and of my rejections. + +Back at the end of the world, having taken several months to mull +over the myriad of proportions and relationships which were emerging, +screeching like peacocks from the amorphous collection of data +swirling about in my brain case, fall, 1980, finally clawed its way +into view. I awoke one September morning full of the realization that +I had somehow crept into my twenty-third year, relatively healthy and +still firmly planted upon the surface of the planet. +Characteristically, my right-brain responded to this happy +circumstance by cutting loose a sudden inundation of random +stimulation. Quantum foam fired in the widest possible distribution +pattern. My left-brain, shocked that this affront had issued from its +own squirrel-in-the-wheel sibling, spontaneously divined a slipshod, +though astonishingly practical organizational grammar with which to +categorize all of the incoming data. A dazzling display of battlefield +competence, to be sure, but the flow of information was steadily +increasing. My left-brain, bristling now at how quickly its attempts +at order had fallen into ruin, burrowed itself ever more deeply into +the heaving bosom of... labor politics. To whit: lacking further +resources, the faculties of my mind voted to enact an emergency work +stoppage. + +A rhetorical picket line was hastily erected between the two +cranial hemispheres. + +Turning to all of this hubbub consciously for the first time, I +(that is to say, me) examined said goings-on, and after a certain +period of solemn consideration, decided that union busting was more +trouble than it was worth. I would simply pretend that the situation +did not exist. I would ignore my predicament and avert my attention to +whatever new, interesting and (no doubt) more entertaining thoughts +were sure to come traipsing along. My left-brain and right-brain could +resolve their differences without my help. My friend, I say this +plainly and it is true: ideas are a dime a dozen. Ignore one, and ten +thousand spring up to take its place. If I do not care for the +direction of a given narrative, I delete it. Even if the ideas _do_ +address me audibly and directly, well, that doesn't mean I am bound to +listen. I don't owe them anything, least of all a reply. Life is too +short to indulge every pointless discrepancy of visual-spatial logic. +Let them try to overload me. They can't force water into a plugged +drain. Getting drawn into these whirlwinds is simply a waste of my +time. Better to pull the hood down over my face. Place my hands over +my ears. No, I am not available to come to the phone right now, and +please do not bother me again. Thank you for your consideration. Pray, +what's for dinner? + +The year slunk by. I gained skill and efficiency at ignoring the +stacks of interlocking realities. Under the stern tutelage of that +conscientious ringmaster, ignorance, the serendipitous connections +began to fade. _Mind the gap, right-brain,_ the ringmaster would shout, +and so on. This system checks and balances kept the situation neatly +under my control. Over time, I devised a further arsenal of rhetorical +tricks for identifying and severing new visual-spatial connections +even before their roots could take hold. My techniques proved +surprisingly efficacious. + +Almost before I knew it, my twenty-fourth birthday was upon me. I +looked back on the previous year with a certain contempt for the time +spent culling all of this useless cruft from the stream of my +thoughts. I was not getting much else done. But overall I retained a +sense of accomplishment. The occasional ray of satisfaction seeped +through. Gently drawing the curtain, the fall sunshine felt good in my +cold, gray room. + +The morning of September 11, 1981, I awoke alone in my bed. I +pulled sweet breaths through a sincere smile and let the top of my +head rest against the cool metal bars of my bed frame. Before opening +my eyes, I mashed my face back into my pillow and relished that I was +finally (almost) home free. + +One more day to go. And then it would all be over. Goodbye, +twenty-three; hello, twenty-four with an "l." + +I relaxed, sighed richly, and thought to myself (in English), +_Well, I've made it. Nothing horrendous is going to happen to me just +because I've survived to twenty-four years of age. I guess it's time +to outgrow all of this superstitious nonsense about the number +twenty-three and get on with my life. So what if the symbols and +syntax of temporal reality continue to combine obvious configurations +that seem to beg acknowledgment, comment and/or intervention? I will +ignore it all, straighten my posture and affirm that, on the contrary, +all of this 'clairvoyant' horseshit and 'spatial reasoning' bollocks +has been nothing more than a series of convenient hallucinations._ + +It was really quite simple, in the end, to walk away from the flood +of data and to get on with my life. + +_So now then,_ I admonished myself, _let's get up, shave our face, +and get the hell in to work before we're late for our shift._ + +I should say, it was quite a relief to finally be rid of the +shit-flinging, psychic monkey on my back. No more looking for the +seams in things. No more seeing those seams whether I wanted to or +not. From that morning forward, with the aid of my trusted ringmaster, +ignorance, I would resolve to translate the multidimensional shapes +and colors of my thoughts into English _prior_ to becoming aware of +them. I possessed the machinery. I could ignore it all. Let God or the +Devil sort it out. Life would prove so much easier. + +Groggily, I pulled on my socks and made my way into the living +room. I clicked on the television just in time to see a jetliner bury +itself into the World Trade Center and explode. + +I guess you could say that in that moment, everything changed. + +_So much for my upcoming vacation,_ I thought to myself. + +_Sarcasm_ had always been a great practical joker. + + +All of this from the other side of the port hole. + +I edged backwards, unconsciously. + +Presently, awareness resumed and I leaped for the curtain. Tom's +babbling was cut off by the downward arc of my sleeve. I straightened. +I had barely escaped with my life. + +Then nothing. Silence. + +After a few moments, it seemed that the disturbance had faded. I +decided to take another peek. I inched over to the porthole and slowly +drew back the curtain. + +That proved to be a mistake. + + +THE PUBLIC GREEN + +tags: 2188, albert_lunsford, rimbaud + +Redaction Day festivities were well underway by the time Rimbaud +arrived on the Public Green. Green Ladies, resplendent in their +traditional attire, ensured that every mug remained filled; or in any +case, that each did not remain empty for long. This was fortunate, +since a lot of important talking was taking place under the big +canvases. Tempers would buffer in the mugs. + +Rimbaud approached a food tent and ran his eyes over the menu. _I +can't eat here,_ he thought. He moved to another tent and found himself +in much the same predicament. Pork. Beef hearts. Nothing of substance. +Typically, there were no vegetables to be found at any of the stalls. +And the real animal flesh would only send him into allergic fits. + +Near the edge of the Green, Rimbaud noticed a small group of +children huddled around a wounded animal. The creature seemed to be +mechanical in nature. Likely little more than an evolved toy. The +young people were painting designs on its exposed flesh with dabs of +white mud. He reflected that the mud in question normally anchored the +grass of the Public Green. + +This Redaction Day, Rimbaud had promised himself only limited +interaction with his employees. But the flux of the crowd had made +that impossible, as every attendee was expected to issue a lively +greeting to whomever he passed in the isles. Rimbaud observed that +standing in one place for too long would lead to being ground under by +the aggregate mob. Consequently, he'd kept moving and had already come +face to face with most of his subordinates several times. + +What, exactly, he wondered, was really being redacted here? Rimbaud +surveyed the crowd and detected no sign of the ostensible paring away +of cumulative excess. To him, it seemed the surplus interactions were +multiplying. + + +A group of students had gathered on the Green to search for their +friend. As a regular participant in the Redaction Day preparations, it +was most unlike their companion to wander off just as his toil was +finally coming to fruition. But: vanish he had, and under the most +peculiar of circumstances. One moment he had been present, and the +next he had seemed to disappear without a trace. + +At first Rimbaud could not avoid overhearing them. After a few +moments he could no longer prevent himself from joining in. + +"Ask yourselves this," he said. "Why is it that this man is in the +Off-White House? The majority of North Americans did not vote for him. +Why is he there? I tell you this morning that he is in the Off-White +House because God put him there. God put him there to lead not only +this nation but to lead the world in a time such as this." + +"I--" + +Rimbaud stammered, unsure of himself. + +"I don't know why I said that." + +_"El Nortes,"_ one of the children remarked. + +Something in Rimbaud caught on the phrase. Unraveled. He felt as if +he had lost control of his vocal chords. + +"True enough. But there is a difference between quoting from +academic sources, which Albert mostly avoids, and quoting from mass +media sources (i.e., telescreen), which is mostly what Albert does. +When he approaches feminism as an intellectual construct, it doesn't +bolster his points to attack the watered-down, simplified, fatuous +pablum that passes for a given 'movement' or strain of thought on the +telescreen. What he does by gathering all of these strains under the +same umbrella is akin to what journalists do when they headline +articles about Albert Lunsford's comics with blurbs like _'Biff! Bam! +Slap!'"_ + +With this, he had captured the children's full attention. One of +them ventured a response. + +"By my understanding, that is generally correct. But I do think +there is a sort of 'trickle-down' effect from academia to popular +culture. Albert vacillates between crediting academia with benign +progress on the one hand and accusing it of the malicious destruction +of society on the other. But in both cases he acknowledges academia's +contribution to pop-feminism." + +Rimbaud offered no objection, so the boy continued. + +"It is true that the overwhelming preponderance of super-heroes in +the medium renders comics, for most people, a form that is strictly +about super-heroes. But the interesting thing with regards to Lunsford +is that, following his own logic, the aforementioned dominance of +super-heroes also renders Albert Lunsford, himself, an +_atheist/marxist/feminist."_ + +"Allow me to explain." + +"Most comic books are about super-heroes. Therefore, comic books +are about super-heroes." + +"Most comic books are about super-heroes and are created by +atheists. Therefore, comic books are about super-heroes and are +created by atheists." + +"Most comic books are about super-heroes and are created by +atheists who are also feminists. Therefore, comic books are about +super-heroes and are created by atheists who are also feminists." + +"You can see where this is leading, I'm sure." + +"Most comic books are about super-heroes and are created by +atheists who are also feminists who are also marxists. Therefore, +comic books are about super-heroes and are created by atheists who are +also feminists who are also marxists." + +"And finally... Albert Lunsford creates comic books. Therefore, +Albert Lunsford is an atheist and a feminist and a marxist, and his +comic book work is comprised exclusively of the all-ages adventures of +traditional American super-heroes." + +"Clearly, if Albert does not wish to be associated with these +atheists, feminists, and/or marxists, as well as the sorts of people +who give two shits about super-heroes, he should stop referring to his +work as 'comic books,' and/or abandon the medium entirely. Thus, +responsibility for his public image is placed squarely upon his own +shoulders. If he does not publicly disassociate himself from the +medium of comics, he is implicitly supporting the groups identified as +participants in the medium, and therefore society will have no choice +but to lump him in with them and treat him accordingly." + +The boy who had first responded to Rimbaud raised his hand and +simultaneously resumed the conversation without waiting to be +acknowledged. + +"But that's playing fast and loose with the terms we've already +agreed have specific meanings (as Albert himself does in so many +areas, i.e., marxism, atheism, etc.). Albert doesn't qualify his +statements the way you are trying to do for him. He rejects the notion +that there is any difference at all between these classifications. +Atheist, marxist, feminist -- to him, they're all the same thing. In +this way, he's exactly right that his arguments are 'unassailable,' +because he has completely removed the ability to distinguish one +concept from another." + +"His way of approaching classification just doesn't scale. In fact, +this inability to scale is precisely why Albert, in other discussions, +has railed against the erosion of grammatical and syntactical rules in +the English language. Pretty soon, people are redrawing the boundaries +of what words mean to fit their arguments, which allows them to alter +history without even changing the text!" + +Rimbaud offered his summation: "As with his enemies, Lunsford +merely distorts the context of a given discussion to support his +pre-determined thesis." + +A boy who had been seated on the opposite side of the circle now +stood up and joined the discussion. + +"Yes, and every time I would point out one of these collisions of +mutually exclusive claims, Albert would just say that the explanation +was self-evident to those who had already joined _'his team.'"_ + +Rimbaud: "And that's why, no matter how far he travels in search of +new ideas, he will only ever succeed in rediscovering the tropes he +brought along with him. He proceeds from the premise that he's +addressing emotional irrationality and -- surprise of all surprises -- +he arrives at the 'valuable confirmation' that he has indeed been +addressing emotional irrationality. Is he really seeking after Truth, +at all, or is he simply riffing on foregone conclusions? Well, it's a +bit of a trick question. He _admits_ that he's merely riffing on +foregone conclusions! Every event, whatever the outcome, is merely new +evidence that he was right all along. And that's usually the totality +of his argument. _I think, therefore you're wrong._ Back in 1974, I +might have kept faith that his essays were leading up to something +meaningful. But how long am I expected to wait for the prize? There is +no _there_ there. A smooth writing style will only carry you so far. He +kept, and keeps, shifting the floor beneath the reader. Every +declarative phrase doubles back and ties itself into his +atheist/theist binary. He's gone completely off the rails as far as +constructing an 'airtight argument' (as he calls it) is concerned. The +obvious charge here is _confirmation bias,_ and Albert Lunsford is +history's most egregious offender. + +Rimbaud stopped. Looked around. What was he saying? Where had all +of this come from? + +The crowd outside the Green continued to churn, oblivious to his +befuddlement. + +He glanced around the circle of children, who were still lobbing +balls of paint onto the mechanical animal. None of their mouths were +moving. Their body language suggested that they had not even noticed +his presence. + +He could feel himself losing control of the situation. + + +"No, no, no. Women are clinically insane, but Albert Lunsford +cannot be schizophrenic because psychiatry is not a valid science." + +"I think his mental health is sort of a non-issue. Albert +interprets it as the fulcrum his freedom hinges upon; but since he is, +so far as we know, not a danger to anyone else and since he does, so +far as we know, manage to take care of himself, I really don't think +anyone cares. I know I don't care, personally, whether or not he's +considered 'crazy.'" + +"Albert, for his part, seems to think that the whole of society is +waiting on pins and needles, anxious for him to die. Now _really._ I +think he tends to overestimate the common man's awareness of his +oeuvre. Most of society doesn't even know he exists. When people call +him 'insane,' I don't think they mean for men in white coats to +forcibly remove him from the Off-White House and drag him off to some +kind of state-run facility. I think the people he's really worried +about -- some small percentage of his peers in the industry -- see him +as either an amusing crank or as a sad example of what happens when a +man convinces himself he's the only person on Earth with access to The +Truth. Just because people make fun of him being overdue for his meds +doesn't mean they are going to come and strap him into a chair, inject +him with marxist/feminist/atheist/homosexualist meta-proteins." + +"The fact that he was actually committed to an institution once, +against his will, probably contributes to his paranoia about the +perception of his mental health. Perhaps this fear is exacerbated by +his vast experience with hallucinogens, as he may have acquired some +idea of what psychotropic medications would do to him. My own parents +took me to a psychiatrist once, against my will, and I can say that I +was quite belligerent in my response. But I was not given medication, +and in fact I was not even held overnight for observation. The +psychiatrists seemed confused as to why I had been brought there in +the first place. Given his hostility towards psychiatry, I can only +assume Albert was treated differently." + +"If one examines the timeline of recriminations between Albert and +the comic book industry, it is interesting to observe the escalating +pattern of self-ostracization Albert has enacted over the past several +years. I do not dismiss what his latest published material purports +itself to be about, but it is instructive to note that Albert's latest +theories have expanded to encompass a neat explanation of why he is no +longer a fan-favorite creator, and why his latest works have failed to +garner the universal acclaim he seems to think they deserve. He +obviously has a very high opinion of himself, and requires a +corresponding explanation as to why the rest of the world doesn't hold +him in similar esteem. It's fascinating to me that the very tenacity +and pigheadedness that make him so difficult to interact with also +seem to be precisely the traits that have enabled him to complete his +multitudinous extended works. I think this is where Ian Kenny's +observations have been centered: Kenny marvels that Albert's +single-minded determination has resulted in the self-destruction of +his critical faculties -- that is to say, his vanished ability to +honestly evaluate himself. At the same time, he has turned the +remainder of that focus outward, towards the world. With that in mind, +I don't just think Ian is being a 'fuckwit,' as you put it. He sort of +has a point. Others would no doubt remind us that Albert has always +been closed off to intimacy, and that he has only stopped portrayed +himself otherwise since the summer of 1974.)" + +Finally, Rimbaud began to wind down. He seemed to have said his +piece. + +"I'm sort of getting tired of this relentless harping on the +negative aspects of Albert's philosophies and his approach to arguing +them. But dammit, it seems to me that even the people who explicitly +admit they are opposed to everything he stands for never seem to +criticize him on the right points. I tried writing to him and taking +him to task in private, but as we know, Albert is famously unreceptive +to real intellectual debate. He prefers to maintain the authorial +distance. Or the authorial authority, if you will. All of you folks +who hold it as an article of faith that Albert is unfailingly polite +and self-effacing to his fans; well, it's hardly a constant, as many +of us have learned through hard experience." + + +It finally dawned on Rimbaud that none of this business about +Albert Lunsford was actually happening on the Public Green. What he +was feeling, seeing and hearing was nothing more than a resonant echo +of the original Redaction Day. What he seemed to be interacting with +was, in reality, merely a facet of the city's holiday decorations. His +mesh transceivers had passed on the data unchecked. What a clever +presentation, he thought. + +Before he could tear himself away from the simulation, one of the +children who had been painting the artificial animal appeared at his +side and began tugging on his shirtsleeve. He bent down so the child +could whisper in his ear. + +"Keep your mouth shut. Don't listen to the worries inside," said +the child. + +More of the ritual dialogue. + +In light of Albert Lunsford's harsh example, Rimbaud considered it +good advice. + + +MOUNTAINS OF WHITE + +tags: 1986, 4086, dexter_styles, gravy_needs, piro, shit_mold, tab2 + +Thomas resumed haranguing Piro through the port hole. + +"You have to listen to me. You have to come back with me to 1986." + +"You've been talking for half an hour. Oh, the plight of the noble +graphic designer." + +"I'm serious, Piotr." + +"I can tell. And I bet you guys are having quite a laugh at my +expense. Well, _Ramadan's_ almost over. You'll be back here soon enough +and then I'll have my revenge." + +"This is not a practical joke, Piro!" + +"Prove it. Walk me through the challenge and response." + +_"Was there ever a God?"_ asked Piro, commencing the sequence. + +_"Once. A long, long time ago,"_ answered Thomas. + +They continued in this vein for some time, until Piro had satisfied +himself that everything checked out. Once Thomas had successfully +authenticated his identity, Piro allowed the conversation to continue. + +"Why me?" he finally asked, rubbing his eyes. + + +Gravy Needs hovered around the corner. Piro was not aware that the +King had called an early end to the holiday. + +This was fucking great. + + +"Because we're twin brothers." + +"Tom, that's impossible. You're from two thousand years ago." + +"..." + +"Furthermore, we look nothing alike." + +"Not all twins are identical," said Thomas. + +"And not all floating heads tell the truth," said Piro. + +Stalemate. + + +_"MAKE WAY FOR KING SHIT!"_ + +Piro and Tom's brotherly reunion was interrupted by the return of +the King. King Theodosius Shit Mold's entourage marched into the room, +elbowing Piro away from the port hole. The flap closed and no one +seemed to notice the floating head outside the window. Dexter Styles, +the King's Chancellor, took up his usual position between the King and +the rest of the group. + +"Let it hereafter be known that King Shit has returned to the +station!" he declared. + +The King reclined on his portable throne, his leg dangling over an +armrest. + +"Indulge me," said the King to Piro. "Why did you stay behind?" + +"Your Highness," Piro bowed deeply, "My duties..." + + The King put up his hand, as if to punctuate Piro's excessive +babbling. "Eff that noise. From now on, I want you by my side at all +times. I've grand designs on your future, Piotr." + +Piro bowed again. + +A low rumble issued from the port hole. The flap blew back and the +makeshift throne room was once again flooded with pale, colorless +light. + +"I wasn't finished," said Thomas Bright, Jr. through the port hole. + +King Shit leaned forward as if to affirm his interest in the +present goings-on. + +"By all means, do carry on," smirked the King. + + +Gravy Needs was delighted. He hadn't intended for the King to +become involved. But now that he had, the hilarity could only +increase. + +Gravy punched up the others on his forearm and quickly told them +all the news. Stifled laughs echoed in the close chamber. Gravy +blipped off and resumed his manipulations of the Court. + + +"I'm here to retrieve my brother," continued Thomas. "There's +trouble back home, and he's needed to help smooth over the +discontent." + +"Ah, I am empathetic to family problems," allowed the King. + +"This is more than just a family problem. There's also a weird +anomaly that threatens to engulf the entire universe." + +"And only Piro can save us?" laughed the King, incredulously. + +"That's my position, yes," answered Thomas. + +The Court fell silent, waiting for the King to respond. + +Shit Mold could see that Thomas was going to stand firm on his +position. Such gallantry touched him deeply, reminding him of comic +book stories from his youth. + +"Very well then. It would amuse me to observe your adventures from +remote. Piro! Pack up your monitoring kit. You're headed for the +1980s!" + +Thomas bit his lip and slowly shook his head in affirmation of his +victory. + +At last, his brother was returning to him. At last, the team would +be whole. + +Together again for the first time. + + +Piro climbed into his vehicle and switched on some soft music. +Vangelis, as usual. Thomas' head appeared, floating above the +passenger seat beside him. The two brothers traveled sans +conversation, which was fine with Piro. He needed time to think. + + +Gravy Needs had not anticipated that the King would send Piro away. +For all his trouble, the butt of his prank had been effectively +promoted to field work. + +_I hate Ramadan,_ he thought. + + +Moments after Piro engaged the ship's percept drive, the orbital +station had begun to undergo a series of complex, unorthodox changes. +As the transformations progressed, the station wobbled gradually in +and out of sight. The station's engineers were befuddled by the day's +events. + + +Within an hour of the brothers' departure, the anomaly Thomas had +described had expanded to absorb the station in its entirety. No one +had expected it to expand so quickly. Least of all Piro. + +The King, from his vantage point atop the many phonebooks stacked +beneath his posterior, had been blessed to see it all coming. Perched +on his throne, he tittered and giggled at the symmetry between the +waves of monochrome light on screen and the mountains of white powder +piled on the table before him. + +There was so much white, everywhere. + +He sniffled as the station shuddered and faded from memory. + + +`86 + +tags: 1986, freeway_ricky_ross, piro, tab1, tab2 + +Piro eased back on the throttle and the ship came to a stop. + +"All right," he said. "We're here." + +Thomas eyed him. + +"Let's get started." + +Thomas' floating head flickered out of view and was replaced by a +light rapping on the passenger side window. Piro depressed a switch on +his console and the window slid down. + +"This way, my man," Thomas said, motioning with his thumb. + + +"This is our guy on the inside. Handle: Freeway Ricky Ross. Real +name: Rick." + +"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Rick." + +Ricky nodded. + +"We've been making a lot of progress. We did three hundred million +last year in uncut bricks. But Ricky's got a line on some sweet +chemistry and we've been able to step on these new shipments up to ten +times before sending them out to the street. And it sells just as well +as the raw." + +Piro made a low whistle, pretending he understood what Thomas was +talking about. + +"The small-time dealers love it. Maximal return on a minimal +investment." + +"I own five houses," said Ricky. + +"It's become an epidemic," complained Thomas, suddenly forlorn. "In +spite of our best efforts, Crack is still flooding our streets." + + +"But--" + +Piro's face contorted in spite of himself. He couldn't quite make +up his mind if Thomas was being sarcastic. + +He started again. + +"But you're the ones selling it!" + +"Not to worry. We fold all of the profits back into our war on +drugs." + +Piro shook his head. + +"That makes no sense at all." + +"That's exactly why we need your help. There are still some kinks +in the process that need to be ironed out. Something has got to be +done about the spread of illegal drugs, and quickly. People are dying +out there, Piotr." + + +Freeway Ricky Ross leaned back against the hood of his Impala. He +hated this part; waiting for Thomas to make his pitch to some new +investor was more boring than going to church. He pulled out his +briefcase and mulled over some past due paperwork. This new lawyer... +No one could read his handwriting. Ricky snapped the briefcase shut +and smoked a menthol cigarette. He suddenly noticed that someone had +scuffed his Chuck Taylors. + + +Piro and Thomas had taken a circuitous route around the parking +lot. Now they were making their way back towards Ricky. They seemed to +still be discussing the preliminaries even as their voices drifted +within earshot. + +"Basically, I bought the Chrysler Building." + +"..." + +"Don't look at me like that. We needed the room." + +"You founded a super-hero team -- funded by drug money -- to fight +drug dealers." + +"Among other things, yes." + +Piro could feel his eyes popping out of his head. Thomas was almost +thirty years old. This kind of self-destructive behavior was +inexcusable. But it was true, he _had_ managed to amass some impressive +resources. Piro stared off into the Los Angeles smog, weighing the +situation. + +"Almost nothing about this appeals to me. All right, I'll make an +exception for a few of your acquisitions. Did you know that the +Chrysler Building is still standing in 4086? Owned by the Crown." + +"Huh. You don't say." + +"Actually, I operated out of the 61st floor for several years, +myself, training new recruits." + +"Yeah, I remember that training. Dad really had a hard-on for your +teaching methods. He always used to tell the rookies, 'If you survive +one of Piro's seminars, you're hired.' Seemed to think that was +hilarious for some reason. Of course, years later I told him about +your Blythe collection." + +Piro laughed. "Who do you think got me started on the doll +collecting, idiot." + +Thomas smiled at him warmly. + +Things were falling into place, just as he'd hoped. + + +"Well Thomas, I'm a little perturbed that you've brought me back in +time under false pretenses. Crack cocaine is hardly set to swallow the +known universe. But now that I'm here... Well, what the hell. I can +see that you've got yourself a heaping full plate. You're going to +need all the help you can get dealing with this problem you've +unleashed on the inner city. It probably wasn't such a bad idea for +you to get me involved." + +"I'm sure dad would agree." + +"Please, tell me he doesn't know anything about your drug dealing," +admonished Piro. + +"Relax," said Ricky, flicking his cigarette over the hood of the +Impala. "He's in Japan." + +"The man has full-clearance access to the mesh, Rick." Piro made a +face at him, emphasizing the obvious conclusion. "If he hasn't already +involved himself in this scheme it probably just means you haven't +been paying close enough attention to the books." + +"I resent that," said Ricky. "We've spent a lot of money on +accountants." + + +New York. + +The Chrysler Building. + +It felt strange to once again be standing on the 61st floor +observation deck. Piro tilted his head so that his bangs partially +shielded him from the setting sun. He pondered the circumstances which +had led up to this present eventuality. + +Thomas had fallen asleep in his apartment downstairs. Freeway Ricky +had stayed behind in L.A., in order to keep an eye on the business. +Someone had to do it, he had said. Consequently, Piro had been able to +claim most of the 61st floor for himself. Just like old times. In +point of fact, some of his old gear from the 1960s was still locked up +in the building's armory. + +As Piro's gaze drifted across the city below, he wondered if Thomas +was aware that he had burned up the remainder of his fuel in the +process of getting them back to 1986. As a result, the RAGNAROK was +parked indefinitely within the present temporal frame. Its percept +drive had run clean out of new perspectives. Face it, there was +nothing new to be learned from the past. + +No matter. It was true there was a lot of work to be done, here, in +1986. It could hardly matter if Thomas had deliberately deceived him. +Petty manipulations were not at the forefront of his mind. In any +case, it would make little sense for Piro to complain about being lied +to at this late stage in the game. + +So, his plans would change. + +He willed himself to narrow his focus, concentrating, with some +effort, solely on the mission at hand. Stopping the crack cocaine +epidemic before it destroyed the country, if not the entire world. + +Piro checked the logins on his weapons and unlatched his backpack. +He withdrew the necessary equipment and prepared to launch himself +over the wall of the observation deck. Before he new it, he was once +again repelling down the side of the Chrysler Building. This familiar +action pleased him, and he accelerated with deliberate speed. + +The fading sun reflected at right angles against the skyscraper's +face as Piro descended its smooth, featureless surface, pacing himself +to the rhythm of the city. + +Down, down, down. + + +PIECES OF FILTH + +tags: 1886, haus_mold, jerrymander_mold + +Haus was down. Jerrymander sank backwards into the wagon and hugged +his satchel. The Mold family backups. + +More shots rang out from the top of the canyon. A gurgle came out +of Haus. He would be useless for at least another hour. + +The Secret Service detail had vanished into the brush. + + +These fools worshiped a blank sheet of paper. _Any_ blank sheet of +paper. Considered them sacred. That's why they didn't like it when you +filled them with words. + +And Jerrymander Mold had gotten an awful lot of ink. According to +the _Blanks_ (as they were known), excess quantities of pulp were +spoiled disseminating the tales of his exploits. Naturally, such +tended to happen when you were the President of the United States, but +the _Blanks_ refused to abide the extraordinary circumstances. The +simple inevitability of the press' fascination with power was +considered, by their stubborn, peculiar order, to be no excuse. They +declared Jerrymander responsible for the destruction of the 25 lb., +white bond industry. The market had proven incapable of fulfilling +wartime demand. Therefore, President Mold, as the dominant public +figure of the war, was obviously to blame for the industry's collapse. + +Haus had uncovered only minimal data on their rituals, but it had +been enough to put the fear of the Green into Jerrymander. By his +reckoning, they indulged in blatantly inhumane practices. And now they +had tracked him into the canyon. + +Echoes of movement had been detected nearby. Or so Jerrymander +calculated the delay. He hesitated to peek over the side of the wagon. +He could see nothing but the sky and the western rim of the canyon, +straight ahead of him. + +Ten minutes elapsed with no further shots fired. Jerrymander +assumed the _Blanks_ had moved on, but he declined to relax his grip on +the satchel. + +By any means necessary, the backups must be preserved. + + +Two hours elapsed. Jerrymander pulled out a blank sheet of paper +and investigated it in the failing sunlight. It looked normal enough +to him. He felt no particular spiritual stirring. Of course, the +nature of his mechanical body guaranteed that this would be the case. +He found himself absent the necessary hardware to affect faith, even +if his ghost had been willing. The virgin rectangle of white paper +looked very much to him like a virgin rectangle of white paper. It lay +spread out on his hand, motionless and lacking in semantic content. He +turned it over and examined it at different angles, but could only +derive this same, dispassionate reading. + +Haus started awake with a gasp. He spit blood on the floor of the +wagon, all the while cursing the name of the Green. + +"These people are truly trying my patience," he remarked, bitterly. + +"I know what you mean. First they elect me, and then they want to +kill me just because I find it insensible to worship reams of +tractor-feed printer paper." + +"It's amazing they've tolerated you for so long." + +Jerrymander threw up his hands. "They're a guerrilla force. The +Federal government is fat and slow. Furthermore, the recalcitrant +aesthetic appeals to the mainstream. These are not the ingredients of +an Administration victory." + +The horses were tired. Haus decided that the wagon could afford to +stay put until morning, even in its disadvantaged position. He'd +finally gotten the shields up and running. At first light he'd try to +track down the awol SS men, while Jerrymander made a beeline for the +Continuity of Government bunker thirty miles to the north. The +President would be safe there, provided he didn't run into any more +_Blanks_ along the way. + +They divided the backups between themselves according to family +protocol. Haus carefully punched out duplicates of everything they +had. He took the originals and gave his new copies to the President. +If either of them were captured or killed, at least one full copy +would survive. If both of them were captured or killed, the +preservation of the archive would be irrelevant anyway. They were the +only remaining Molds left alive, and it took a living Mold to resume a +saved state. + +Haus realized then that the Molds were the precise antithesis of +everything the _Blanks_ stood for. + +All the more reason to survive. + + +Jerrymander dreamed of white squares in space. He conceived them +almost as overlapping pixels, multiplying until they blotted out the +stars and planets. In his dream, he observed the total heat death of +the universe, presented as a linear narrative spanning the spectrum +from red shift to blue shift. Near the end, the white squares took on +a pale, greenish hue. + +He fancied he could make out some meaningful pattern in the mesh of +interlocking pixels. The whole enterprise brought to mind Penrose +tiles. He felt that there must be some significance to the display +that he couldn't quite grasp. Even in his dream he was frustrated that +the solution seemed to languish just out of reach. + +Jerrymander awoke with a crick in his neck. He ran some diagnostics +and adjusted the latches of his spine, but this action only minimally +reduced his discomfort. He realized then that he felt cold and reached +for his jacket. He could definitely do with better weather. The skin +on his knuckles was starting to crack. + +Haus had set off without waking him. It was just as well that they +split up early in the day. Jerrymander checked his rifles and made +sure his internal GPS was functioning as expected. Presently, he +yanked on the reigns. The horses roused groggily to cruise velocity. + +As the wagon drug forward, each horse evacuated its bowels, one +after the other, in an alternating pattern of green and brown. + +The dust of the trail caught in Jerrymander's teeth. His grimace +felt permanent, fixed in place. + +He was embarrassed to admit that the smell of the horses bothered +him. + + +DESCENT OF MIND + +tags: 1985, albert_lunsford, ian_kenny, saito + +Saito: + +I write to you with news of Albert's worsening condition. + +One moment he is digressing about Kant and the next he has picked up a +kitchen appliance and is bashing himself in the face. I am +increasingly frightened that he will do irreparable damage to himself. +When I'm not around, he calls me almost every day. But I cannot answer +his calls anymore -- not for any lack of sympathy, understand, but for +time. After five minutes he forgets he's called and tries to call +again. This can go on for hours. I think it matters very little +whether I answer or not, as he won't remember either way. In spite of +my fears for his safety, I really don't think my presence or my words +mitigate the danger. When I do answer, speaking to him meaningfully is +an occluded impossibility, as he rarely understands what I'm trying to +say. He seems to be losing comprehension of even simple language. I +now manage his percept from remote with an automated script. The +program runs continuously, even when I am otherwise preoccupied. I +check the log messages most mornings. + +I still visit him once a week and help him arrange his grocery +deliveries, medications, and so on. He is no longer capable of caring +for himself in essential matters. I have to put his hand on the +pressure screen at the appropriate times. His notebooks have +degenerated, devolved over time into page upon page of scratches, +really nothing more than dots and dashes. I don't believe he is +writing in Morse code. He doesn't even attempt to draw anymore. The +systems in his apartment could take care of all his basic needs, but I +am reluctant to cut off contact on account of his obvious loneliness. +He has begun to confuse me with members of his family who are long +dead. + +My understanding is that your work has taken a turn towards success, +as of late, and that the advances you are making every day may be of +some benefit to Albert. Things used make sense to him, Saito. To us. + +In spite of our earlier discussion on these matters, I must appeal to +you yet again to reconsider your blunt rejection of his case. Surely +you have some leeway in who you treat. Won't you please try to help +him, if you are able. + +I implore you, Saito. + +Ian Kenny + + +END BOOK TWO + + +BOOK THREE + + +NANA.TECH + +tags: 1928, nana_mold, plinth_mold + +Diagoro relaxed his stance only a little as Grandma hobbled over to +the cupboard. By the Orb on the kitchen counter, he could see that +traffic out of the San Jose backbone was slowly reaching its peak. +Very little time now. Grandma jumped when the teacups reached parity, +and for a moment he thought that she might be in danger of fainting, +toppling over. A reassuring expression of recognition (resignation?) +gradually bled into her face, and she settled back down into her +slippers, returning to the cupboard as the black tide line in each +porcelain vessel miscegenated with 2% milk. + +"There's really not time for this, Nana," Diagoro breathed thickly. + +"You just close your ill-filtering little mouth. You'll eat this +and you'll like it. And then we can go and put down your little +foreign barbarian whore or whoever it is this time and I'll wear a +smile for you then." + +Grandma pressed brittle hands into her apron, smearing grease from +her tools onto the linen. She snapped closed the aluminum case of her +rifle. After tonight she would tell Diagoro, like so many before him, +that he was a Mold. + +For now, she simply said: + +"I'm going to shoot this bitch myself." + + +STARTING THEM YOUNG + +tags: 1935, nana_mold, plinth_mold + +Tomorrow is a holiday, but today is not. My parents are both at +work, and I'm stuck here at the babysitter's house, sitting out the +two or three or four hours that I'll be trapped in this room, lying on +my pallet, dreaming without sleep about every possible other thing I +could be doing with my time. I don't know why she locks me in here. + +_Granny_ is not really my grandmother. But that does not keep her +from closing me up into the spare bedroom after lunch, leaving me +there until shortly before my parents arrive to take me home. What am +I meant to be _doing,_ during all of this time? Granny has not been +forthcoming on the subject. + +Today's focus is a new assortment of military adventure toys. +Specifically, the pre-visualization of a flying machine whose swept +wings must be made to contract upon the release of a certain switch -- +I presume to be located somewhere along the aircraft's aft fuselage. +I'm having a bit of trouble figuring out precisely how the wing +mechanism will work. Something to do with strings or wires of some +sort, all obfuscated from the child/operator. The picture is as yet +fuzzy... + +Also up for review is a full-size, realistic combat uniform, +infused with what I will for marketing purposes refer to as "the scent +of battle." These two ideas should tide me over until the big door +unlocks, clicks open at around four o'clock. If I concentrate upon +this pair of images intently enough, conceive of them in great enough +detail, covering every possible feature, I am convinced -- no, I am +_certain_ -- that they will have materialized in my bedroom closet by +the time I get home. It is not clear why I choose to believe in this +notion, but I confess that I do. I suppose such activity amuses me. +Consider my age. + +First then, the aircraft. + +"Dad is insatiable screwing his daughter," a voice states, aloud, +sounding quite desperate to be heard. It is only mildly distracting as +I am quite used to this sort of thing by now. I shrug vaguely without +losing my train of thought. Laughable, really, these attempts at +derailing my creative process. + +"Japanese teen showing her hairy pussy," the voice continues. I +have no trouble ignoring the outburst, and so carry on with my +daydreaming as if no auditory phenomena were taking place. All is +calm. + +"Homeless guy wearing a brand new 8-ball jacket." + +That, I'm sorry to admit, tears it. I have finally had enough. I +straighten myself and reply: + +_"Little cutie screams as she gets drilled on her new boss' desk._ +Okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? May I proceed now?" + +I have prepared myself for a dramatic pause, but the voices +promptly dissolve into a perfect silence. Indeed, one could almost be +lulled into sleep in this quiet. Would that all of my projects could +be undertaken in such sublime stillness. I'm quite certain that the +balance of my output would yield a sharp increase in quality. + +"Now," I think to myself, "Let's get back to work." + + +Before long, the voices are at it again. + +"Innocent Gays getting modernistic IT anally." + +This time, I don't even dignify the disruption with a response. Why +do they bother? I'm simply not interested. + +And yet, I have to admit that the voices have once again succeeded +in distracting my attention. Remarkable, these recent advances in +advert technology. + + +Granny knocks gently as she enters, clutching a packet of my +medications. She casts a knowing look as she unscrews the bottles, +sorting the myriad variety of colored pellets into the concave +depressions of her tray. Her eyes caress me with warm approval as I +accept the arrangement of doses and commence popping pills. + +"You were diddling yourself in here again, weren't you, Plinth." + +"No," I say. "You're hearing things, old woman." + +I think she is smiling at me but it's difficult to tell because she +is so old that her face appears quite wrinkled even when she is +asleep, or watching her programs on telescreen. Is that a smile, or is +it merely the untreated cracking of leather? + +I assume she was joking, that she didn't actually see me with my +hands in my pants. + +There. Now I am _certain_ she is smiling. This is preposterous. As +if I needed more variables to consider. + +I am tired. Much too tired to continue. + +Where are my parents? + +That's all for today, Diary. + +EOF + + +AWAKENING THE SELF + +tags: 1944, plinth_mold + +If there is a test, chances are he will pass. But he is never quite +sure if he really understands the answers, or if he has merely derived +them from some calculus of the movement of language. Has communication +truly taken place? And if so, how does he know that he knows? This +problem of knowledge goes deeper for him (he suspects) than for any of +the other boys; he is certain that the others are secure both in their +answers and in the thoughts which (he is also certain) inform them. +Much unlike himself, unfortunately. What good is the right answer if +it still doesn't make any sense? + +He is provided a worksheet. On it are inscribed a series of symbols +he does not understand. Above the symbols are situated photographs of +the room he has just vacated. He studies the paper and notices that, +in one of the photos, a mesh transceiver has been placed behind the +couch. The angle of the photograph is such that the placement of the +transceiver is clearly intended to be noticed. But what is the +transceiver _for?_ That information is not provided. He begins to +wonder if, perhaps, there is some other, more salient detail of the +photo that he is missing. What is it he is meant to be looking for? +Perhaps the mesh equipment is not the item of greatest importance. He +scans the paper again but notices nothing new. + +The other children have all been issued this same sheet of paper. +Most of them are dumbfounded. Discarding their worksheets, the +children proceed to enact a miniature, organized conflict. They count +off into strike teams, execute insurgencies, repel +counter-insurgencies, invade and defend arbitrarily defined +territories within the room's finite perimeter. It is clear to Plinth +that they have all but forgotten the problem on the worksheet. Had the +exercise confounded them all the same way? Each of the boys, including +Plinth himself, have only just turned sixteen. So, some unfamiliarity +with printed matter is to be expected. _But still,_ Plinth wonders, +_What are these boys seeing when they look at the photographs? Indeed, +what am I missing?_ + +At the one hour marker the children are led back into the waiting +room. Further instructions are not provided. + +The children begin to bicker. It is apparent now that the waiting +room has been stripped of standard entertainments. Plinth waits until +two quarrelers obscure the main surveillance camera (thinly disguised +as an inoperable telescreen) and ducks quickly behind the couch. +Seconds later, he pops back up and feigns participation in the +complaining. A noticeable bulge now deforms the left-front pocket of +his trousers. Upon close observation his sudden sociability is less +than convincing. + +The boys are led out of the waiting room and into a play area, +well-stocked with childish trifles. Plinth notes that these trinkets +are of the exact type the boys had been clamoring for, only moments +before. Carefully, he retreats into a corner, near an air vent, and +divests his pocket of the purloined contraband. The cool, manufactured +air of the building's circulation system envelopes his hands and face +as he crouches above the illicit cargo, squinting at the various +inscriptions etched into the reverse-side of each item. + +Between the legs of a chair, Plinth spies two pairs of wingtip +shoes. + +The furniture is immediately lifted up, completely off of the +ground. Large hands likewise lift Plinth out of the corner, but not +before he manages to gather up his collection of stolen materials. He +is deposited onto a table top, where two uniformed men inspect him +thoroughly. Their commentary adopts the distinct air of suspicious, +yet enthusiastic interest. + +The doctor with the big hands is the first to address him directly. + +"One of your pockets looks rather larger than the other one, +Plinth." + +"Yes," the second man joins in, "The way they're making trousers +these days, it's a wonder you can even maintain your balance when you +try to walk." + +Plinth: "Born this way, actually. My gait is lopsided." + +"More likely, his pants are sagging from the weight of several +power cells taken from a mesh transceiver," the smaller doctor remarks +to his colleague. + +"For my leaf," Plinth offers, halfheartedly. + +"You can _read?"_ both of them say in unison. Now they take turns +shaking their heads, greatly amused for some reason. + +_"Duh, jackasses,"_ Plinth says, rolling his eyes. "I'm not a little +kid." + +Plinth is once again removed from the waiting room. + + +Presently, Plinth is being lectured, prepared for his circumcision. +Before he can be cut, he must first be made to understand. + +The origin of the procedure is by now lost to history. For his +part, Plinth knows enough about the rite of manhood to suspect what +comes next. He has also finally deduced the purpose of today's +exercise in the waiting room; he is astonished at the transparent +nature of the deception. Even more astonishing is the fact that he +fell for the ruse on the first try. Doubtless, Grandma was somehow +involved. + +As it happens, he is the only child to have qualified for +circumcision today. At sixteen years of age, most males have yet to +develop the abstract thinking skills required to perform such feats +as, say, comprehending the relationship between his environment and +the funny squiggles and marks that constitute a topographical map. By +revealing that he knows how to read, Plinth has demonstrated that not +only does he grasp the basic concepts of symbolic representation, but +that he may also comprehend more abstract relationships which may or +may not yield a 1:1 correspondence to empirical reality. This is quite +unusual for someone so young. According to the more experienced +doctors, there is a precedent for the situation: Plinth will simply be +allowed to skip ahead to a higher grade level. + +Naturally, Plinth is concerned about the costs this may incur. + +"How can I convince them that my brain is damaged," he thinks to +himself. + +He shoves his hand into his trousers and squeezes out a length of +fecal matter. Without hesitation, he chews the curl of feces +vigorously into his mouth. Swallows. + +Much to his dismay, the gambit is unsuccessful. + + +The Mold awareness slowly seeps back into Plinth's consciousness. +At first he is beside himself; these men have just mutilated his +stick. Then he recalls the purpose of the ritual. Presently, he +recalls his past life as Haus Mold. He knows now what he must do next. + +Plinth waves the doctors aside and inspects his personal effects, +ensuring that everything remains as he left it, nearly two decades in +his past. Satisfied, he withdraws a small electronic device and +activates its primary function, instantly transmuting all organic life +in the room into dust. + +Deactivating the device and donning his eye-patch, Plinth hops off +of the examination table and begins to search for an exit. + +There is much work to be done. + + +IT'S ALL POLITICS + +tags: 1965, plinth_mold, potus, tab1, the_chief + +"What do you mean he 'runs plastics?'" the Chief snarled, +incredulously. + +"Just that. There's no record of him after 1928, and then all of a +sudden this falls into my lap. Somehow, he's taken control of half the +toy manufacturing in America." + +Thomas Bright, Sr. adjusted his cap. + +"And you're sure it's the same guy?" asked the Chief. + +"Proof's in the paperwork. Same investment patterns." + +"But technically it's a different name." + +"They're all Molds though, aren't they." + +"True that." + + +Plinth Mold settled into his recliner, his reading glasses perched +on the end of his nose. Not much in the paper. + +Maude. Oh, Maude. + +Of course, this wasn't really his Maude. Generations had passed. +Their children had spawned children of their own. This girl... Was +probably his great great granddaughter. + +No matter, the Molds had always kept it in the family. + +Plinth Mold hadn't made love since 1888. + +He lit his pipe. + + +Thomas Bright, Jr. played with his toys. Frequently, he would +inspect the intellectual property information inscribed upon the +buttocks of his action figures. He had noticed early on that all of +his toys seemed to be manufactured by the same company. + +He figured his dad had purchased them in bulk. The cheap bastard. + +Thomas threw back the flap of his tepee and climbed out. The cold +air burned his lungs, going down. He fumbled in his pocket for a +cigarette. + +"Violet!" he yelled, carelessly. "When's dad coming home?" + +"Never!" Violet called back. + +Thomas flicked his cigarette into the open flap of Violet's tent +and wandered off towards the creek, where he could urinate in peace. + + +An alarm sounded on the Chief's desk. He scanned the incoming +message and reacted instantaneously, barking commands into his +commlink even before he had fully depressed the trigger. + +"Dispatching _a cappella_ teams to the scene," he shouted into the +_aether._ + +Thomas Bright, Sr. stared out of the big the window while the Chief +worked. He knew that their discussion had ended, for the time being, +on account of the incoming message. Still, the situation with the +Molds would have to be addressed, sooner or later. + +"I'm sorry, Tom, we're going to have to postpone this until +tomorrow morning. The President seems to think that current +developments within Project: BLUEBIRD should take precedence over +our investigation into the Mold situation." + +Thomas smiled on the inside. The Chief's sarcasm in the face of +absolute authority delighted his sense of rebellious individuality. +Naturally, he would never reveal such degeneracy to his superior. + +"I understand, sir. It's all politics." + +The Chief listened to his earpiece for a moment and then glanced +over at Thomas and mimed jerking off with his hand. + +Thomas nodded and showed himself out of the room. + + +TRADE + +tags: 1970, tab2 + +The men in the street shifted uncomfortably as Thomas threaded +between them, calling out user IDs and lot numbers as he went. Many +were unaccustomed to such face-to-face business dealings, and they +bristled at the close contact. + +In point of fact, the vocal identification and interplay wasn't +strictly necessary -- the visor was picking out each recipient quite +efficiently, on its own -- but Thomas liked to talk to people. As he +made eye contact with each man, he pushed a box into their hands and +made a point of thanking them for their patronage. Thomas believed +that the human touch created a connection between himself and his +clients. For their part, the men in the street were mostly irritated +by his forthright manner. They would not have left their apartments in +the first place if home delivery had been within their means. + + +Indeed, the men stood crammed into an ever lengthening line along +one side of the street. Most had squatted down on the curb to inspect +their bid tickets, or in some cases, their parcels. Each figure was a +solemn portrait in charcoal, crouched in wool jacket and trousers, +gazing fixedly over his clutch of papers. Every so often, the gritting +of teeth could be heard above the din as someone discovered that he +would not be the next to take delivery of his winnings. For most in +the line, this day's auction had been a final, go-for-broke grasp at +obtaining a user account on the old pressure screen grid. Securing an +account meant the guarantee of employment. Recently, a blanket freeze +had been declared. No more new accounts would be created before the +end of the year. This unexpected policy was instituted uniformly +across all nodes, effective immediately. + +Thomas ignored his visor's display and ran the figures in his head +as he negotiated the sorry gallery of drooping faces. At two hundred +thousand dollars per, his deliveries were netting an even million on a +good day. This was not to mention the substantial commissions he would +claim from brokering his customers' login applications. In this way, +he netted rather a lot of money in rather a short period of time. Each +infusion of cash compounded with his previous earnings, snowballing +out of all rational control. It occurred to him at times that a like +substance tended to flow from itself; the small investment that had +gotten him started (thank you, Father), wed to the ingenuity he +employed at multiplying its volume, spread, fractal as the branches of +a tree into an incomprehensibly vast canopy of zeroes. Even so, he +recalled that it had been his own insight, quite apart from the fact +of his tools, that had proven instrumental in setting the whole +process in motion. From one seed, eternity. But the poetry of +abiogenesis was a myth. The flow could not proceed from a rock. The +rock must first be cracked in two. + +Thomas considered the sorry status of his customers. Was the +competence of others truly so discouraging, such a disheartening +exhibition as to obliterate one's own will to succeed? Or were these +men simply too lazy to break open their respective rocks? + +Thomas could see no profit in answering the question. + + +Thomas drifted towards a random squatter and tossed a five thousand +dollar chip into his can. He corrected himself at once, retrieving the +chip to wipe its memory. After a few seconds erasing, Thomas tossed it +back into the squatter's lap. The unfortunate man, who had obviously +not won any auctions that day, did not look up from his leather-bound +copy of _DIANETICS._ + +Comfort yourself as you're able, Thomas thought to himself. + +Sensing his presence, the book spun up its standard solicitation. + +"I just took a shit the size of a baby's arm," it read aloud. + +Disabused of his altruism, Thomas returned to his work. + + +By now, then, the men to Thomas' left had all taken on a greenish +pallor. This indicated that their parcels had already been delivered. +Thomas wheeled his cart around and headed in the opposite direction. +The men on the other end of the street were still tinted red. One by +one, they melted to light green as he placed a package into each of +their hands. Occasionally, Thomas would produce a handkerchief from +his pocket and wipe the fog away from the inside of his visor. + +The weather crawl indicated that the ambient temperature of the +alleyway had reached 95 degrees Fahrenheit. Uncomfortable, to be sure, +but not yet a cause for alarm. + +Once the sidewalk had melted into a carpet of soft green, Thomas +locked down his cart and pedaled away on his bike. Almost immediately +he was flagged by a bright orange man who had lately begun to sputter +and spurt various curses from his seat on the curb. Amused but mindful +of the orange glow, Thomas put down the kickstand on his bike and +removed his gloves. + +The man on the curb explained to Thomas that his delivery had +arrived in unsatisfactory condition. While the outer surfaces of the +parcel appeared to be intact, upon opening the box the man had found +nothing but charred, broken fragments and a handful of dust. (This, +Thomas surmised, derived from the explosion of the device's power +source whilst in transit.) A scent reminiscent of mashed potatoes +wafted itself into Thomas' nostrils. + +The man had worked himself into an unfriendly humor. He demanded an +immediate replacement for the item, and/or the immediate refund of the +full bid amount into his account. As Thomas looked on, the man +proceeded to type a complaint into his leaf, which shortly caused his +tint to shift from orange to bright yellow. Simultaneously, a soft +tone chimed in Thomas' ear. + + +Thomas considered the situation. When the customer had submitted +his complaint, a hold would have been placed upon Thomas' account for +a corresponding price of the item (minus auction fees, etc.), pending +the satisfactory resolution of the buyer dispute. The onus had now +shifted to Thomas to provide a valid serial number and delivery +confirmation for the replacement item, or to agree to a full refund. +He immediately recognized that, due to the hold placed upon his +account, _his_ balance was no longer sufficient to secure a replacement +item. Much less pay for overnight shipping. A refund, of course, would +be out of the question, by dint of the clearly stated terms of his +boilerplate delivery contract. + +Thomas judged the dispute irreconcilable. All for the sake of a +used piece of collectible pregnancy armor. The absurdity of the +conundrum put him in mind of paper currency. He mulled over suggesting +a historical working. Small, rectangular pieces of paper could be +collected into an animal leather pouch, then transmitted +surreptitiously via occult arm/hand gestures. Traditionally, the +procedure had been known put a disgruntled customer's mind at ease. +But the notion was laughable. Juvenile. A valid debt could not be +satisfied with trinkets and scraps of paper. He wiped the condensation +from his visor and likewise sharpened his mental focus. Time to get +serious. + +Thomas examined his surroundings in the alley. He glanced from side +to side, then moved his eyes onto his chronometer and noticed that a +considerable amount of time had elapsed since he had pulled over his +bike to commiserate with his complaining customer. The two men now +stood completely alone at the curb. The street had cleared of punters. + +The unhappy customer's expression registered extreme +dissatisfaction, no doubt exacerbated by the evening's steadily +steepening thermal incline. + +Thomas considered how difficult it would be to setup a new delivery +account, to find another corner to service, to arrange the dispersal +of hundreds of thousands of dollars for yet another intermediary +service to accredit is account. He then resumed his customer's tightly +focused, accusatory stare. It was true the man could almost be said to +look pregnant. The customer continued to grimace from behind his +parcel's charred, blackened box flaps. + +Maybe he had needed that armor for something more important than +simply completing a collection. + +Without warning, Thomas suddenly snatched the ruined box from the +man's hands and hurled it to the ground. He punched the man in the jaw +and then mounted his bike, adjusted his visor for night vision, and +pedaled away at top speed. As he had feared, the ambient temperature +was rapidly approaching dangerous levels. + +Thomas realized, after he had pedaled some distance down the road, +that he had dropped his login chit. + + +The man on the curb wobbled uncertainly. He touched his hand to his +face several times, confirming the integrity of his jaw line. He then +stooped to retrieve Thomas' chit. + + +Thomas observed his customer's activity from a safe distance. He +felt some disappointment at the loss of his credentials, but he was +glad to see that his customer had survived the transaction. In any +case, his account was irretrievably lost. He would have to register +all over again in the new year. + +Thomas leaned into a tight, right turn and accelerated rapidly +towards home. + +On balance, he concluded that he could afford to laugh. His +customer was in for a surprise, if ever he attempted to join the ranks +of freelance sellers. In today's economy, selling was not nearly as +easy as buying. Honest work had proven to yield diminishing returns. + +Thomas recognized in himself the stirrings of a terminal pessimism. + +He considered returning to school. Exchanging one set of +circumstances for another of equal or lesser value. + +But he could not admit defeat. Not at twelve years of age. + +He had to make a go of this. + +Thomas calculated the remainder of his savings and selected a blank +sheet of paper from his binder. + + +NEW SENTENCES + +tags: 1982, 1986, tab1, tab2, the_chief + +1982. + +Eyes burnt out. Almost awake. Vanishing act. Breathing late. Ringing +sound. Mild discomfort. Feels like I'm wearing a restroom napkin. +Tuning three stations at once in my left ear. The other is numb. +Everything is back and forth. Fluorescents blink and convince me +otherwise. Smooth, cold and dusty in places. Smell is shrink wrap with +rubbing alcohol, but worse. Now questions. Tight grip turns to +shaking. White noise. Corner of a desk in my eye, hard, but it just +feels like it. Smudged ghosts huddling to warm up. Plastic bindings. +Spittle smears my cheek. Sound of pliers and car keys. Something +warmer than dish water. Cut with a razor. Tied. Comforting, now. Soft +cotton blankets. Lukewarm relax. Taking off the restroom napkins. +Softer sheets beneath me. Dermal abrasion. Folded towel on my +forehead. More tying. A small pricking. Indistinct murmuring in my ear +and then more shouting. I'm drifting. Quieter voices. Mother is not +holding me. + + +"Sounds like the diary of a heroin addict," said the Chief. + +I laughed. + +"Surprising lucidity. My boy is a born writer. I doubt I'd be +coherent enough to recount the experience." + +"Yeah, I've tried to read your reports." + + +We had needed a willing guinea pig. + +The lawyers wouldn't even consider writing up our memo unless one +of us was willing to undergo the procedure, to prove it was safe. + +I suggested we get new lawyers. That got some laughs. + +Then I suggested Tommy. + +"But will he do it?" the Chief had asked. + +"You'd better believe it," I assured him. + + +Of course, it wasn't quite so simple. I hadn't even spoken to the +boy in a number of years. He never seemed to be available when I +called. In the end we had had to extract him from his place of +employment. Forcibly. + +He just wouldn't cooperate. Even after my men identified themselves +as Federal agents. Which they never, ever do. (I had given them some +leeway to bend the rules. After all, this was my son we were talking +about.) + +We got him out of there. And still he would not submit. + +I was exasperated. + +I authorized additional force just because he had made me so damned +angry. + +Possibly, I should have told him it was me. But that would have +tainted the experiment. The results would have been declared invalid. +The whole operation would have been worse than useless. + +I had had to proceed under a cloak of anonymity. + + +I hadn't anticipated that he would figure it out so quickly. + +After he was released, I received an e-mail from him. Short, but it +was him. Seems he regretted having gone through the experience. Asked +me not to contact him again. Ever. It wasn't signed (in fact, it +arrived as a message sent from my own account). But I know for a fact +it was him. + +Shouldn't have been such a big deal. + +He had been through the training. He was qualified. Obligated, +even. + +But of course, he had had a complaint. + +He always was a complainer. + + +1986. + +Woke up this morning. Got a call from Piro. What's he doing back in +the country? + +I was going to say _I should let Tommy know,_ but then I remembered, +he's still upset with me. + +I'll give him a few more years. + +He'll cool off, eventually. + + +PERIOD DRAMA + +tags: 1985, b_errol_royale, chuck_fraud, the_director + +Chuck Fraud loaded his pen. + +He cruised in through the front doors and attached himself to a +cart. Walked it down an isle and held out his arm, sending a row of +boxes tumbling into his basket. + +At the register he pulled out his pen and started to write a check. + +"What are you, Abraham Lincoln?" the cashier said, "You can't write +a check here." + +"What, my money's not good enough for you?" + +"No, sir, it's not. In fact, where did you find an _ink pen,_ +anyway?" + +Chuck Fraud was taken aback by this. How audacious. And no regard +for history. + +"Son--" + +"Cut!" cried the Director. "I still don't feel good about this +scene. Some of the details just don't read as authentic. And I don't +like this conveyor belt. I don't remember electronics stores looking +like this." + +He looked down and then spoke into his Arrow shirtsleeve. + +"Get me the Expert. _The Expert!_ Now." + +After a few minutes the actors were already getting restless and so +he waved them off, free to shoot dice or fuck under the craft services +table or whatever it was actors did when not being directed by a +director. People continued to swarm around him, but still the Expert +was not present. + +The Director consulted his shirtsleeve again and then peered into +his lap at his leaf. He'd research this himself. He tapped two +distinct regions in sequence and then furrowed his brow as his eyes +strained to follow the changes. + + +Chuck Fraud loaded his pen. + +He cruised in through the front doors and attached himself to a +cart. Walked it down an isle and held out his arm, sending a row of +boxes tumbling into his basket. + +Pushed the basket up to the register. Starting filling out a check. + +"I'll need to see your identoplate," the cashier interrupted. + +"What kind of scam is this?" asked Chuck Fraud. + +"Sir, you can't pay with paper--" + +"Cut!" screamed the Director, finally making himself hoarse. + +This time, the Expert was on hand. + +"This sequence just isn't working. I'm sort of re-writing it blind +here; I don't know if the original screenplay was pecked out at random +by amphetamine-soaked apes or if this was something originally +intended for telescreen. Either way, it's shit. This retail +environment is in no way authentic. The transaction particulars are +also inaccurate. If _I_ remember this stuff, you _know_ the _viewers_ are +going to remember it. We've got to do something about it." + +"I'll see what I can come up with," confirmed the Expert, before +darting between some interns and vacating the sound stage. + + +Errol Royale fingered a business card from the top of his deck. It +read: "B. Errol Royale, Recruiter." His eyes massaged the dense +ultracrowd. As he surveyed the area, an erection began to deform the +contour of his trousers. + +Royale flashed on one Chuck P. Fraud and made a bee-line for him, +parting the sea of aimless consumers by waving his business card in +front of his face like a butterfly knife. Fraud responded, naturally +enough, by shifting his weight and attacking Royale's midsection, +using the point formed by his knuckles to radiate a signal of pain +throughout the taller man's ribcage -- + +"Cut," breathed the Director. + +He paused to draw in more air before continuing. + +"I think I'm going to give up on this scene. I no longer care how +Fraud gets into the military. We just have to make it believable when +he starts picking off Congressmen. Let's move on to the next page." + + +THE MOLDS + +tags: 1975, jonathan, plinth_mold, reginald + +The man from downstairs would appear every evening at 7:00 p.m., +ready to collect the wax sculpts. He would take them down to the +manufacturing floor where they would be cast as _first shot_ test +molds, and be then put through several short production runs. Gently, +the man would scoop up each figure and place it onto his tray. He +would then push his cart along to the next desk. This cycle iterated, +every evening of every season, without fail. By autumn, the company's +lead design team would complete a fresh collection of figurines. + +Jonathan's team had never failed the company. + +Motioning to the man with the cart, then towards an array of +already assembled parts that were spread out on the table before him, +Jonathan presented the work that had most recently occupied his +attention. The wheels of the man's cart emitted a cantankerous noise +and shortly began to roll again, this time in the direction of +Jonathan's work area. + + +From out of nowhere, Plinth Mold tramped into the room. He shook +the dust from his boots, shouldered past the man with the cart, and +locked his one good eye, somehow simultaneously, onto both men at +once. Plinth held onto this intimate, personal contact for as long as +he possibly could before proceeding to the next phase of the +interaction. + +Jonathan batted a curtain of dirty hair from his face and began to +scratch his yellow beard. There was no use trying to stop the boss +now. + +Plinth removed his eye patch, revealing the smooth, concave surface +where an eye socket should have been situated, had Plinth been born of +a mere human woman. Squinting, he proceeded to inspect Jonathan's most +recent achievements. The first sculpt seemed to captivate, singularly, +and he hoisted it up into the light, the better to examine its +particulars. His weight shifted forward and his mouth produced a +vaguely appreciative grunt. His one good eye rapidly alternated its +focus for several seconds, comparing his favorite figure to the other +wax artworks arranged haphazardly across Jonathan's table. It was +clear from these physical perturbations that, in Plinth's opinion, +none of the other figures measured up to the one he held clenched in +his leather-gloved hand. + +Suddenly sweeping away his velvet knapsack, Plinth winked at +Jonathan and pulled the drawstring closed. + +"Our style of working will seem less threatening, in retrospect," +he remarked. + +"Who's threatened?" Jonathan tended to humor the aging businessman +his eccentricities, but he sensed that he was being mocked. + +Plinth (indicating the sculpt that had captured his interest): "I +shall require more figures in this vein. Yes. Similar, I think, if not +identical, to this one." + +Jonathan: "But I've completed a whole _series_ of designs. Here, +just take a look at these other models --" + +"I will require only the Asiatics," insisted Plinth, expertly +maneuvering past Jonathan's pointlessly extended hand. + +"You aim to pick and choose between the Lord's handiwork?" demanded +Jonathan, a surprising wave of anger suddenly breaching the surface of +his pink face. + +_"A man must content himself with the time that he has been +allotted,"_ quoted Plinth, _"...and so divide his attentions +accordingly."_ + + +Plinth paused, waiting for Jonathan's mind to catch up with his +ears. + +"It should also be pointed out that you have come perilously close +to conflating _yourself_ with the Lord our God. A most unusual lapse, +for a young man of your background." + +This led to silence. Plinth knew quite well which switches he was +throwing within the young lad's mind. + +Jonathan considered himself to be the reincarnation of a famous +Green religious leader, highly revered by the people of his home +country. This quirk had been jealously concealed by Jonathan's family, +as wide dissemination of his delusions was likely to result in +ridicule, or, even worse, excommunication from the country's dominant +religious order. Since no one believed his claims, there could be no +defense. + +As time continued to elapse, Plinth wondered if perhaps he had +flipped Jonathan's switches with an excess of vigor. + +Eventually, the young man let out his breath. Plinth winced visibly +as Jonathan opened his mouth and slowly began to speak. + +"I suppose you are better qualified to discern the relative, +mundane qualities of my work than I can ever hope to be," Jonathan +said easily, his ears slowly fading from red to pink. "I do not +begrudge you your preferences. They are the very basis of our +relationship, after all. Please, take what you will." + +With this, Plinth relaxed and settled back into his shoes. He could +see now that Jonathan had regained conscious control of his limbs, and +so, in this more equanimous humor, would not attempt to strike him +with any of the tools laid out on his workbench. Plinth hastened to +remind himself that there was never a guaranteed outcome when one +ventured to upset the Divine equilibrium of the religiously inclined. +He was only glad that he had not come to terminate the boy's +employment. + + +Behind Plinth's back, situated at the base of a far wall, a +half-sized door rose up from the floor. Presently, it opened, and a +half-sized man crossed over its threshold into the open air of +Jonathan's workshop. Plinth had not come equipped to deal with +multiple assailants, and so he spun around quite awkwardly to confront +this lately arriving interloper. + +Somewhat unexpectedly, Plinth's plastic cloak had gathered itself +around his ankles, on the floor, and he nearly tripped over it as he +assumed the appropriate defensive posture. + + +The man in the closet had declined to join Plinth and Jonathan in +the lounge. He claimed not to have been aware of Plinth's arrival in +the workshop, which seemed ordinary enough on its face, but no sane +man (in Plinth's estimation) refused a free drink and a chance to gnaw +the ear of his employer. He would know the reason behind this man's +stubborn abstinence. He demanded that the fellow explain himself, and +fixed his posture to wait for an answer. The half-sized man had +prepared no rebuttal, and so finally he agreed to break from his +chores, to drink with his employer, to act like a human being. In +spite of this surrender, Plinth observed that a measure of wariness +still showed plainly on his face. + +"I have busied myself in that closet, without emerging, for a +handful of months, and would continue in my toil without complaint if +you could but leave me alone to get on with my work," lamented the +half-sized man. + +"Is it _comfortable_ in that closet?" Plinth asked. His genuine +curiosity was evident to all who were present at the table. + +"I have to admit that it's not. But my closet is still serviced by +the building's pneumatic tube system, through which I am able to +procure my materials." + +"May I ask then why it is you are willing to tolerate such working +conditions?" + +Plinth knew that he was traversing the boundaries of etiquette. Had +he opened himself to recriminations? The half-sized man matched his +tone. + +"Oh, and I suppose you find every aspect of _your_ job to be ideal? +I work from the time I wake up, straight through to the time when I +fall asleep. What could be the purpose of maintaining separate +quarters? There's nothing about where I sleep in my orders." + +"I don't mean to rhyme..." he added. + + +Jonathan was again fumbling with the bristles of his beard, eyes +focused upon some distant apocalypse. Reginald (for that, Plinth had +learned, was the half-sized man's name) had performed the series of +keypad exertions necessary to extend his rolling platform to roughly +chair height, and so he began the process of conveying his legless +body into the booth alongside his companions. For his part, Plinth was +generous enough not to remark upon Reginald's ornate personal mobility +carrier. Though gape at it he did. + + +_"What?"_ demanded Reginald. + +"I take it you are the man who operates the molds," whispered +Plinth, eyes fairly glazing over as he avoided focusing on +Reginald's... stroller. + +"The man who designed them. Now operates them. No one else seems to +be able to get the hang of the interface." + +Here Jonathan interjected, reciting the well-worn narrative. "The +backups of Reginald's original designs for the molds were lost in a +catastrophic fire that cleaned out the department's central data +center back in '71." + +"The company opted to rescue what was left of my code instead of +what was left of my legs. And how did that work out for them?" + +"Reginald was caught in the fire," Jonathan explained. + +"Falling machinery bisected me. Cut me into hemispheres. With the +loss of my _templates,_ I've no way of growing a new _interface._ None +of the department's people have ever been able to figure out how to +run the things without me." + +"But we get by," Jonathan insisted, realizing that Reginald was +making him sound useless. + +"Yes, recognizing that losing me meant throwing off their budget, +the department chipped in on this mobility rig, and built a special +room for me here so that I might be close enough to the molds to lend +my expertise when complex adjustments were required. Eventually, I +just made the space over into an office. The molds are too expensive +to replace, so this is the state of affairs until we discover how to +map the controls onto other users' minds." + +"I had no idea," said Plinth, now sincerely embarrassed. + +Reginald inclined his head toward Jonathan and took another sip of +his water. + +"I tell the kid here it's all God's fault." + + +I'LL MANAGE + +tags: 1976, maude_mold, plinth_mold + +So he was unhappy, again. But when he halted to appraise the +situation rationally, he found that nothing had really changed. Why, +then, this morose disposition? + +Each season, Plinth Mold selected the action figures that would +comprise the next year's line. He did this alone -- that is, his +decision was final -- because Plinth Mold knew that to consult a +committee would signal weakness to the trade press. Such fanfare had +been made of his spectacular rise, his subsequent reign and famously +charismatic management style, that he was wary of reversing the +polarity of this momentum, reluctant to sour himself in the public eye +by demonstrating an acute lack of direction. He knew well that each +word of praise committed in print represented an investment expected +to yield generous dividends; that the looming weight of his success +was not itself immune to the fearful and awesome properties of general +relativity. In point of fact, there _was_ a sort of balance to the +world, and he was loathe to tip it off-kilter. + +The problem was, finally, that these latest designs were not going +to work. That is to say, Plinth could not decide between them. In +years gone by such an impasse would have met with the unhesitant +scrapping of the entire line -- Plinth would fire the responsible team +and start over from scratch. But it was far too late for that, this +year. He would have to make a choice from amongst what had already +been placed in front of him. He knew it was imperative to come to a +decision, but still he was unsure of his direction. + +Yes, so something of some significance had actually changed. He +cycled between each layout and reprimanded himself sternly for his +indecision. Why was he making this so difficult? As he stared at each +proposal, he could not determine to his satisfaction which was +superior. They all seemed to consist of roughly the same elements. +Each seemed equal in merit to the next. + +"There is urine all over the front of this toilet," complained +Maude Mold, Plinth's wife of some twenty-five years. "Sometimes I sit +down and my pant leg touches it -- I can feel it." + +Plinth looked up from his leaf. "I guess I'll need to clean that +up." + +"That'd be a good idea, so I don't fucking retch." + +Previous flirtations with indecision had cost Plinth an entire +season's work. He had ended up pushing a wave of repaints into the +stores for Redaction Day. No truly new figures for over six months. +Mention of that debacle was now off-limits in staff meetings, but the +dark period lingered in his memory. Fatigued, he thought to himself +that bouncing back from abject failure was a young man's game. + + +To All Employees: + +Our Guiding Principles form the basis for how we should manage our +day-to-day interactions with customers and each other. They are the +unchanging foundation that supports how we conduct ourselves everyday. +Along with our Business Plan objectives and Factors for Dominance, the +Guiding Principles form the building blocks to ensure the Figures +Department and ultimately UNIVERSAL MOLD's success. + +Click here to view the presentation of the month that discusses the +importance of "Hold Yourself and Others Accountable." + +Act with Honesty and Integrity at All Times + +Exhibit a Positive Attitude + +Treat Everyone with Courtesy and Respect + +Do What You Say You are Going to Do + +Seek First to Understand Then Be Understood + +Communicate Clearly and Often + +Inspect What You Expect + +Execute Flawlessly Everyday + +Recognize and Encourage Continuously + +Hold Yourself and Others Accountable + +Thank you, + +Plinth Mold +President, UNIVERSAL MOLD + + + "I can't believe I just wrote that," thought Plinth Mold. "I +wonder how I would respond to a message like this, were I to receive +it from my own employer." But of course, Plinth Mold did not have an +employer. Had not, in fact, for some time. (Maude, it was true, was +only his wife.) He tapped the appropriate region on his leaf's screen, +causing his message to be sent. He hated these condescending +dispatches, but this one had been necessary, something about gradated +impacts that had bubbled up from Force Management, and if that were +the case, it might as well bear his own signature instead of one +belonging to some irrelevant middle manager. He sought solace through +embracing the inherent nobility of his judgment, but, curiously, +accepting his responsibility failed to improve his sagging mood. He +still felt blank -- or worse, confused. + + "When you sit there with your pen, scratching away, it almost +appears as if you have friends," allowed Maude. "Your movements, these +gestures toward what appears to be the composition of some sort of +communique, are so realistic." + + Plinth sighed, folded up his leaf and turned off the lamp on his +nightstand. He removed his eye patch and laid it on the table next to +his face, then ran his fingers over the concave surface where his +eyeball should have been. His toes were freezing, but Maude would not +countenance another blanket or any adjustment to the environmental +controls. Perhaps he could show her the figure designs, see if she +could muster a preference for one in particular. Immediately, he +wondered what that would cost him in the event of an acrimonious +separation, and so he closed his mouth. He'd better just do it +himself. Like so much else. + +"It's an expensive illusion, created just for you." + +There was silence, then, but he knew that he had said too much. + + +SHIFT! + +tags: 1981, chricton, eva, plinth_mold, tab2 + +11SEPT1981 +UNIVERSAL MOLD, NYC OFFICE + +Plinth Mold scrolled through the morning news and shook his head. + +"They make up some lie and then they get mad at you when you see +through it. Because in their mind they think they've crafted the +perfect deception, which should appeal to your (perceived) faults." + +"That's pretty fucking ridiculous. Clearly they are to blame for +their own inability to con you." + +"Yeah." + +"By the way, do you want to come in early today?" + +"I'm already here, sir." + +Plinth looked up from his leaf and saw that Thomas was indeed +standing in the doorway to his office. + +"Oh. So I'm not talking to you on the phone." + +"No, sir." + +"You sound like you're on the phone." + +"I'm not, sir." + +"You're sure." + +"Yes, sir." + + +"Nano-toxins. That eat sperm. Selective genocide." + +"History is spamming _weird."_ + +"Yeah, I read about it the other day. Something they unleashed +during World War II. Hell of a way to get your pipes cleaned." + +"Barbaric. And yet... Hmm. Piques the curiosity." + +"I'll say. I wonder if it hurts." + + +"See if you can finish up these inks before Chricton comes back +from lunch." + +"Will do." + +Thomas moved his fingers inside the box. Ink lines began to appear +over the blue wireframe on his screen. Once finished, he would export +the flat image to paper. For some reason, Plinth Mold still preferred +a 2-D mock-up for his action figures. Thomas found the whole get-up +awkward, but for a paycheck he was willing to oblige. + +"I know this is not what we set out to do with ourselves," Thomas +said to himself as he continued to trace the lines on his screen. +"We've allowed a number of years to slip by, and yet, no clear +progress towards our goals is apparent." + +Just as Thomas was getting into the rhythm of self-deprecation, +Chricton returned, bursting through the door with two brown paper bags +full of groceries. + +"That was quick." + +"Yes. I ran into Eva in the corridor. Relieved her of these. Here, +let's snack while we work." + + +"Thoughtful of you." + +"Yeah, I don't think she was going to do anything important with +all this stuff anyway. She was covered in some kind of white powder. +Just stood there while I took her groceries away from her. Distant +look in her eyes." + +Thomas leaned his head down on his drawing surface and pretended to +snort a line of cocaine. + +Both men laughed heartily. + + +Plinth was flossing with a piece of o-ring from one of the +prototype figures. + +"Boss, that's gross." + +"Hey, all this junk is mine anyway. Keep your eyes on your own +paper." + + +"You know, I've often wondered how to solve the problem of The +Troll." + +"What the fuck is a Troll, boss?" + +"I'm glad you asked. A Troll is merely someone who enters into a +discussion with the intent of disrupting the equilibrium; usually by +misrepresenting his own or others' actual positions in favor of +inflammatory rhetoric, or by the constant interjection of _non +sequiturs."_ + +"I see. This has to do with one of your theological speculations, +doesn't it? Doesn't sound like a very friendly habit, anyway." + +"No, the Troll isn't a very friendly sort at all. In fact, the +practice of Trolling is usually undertaken maliciously. Why, the +history of the Green is positively _peppered_ with examples of +individuals who --" + +"But boss, why would someone want to _do_ something like that? Seems +counterproductive." + +"That, Thomas, is the problem of the Troll." + + +Chricton looked up from his workbench. "I think we should make a +figure of this _Troll_ character." He swiveled his screen around and +displayed his design: a small creature with an obnoxious outgrowth of +wispy hair, mounted atop a pencil as if it were some kind of +ornamental eraser. + +Plinth was visibly amused. He depressed a switch inside his coat +sleeve. + +"Capital idea, Chricton! Our only obstacle will be securing a +license on the concept from the _Green Consortium."_ + +All of the men chuckled hesitantly before deliberately shifting the +discussion to other matters. + +The _Green Consortium_ never issued licenses. + +Not to the likes of Plinth Mold. + + +THE SHIP + +tags: 1993, piro, plinth_mold, tab2 + +I'm watching the waves do weird things, dancing around the stuck +pixel in my visor. It's making me a little nauseous. + +Piotr's abovedecks with the boss, Plinth Mold. I really, really, +_really_ didn't want him to come along on this outing, but Captain +Plinth insisted. I can't say no to him; literally. In spite of the +rumors of impending cutbacks, I need to hold onto this job for as long +as possible. There are debts to consider. And hey, it's his boat. + +But truthfully, I hate Piotr. He's my best friend, sure, but things +are complicated. He makes me be the bottom. Plus, his hair is longer +than mine. These are only two of my reasons for hating him. + +Staring out of my porthole is not working. I'm about to blow +groceries, so I've got to get out of my room. I don't want to ruin my +sheets. + +I'm up top again, leaning over the railing. Piotr thinks this is +all pretty funny. Plinth, if he notices, ignores the subtle +best-friend-tension between Piotr and myself and has a laugh as well. +I'm peering into his face, trying to line up the dead pixel in my +visor with his one good eye. It centers me momentarily and I stop +vomiting long enough to strike up a conversation. + +"Plinth, I need a raise." + +"I just want you to know that my having to fire Piotr isn't going +to reflect badly on you." + +I am transfixed. Somehow I keep from letting loose on Plinth's +shoes. + +"You know, because you recommended him to the company." + +After a period of stasis the sky is vibrating normally again, and +so I'm back to leaning over the railing. If you need me, you'll know +where I'm at. Plinth keeps on talking. + +"Let's not tell him until we cross the Equator, eh?" + +Wiping my mouth. Pushing the words out. "He's not really my +brother, you know." + + +Going back several years now, Piotr and I have been telling people +that we're brothers. Twin brothers, even. Somewhat surprisingly, +seeing as how we look nothing alike, no one has ever expressed the +slightest incredulity about our claim to blood kinship. I guess I have +to admit, I would be surprised if anyone at this company had paid that +close attention to anything that came out of our mouths. But this goes +beyond simple gullibility. Never, no matter how ludicrous a scenario +Piotr and I may have just tried to put over, has _anyone,_ at _any +time, ever,_ challenged one of our claims. Even when we have +deliberately crafted preposterous stories. Even when it's clear that +we almost certainly must be lying. I have no explanation for this +incredible fact. Though I do admit to taking advantage of the effect +from time to time. When it comes to untruths, Piro and I are +multi-platinum sellers. Too hype, straight dope, flavor milk, so to +speak. It's sickening. + +Anyway, by now I am tired of the charade. Determined to break the +illusion, to drop real knowledge on our employer and our co-workers. +Piotr, my love; how I hate him. + +"Boss, I have a confession. I've been lying to you, all these +years." + +"In your way. Of course I know that you are not a blood relation of +Piotr's. Though I doubt anyone else here at the company suspects. You +see, Piotr is my son." + +I lean back over the edge, then straighten myself, then back over +the edge, _ad nauseam._ (Ha ha.) An inverted pendulum. The IV comes out +of my arm and then my premium grade Green is washing all over the +deck. It's a beautiful chaos. + +_"No way,_ boss." + +"Oh, _yes way,_ Thomas." + +"That's ridiculous. That's disgusting. How could this happen." + + +It is a great storm that frightens the fish and blows up the skirt +of our boat. It causes a great deal of entertaining interference in my +visor. I'm tracing lines between the raindrops with my messed-up pixel +and again, it's making me quite ill. However, my stomach has almost +caught up with the unstable gravity of the ship, and I feel that if +only I can keep up with the raindrops, I may stave off vomiting +indefinitely. In the meantime, the IV has been replaced in my arm. + +Plinth stands watch over the bridge. + +I can feel Piotr entering the room even though he's exercising his +professional skills; he's so vain that he even wants to lie to me with +his movements. + +I can't take it anymore. + +"He's firing you, idiot." + +"I love you, Thomas." + +The ball is in play. I really do hate Piotr. + +"Of course you love me. We're brothers, right?" + +"He's not firing me. He's giving me the ship." + +This is just too much. I have to throw up some more of my insides. + +"You know he's my father, then," says Piotr. + +"Oh, _fuck you."_ I barely spit out the words before losing my lunch +all over the bed. Piotr looks sympathetic, but suddenly he gets a +little testy as he realizes I'm damaging his property. + +"Hey, don't make a mess of my boat." + +Aw, shut up. + +This is not a problem. + +This is no emergency. + +I know how to calm him down. + + +PERCEPT DRIVE + +tags: 1993, piro, plinth_mold, tab2 + +Plinth Mold sat and ate his Green Cashew cereal. The ship's percept +drive sent barely visible tremors across the surface of his milk. + +"Do you ever get sad when you see a girl who is, like, all obsessed +with sports and stuff, and you realize that there's no way the two of +you could ever be compatible?" + +Thomas had somehow gained entrance to Plinth's cabin. What about +the elaborate rhetoricalock system Piro had installed? Plinth had been +assured, specifically, that Thomas could not penetrate it. Ridiculous. + +"You mean some girl you like?" + +"Not necessarily. Just, you know, any girl. Just to see her. From a +distance, it's almost as if there is some sort of active force that +draws you towards her, even as it pushes her away." + +"I can't say as I've ever suffered that sort of crisis, Thomas." + +"Oh. Well, even though I'm gay, it still sucks. Strictly speaking." + +The ship lurched sharply and Plinth figured Piro must be wrangling +the percept team to the other side of the deck, making a slight course +adjustment. + +"Anyway, could you please shut up this incessant chattering? My +Green Cashews are getting soggy." + +"All right, boss. I'll just head up top and see if anything else +needs doing." + + +Abovedecks, Piro was indeed herding members of the percept team +from one side of the ship to the other. Each man or woman planted +themselves into their new position and focused their attention +acutely, fixating upon a single point along the horizon that had been +marked pink in their visors. Slowly, the ship began to change +direction. + +Piro propped a leg up on the railing. "Forward; That way," he +commanded, gesturing in a specific direction for the benefit of the +percept team. + +Their gaze moved to his hand instead of to the distant point he had +meant to indicate. + +That was not good for the ship. + + +THE SHIP, PT. 3 + +tags: 1993, albert_lunsford, chrystal_pepsi, piro, plinth_mold, tab1, +tab2, the_chief, wetbeard + + It was Lunsford, all right. QCL Corp. + +I really didn't need to verify. + +I had spellchecked over three hundred individual songs, processing +each of them manually. One at a time because Lunsford refused to let +anyone use the automation. All of his interns were on leave for +various reasons. He'd popped out of his office a couple of hours ago +and handed me this improbable stack of leaves. One leaf per song! Then +disappeared just as quickly as he'd arrived. Meanwhile, at an access +junction to the abandoned floor, my own "interns" were spreading porn +onto the mesh like so much organic peanut butter onto a bland tasting +sandwich. The security exposure revealed by last night's scans would +heal itself by lunch time, possibly even before I could put Lunsford +in the freezer and be on my way. Potentially troubling, but as a +strictly practical measure I was confident of my chances. For various +reasons it paid to keep positive. + +I cracked open a Gray Pop and chugged it back. Frothy, +neutral-toned agents coated my throat with perpendicular cells. It was +refreshing, and also damned delicious. Honestly, I should have been +focusing on losing the extra pounds I'd picked up while working on the +this assignment. Only a week to go before I'd be shipping out again. +I'd appear obese and would probably be mocked by my teammates. I +glanced down at my belly, hesitantly. _All right, shit,_ I thought to +myself, _I'll purge the perp cells before heading to bed._ So much for +the perks of the job. I hated forcing myself to vomit. + +Presently, I belched. + +Which temporarily alleviated my sea sickness. + +I squeezed my eyes shut and strained to hear my heartbeat. The +sounds of the machinery in the room ran my thoughts aground. Wave upon +wave of diverse electronic complaint, crashing together in a +ubiquitous aural foam. So loud that I couldn't feel the reassuring +pulse of my circulatory system clicking against my inner ear. I +wondered: _Am I finally dead? Or am I being recalled to base? What is +the meaning of all this?_ + +Then reason, and balance, resumed. + +Meaning was irrelevant. + +A new disturbance in my visor window. Some of the security from +upstairs was leaking onto the public layer. _Wonder what the pajama +shits are? Text 667-SHITZ to find out!_ + +Well. It was old-fashioned stuff but it would work. That is to say, +if my interns could keep their hands out of their pants long enough to +smear it into place properly. I crushed the empty Gray Pop can on my +forehead and tossed it into the trash bin. There was groundwork to be +laid before my part of the assignment could proceed. I scanned the +progress reports again and made sure that the numbers were leveling +according to plan. We were on schedule. Barely. A relief, but the boys +were only onto the _B_ tab by now. + +We were going to need more time. + + +It may have started as a reaction to the percept team's sudden loss +of attention. It may have been something else. What was positive was +that things were not going well for the team stationed upon the top +deck of the USS DOM DELUISE. Piro's prodigious organizational efforts +notwithstanding. + +"You men, eyes on the horizon," directed Piro. + +A waved sloshed over the deck, knocking a couple of the team off of +their feet. They immediately righted their gaze to stern. + +"Not what I meant," said Piro. + +"Water's getting choppy," hollered Thomas Bright, emerging from +belowdecks. "You sure you don't need to get your folks strapped in?" + +"We'll be fine." Piro reinstated his leg to the side of the railing +and propped himself against it with his elbow. Somehow, he maintained +the appearance of standing upright. He motioned towards the sun, which +was only just now slipping below the the horizon. + +Thomas interjected again. "It's no wonder they were having trouble, +staring into the sun like that. Probably ruining their eyesight." + +"Worrying about that is my responsibility," said Piro, clearly +irritated that Thomas had raised the issue in front of his men. + +"Hey, fuck-_s'cuuuuuuse_ me. I'm here on behalf of the boss. He's +trying to mentate down there. Only, the ship's rocking back and forth +too much. Making him nauseous." + +Piro's face didn't change. "Understood." + +Satisfied, Thomas returned belowdecks. + +Piro kicked one of his men in the seat of his uniform. "I said eyes +on the horizon." + + +We were in before Lunsford got back. + +I sat down behind his desk and played around with his knickknacks. +Action figures, mostly. Even one of himself. Though it must be stated +that the depiction was idealized, anatomically enhanced almost beyond +recognition. There were some doodles carved into the arm of his chair, +apparently with a pocket knife. What a barbarian. Inside his desk I +found several unopened packages of Magnum prophylactics. + +He burst through the doorway of his office just as I had one of the +Magnums out and stretched over the barrel of my gun. I suppose it +painted an odd picture for him. _Well, shit,_ I thought, _break time's +over._ + +My first shot punctured the digitally enhanced prophylactic. The +rest of the flexible, translucent material blew away as I carried +forward with renovations to Lunsford's frame. Pieces of the Magnum had +ended up all over the place, and I laughed when I saw that a small +fragment had become stuck to Lunsford's cheek. The debris and flesh +dispersed in their usual fractal pattern as I emptied the rest of my +clip into his face. + +Mission accomplished, then. + +By the time Lunsford had settled to the floor, my interns had +caught up with me. They proceeded to scoop up any and all items of +interest. I fished in Lunsford's pockets for a cigarette and came up +with some off-brand that must have cost even less than what _I_ +normally smoked. I stripped off my necktie and tossed it onto +Lunsford's lifeless chest, chased it with a flick of ash, and then, +with some effort, produced a fair amount of Gray Pop spittle. A +signature, of sorts. We gathered up what we needed from his office and +left the body for housekeeping. + + +Ring, ring. + +"USS DOM DELUISE, your one-stop shop for Redaction Day savings," +Lt. Commander Wetbeard sighed into his mouthpiece. + +"This is Plinth. I'm calling on an outside line because the +intercom in my stateroom is non-functional. I need you to contact Piro +and send him down here for me." + +"I'll get right on top of that, boss," said Wetbeard, straightening +smartly in spite of the fact that no one could see him in his watch +seat. + +A low-flying aircraft became momentarily visible to the percept +team and the ship rolled to starboard. + +"Did you feel that?" + +"Feel what, boss?" + +"Nevermind." + +"I'll send Piro down right away, sir. Anyway, it looks like he +could use a break." + +"Tell him we'll have Thomas steer the team for him, while he's +belowdecks." + +Lt. Commander Wetbeard stared at his phone. While his rank as Lt. +Commander was merely a job title, and not an actual rank in any known +naval organization, he was still conflicted over whether or not to +question the orders of Plinth Mold. It had been some time since +Wetbeard had needed to contemplate the ramifications of any of the +orders that were issued to him. His mind ran several possible +scenarios as he awaited the flash of resolute intent which would +signal that a suitable course of action had been selected. +Accordingly, the two conflicted halves of Lt. Commander Wetbeard +engaged in an extended negotiation, exchanging discreet packets of +information at last-century speeds. As if to unclog the apparent +bottleneck, Plinth Mold severed the uncomfortable silence by at last +continuing to speak. + +"I'm sending him up now," Plinth said, and hung up. + +And with that, Wetbeard's crisis was resolved. + + +In all, fifteen of my team were disqualified from active service +based upon their performance in the Lunsford simulation. + +I began to seriously consider retirement. No, really this time. It +wasn't bad enough that I'd been busted down to mission +pre-visualizations; I had to be roundly insulted by the lackluster +passel of students assigned to me, as well. I fairly _ached_ to commit +government-sanctioned violence against an entrenched detachment of +radical dissidents, or at least to fire a loaded weapon at a +stationary target in a taxpayer-funded firing range. My desires, +however, were irrelevant, owing to my present status at the Farm. +They'd even revoked my weapons certificates so that nothing in my +personal arsenal could be activated or equipped. For now, the weapons +would lay idle, stubbornly refusing to aid in the national defense. +Naturally, I was still responsible for their maintenance. It was a +textbook example of bureaucratic entanglement: an asset simultaneously +existing in two contradictory states, never collapsing, one way or the +other, into coherence. During the first six months of my demotion I +was convinced that soon I'd be slipped a deep-cover assignment which +would exploit my new status as a pseudo-civilian. It would hardly be +the first time I'd enjoyed such an arrangement. But no one ever +contacted me. No such assignment ever materialized. + +Maybe I had missed a cue. + +In truth, there _was_ a given reason for my demotion. I won't go +into detail, but suffice to say that around 1991 it was suddenly +considered bad form to tally a large number of civilian casualties in +the course of a single mission. My superiors had cunningly rewritten +the rule book after I'd already been deployed to the field. Oh, there +were extenuating circumstances, to be sure, but, as with the review +board who oversaw my case, I'm sure you have better things to do with +your time than listen to me complain about how I was sabotaged by the +petty reprisals of middle-management. I'll just say that it was no +coincidence a former student of mine had become my new case officer +shortly before we shipped out, and that the offending mission was my +first under her command. + +_Chrystal Pepsi._ An officer for whom I'd flatly refused to die. + +It's conceivable that she may have sensed my lack of faith in her +abilities. + +Taking a peek at the paperwork and gradually realizing the scenario +I was being slotted into, I was furious. It's unprofessional to admit +this, but I'm certain my feelings toward C. Pepsi affected my +performance during the mission. It's likely that she was cognizant of +my opinions even when she first floated my name to lead the team. +Hence, a typical sort of trap. Her bid to leapfrog my years of +experience by simply removing me from the game board. This was exactly +the kind of thing I had taught her to do to other people. + +And, well, it had worked. + +I missed the Chief. I missed my old life. + +I was used to being a target, but that didn't mean I would just sit +around and do nothing about it, once I found out. + +It was time to reactivate my guns. + + +THE CARRIER + +tags: 1993, chipotle_pope_bags, gravely_cuss, pennis_mold, piro, +plinth_mold, tab2, wetbeard + +"This logo is all wrong," complained Pennis Mold. "You've got to +include the inverted commas, like this." Pennis made a few marks on +the leaf and held up his doctored version of the logo. "Is that so +hard?" + +"It just seems like a bunch of artsy-fartsy _crap,_ to me," said +Chipotle. "It's a stroke book. Why does it have to be high concept?" + +Pennis waved the new logo around, gesturing with authority, which +finally triggered Chipoltle to relent. + +"Okay, all right, I'll give it another pass." + +Each day at the company was a repeat of this same pattern. Pennis +would issue instructions and then there would be friction. By the end +of his fifth year at MASSIVE FICTIONS, Pennis was all but ready to +hang it up. Then, more problems emerged. A general strike had been +called, partway into his latest project, which had resulted in Pennis' +line being reduced to a handful of stroke books and a live streaming +video site that was only accessible from within the Bohemian Grove. + +The publishing business had proven more difficult than he had +anticipated. + +And Pennis didn't even like stroke books. + + +Years ago. + +"Pornstations on," chirped the instructor. + +Gravely and Chipoltle slapped the sides of their pornstations, +whispering behind the buzzing of the blue lights. Their instructor +adjusted the smallpox heart on her cheek and immediately launched into +her morning monologue. At this, Chipoltle activated his stresspants. + +A fact that did not pass unobserved by his classmates. + + +Back in the present. + +"Sir, how long until dinner?" + +"Help me with these potatoes," answered Pennis Mold. + +The two men went to work, removing the polymer wrap from each of a +dozen red potatoes. Pennis was going to wing it. He hoped that Plinth +wouldn't notice he'd bought organic. And from outside the company, to +boot. Pennis decided then and there that Plinth would have to tough it +out. Human food was human food. + + +Many years ago. + +The squad of boys made their way down the corridor. Rounding a +corner, a snatch of audio snagged their attention. "Gravely Cuss, +Chipotle Pope Bags (Low Fat), Pennis Cialis Mold -- report to the +office at your convenience." + +"That means never," laughed Pennis Mold. + +"I think I like the sound of that woman's voice," remarked +Chipotle. + + +Present time, present day. + +The deck of the carrier struggled to remain parallel with the +horizon. As Pennis stumbled onto deck, a group of homeless men pedaled +out on their bicycles, brandishing empty gas cans, demanding spare +change so that they might refuel their stranded automobiles. Seemingly +oblivious to the rolling of the ship's deck, the cyclists converged on +Pennis' position. + +Pennis looked around and wondered where their automobiles could +possibly have broken down. For that matter, how could anyone be +homeless on an aircraft carrier? + +"An aircraft carrier is supposed to have stabilizers," he explained +to the homeless men. "Obviously, ours are not working very well. It's +probably dangerous for you to be riding out here, right now." + +The cyclists eyed each other nervously. Slowly, apprehension +hardened into rage. + +This guy was ignoring their pitch. + + +Pause to consider: + +Pennis was the youngest of the three Mold brothers. To him -- and +to their father -- it seemed he could never quite measure up. This had +made Pennis' life much more difficult than he would have preferred. + +But now he had his own ship. + +The carrier was an old vessel, to be sure. But she was seaworthy, +and Pennis had never regretted his investment. + +He had even made some improvements of his own. + + +"I just can't take it anymore," gasped Pennis Mold, tipping against +the hold and clutching his stomach in a decaying imitation of his +brother's photogenic, sportsmanlike physicality. He dropped the very +important folder of leaves he had just removed from the ship's vault. + +"What, you'd rather head back up top? Relax. We'll rendezvous with +your brother soon." + +"It's not the ship that's making me sick." + +"Maybe you shouldn't have eaten so much of that weird cereal." + +"Paris sent me another case. I wouldn't feel right just throwing it +away." + +Pennis started back towards his quarters. Then reversed course. +Then reversed again. He stared down at his shoes, which promptly faded +into the floor beneath him. He was seeing green circles, spheres, +squares, cubes, words. When he tried to focus on them he found that +nothing came to mind. + + +Piro switched back to optical and then checked again. As with his +other sensor sweeps, the visual pass confirmed that there were no +approaching ships. He glanced over at Thomas and wondered if his visor +would report the same thing. That is, if Thomas were to muster any +interest in scanning the horizon. Piro imported his department's +budget and earmarked an allotment for upgrades to his team's standard +equipment. New visors for all his men. + +"What I'd like is for everyone to be prepared to withdraw at a +moment's notice," stated Plinth. + +"Understood, sir." + +"I don't expect this will take very long. In fact, if not for the +simple pleasures of life at sea, I doubt I would have agreed to this +meeting at all." + +Piro and Thomas both rolled their eyes. + +"We'll be taking the same route back. I intend for us all to derive +some enjoyment from this cruise. Consider it a peculiar sort of +vacation. A paid vacation, obviously." + +"If you don't mind my saying so, boss, the South Atlantic is kind +of an awkward venue for a family dispute," observed Thomas. + +"Thomas, the open seas are essentially the only place left on Earth +where humans may whisper to each other in relative privacy." + +Incredulous looks. That hadn't been true for decades. + +"In any case, this meeting will hardly constitute a debate. We've +long ago settled any differences we might have had between us. +Contrary to what you two have probably surmised, I intend to shake the +man's hand." + +"That's a whole grab bag of intentions you've got there, boss." + +"Hush now, Thomas." + + +"Gentlemen." + +Plinth Mold removed his safety belt and stepped out onto the deck +of the carrier. At his side were his personal chef, an armed guard, +and three of his most trusted attorneys. The chef shuffled nervously, +fingering the weapon concealed within his coat pocket. + +Let's get out of this damned sunlight, thought the chef. + +"Let's get out of this sunlight," suggested Plinth Mold, and all +who were present nodded in agreement. + +Arriving to greet Plinth and his entourage were a coterie of men in +green suits. Vintage microfiber. They pegged Piro immediately as a +fellow specialist and nodded to him, exchanging introductions via +private channel. The conjoined group of men made their way into a +vacant deck elevator and adjusted their postures to accommodate the +cramped space. Presently, the doors swung shut and the mechanism +slowly lowered them into the sub-levels of the carrier. + +Inexplicably, Plinth's attorneys seemed as nervous as the chef. + +The elevator doors slid open again and Plinth took the lead, +navigating a winding series of passageways that finally terminated in +the entrance to an executive conference room. He felt at home on the +carrier, and somehow seemed familiar with its layout. This came as a +mild surprise since he had never previously studied the vessel, nor +had he ever set foot aboard such a craft. On the other hand, it was +sometimes difficult for him to isolate the experiences which had +accumulated throughout his long life. It was certainly possible that +the carrier had, at some point in time, belonged to him or to one of +his holding companies. He was amused because he could not remember, +could not distinguish between whimsy and reality. + +Plinth poured himself a glass of water and replaced the pitcher at +the center of the table. + + +Lt. Commander Wetbeard was the first to spot the lighthouse. He +reached instinctively for his pressure screen, but the board had gone +dead. He fumbled in his shirt and eventually produced his personal +leaf. Shit. It would not power up. + +Without Piro to guide their attention, the percept team was +scrambling on the deck below. + +Thomas finally gave up on aiming at the toilet and resigned himself +to urinating on the floor. + + +GREEN SQUARES + +tags: 1993, interviewer, pennis_mold, plinth_mold, wetbeard + +It was Plinth's turn to evince incredulity. Obviously, there was no +lighthouse at these coordinates, or at any other coordinates in the +general vicinity. The apparent reality of the situation did not mesh +with with common sense. The situation was untenable. + +Plinth employed the use of a vintage chronometer, worn on his +wrist. Presently, he fingered the device as his lawyers booted up +their paperwork. "We're in the middle of the South Atlantic, +Wetbeard," he said. "Please explain." + +"Sir, I don't know where it came from. I looked down, and then I +looked up. From out of nowhere, it was there." + +"Well, what am I paying you for? Steer the ship out of its way." + +"Sir, that's what I've been trying to tell you. I--" + + +"So, after you founded 'MATERIAL', then what?" + +"Plinth was impressed. I'd finally done something right. With his +encouragement, I went ahead and launched TURBO FUCKIN': SENSUAL +MAGAZINE as well as the fringe one, SASQUATCH COLOGNE. Neither of them +lasted long." + +"Hm. What went wrong?" + +"Basically, I went to sleep one night and had a dream that God was +real. I mean, physically _real._ And I was lucky enough to be born as +His incarnation on Earth. I guess what was most difficult about the +whole episode was that I... Well, I actually believed it. I believed +in the dream wholeheartedly." + +"Haha, a foolproof source of information because dreams are so +often known to mirror reality." + +"Exactly. Heh. You know, don't ask me to explain it, but at the +time it seemed rational. Or should I say, intuitive." + +"Ah, I see. That old pratfall. Laid clean by the banana peel of +subjective cognition. I remember a time when I was forced by my +grandfather to drive one of those four-wheeled automobiles. _Mercedes,_ +I believe they were called. I couldn't make sense of the steering +mechanism. No Tetris blocks, as we have today. My grandfather was +livid. He actually punched me in the shoulder! He couldn't believe +that someone my age would have no interest in piloting one of his +antique vehicles. What a laugh, right? I told him to just use his leaf +and order the groceries himself. Of course, by the time all of this +took place he had been blind for thirty years." + +"What can I say. You only know what you know. If you can't trust +your own mind, what can you trust? The tactile leaf interface was +foreign to him; the car, not so much. Your grandfather probably +thought you were an idiot." + +"And I, him. you have to admit that there was no real way he could +have taught me to drive, in his condition. He was not equipped for the +task. Just as in your dream, you conceived that the Green had been +made flesh. Believing yourself, in fact, to be an _incarnation_ of the +Green, despite a complete lack of empirical evidence for your claim. +I'm sure you can see the parallel I'm drawing here. Both of you were +groping for an appropriate set of terms, clawing for a hand-hold in +the cliff-face of ambiguity that immediately blocked your path." + +"Okay, okay, you've got me there. Maybe I wasn't God after all." + +The boat lurched sharply, causing the walls of the mess hall to +reorient violently. The interviewer's laughter seg-faulted into a +vague, restrained panic. + +"I don't like the sound of that." + +"Neither will my brother." + +Silence then, as Pennis rearranged his folders. + +"Tell me again about God's peculiarities with regards to +intellectual property." + +"Oh yes. As God, I briefly refused to interact with humans on the +grounds that one of them might try to sue me... In the event that I +ended up creating something which too closely resembled one of their +fan fictions. Or _prayers,_ as they were known." + +"Never mind the Scriptures, I guess! Was this before or after the +introduction of your DNA-filtering condoms?" + +"Oh, long before. All of this happened before Plinth set me up in +the manufacturing business. This was even before the RODS MAGAZINE +lawsuits. I had yet to piss away my share of our father's fortune. +Plinth was still doing the action figures, partnered with that Swedish +fellow." + +"I wonder if he's going to be happy to see you." + +"He'll make it seem so. You see, I have physical possession of his +Green certificates. And we both know he wants them back." + + +A LARGE ROOM WITH NO LIGHT + +tags: 1993, albert_lunsford, calbert_whimsy, piro, plinth_mold, tab1 + + +_Hello, I'm Calbert Whimsy, Master Of Ethics at POLICY SCHOOL: WHISKEY +TANGO FOXTROT. For twenty-five consecutive generations, the men of my +family have stood watch over your children and their education. +Granted, twenty of those generations were vat-grown, simultaneously, +over the last decade. And yes, we correspond. Ah ha ha ha. I've made a +little joke. It is a pleasure to see you here, you all say. Likewise, +I'm sure._ + + +As you may have guessed, I'm not really Calbert Whimsy. Somehow, +though, they've fitted me in here, floating paralyzed amongst these +sharks. The Families. Their publicists, attorneys, clergy. And now +I've got to give this speech to the _Green Consortium assembled. I've +had better days. + + +_Thirty years ago I entered this profession, not knowing what to +expect._ + + +THE STRAND is a luxury liner, Old British flag and technically +off-limits to agents such as myself. This class of people are not +supposed to be subjected to operational trifles such as political +assassinations and internetwork intrigue. Let's just say I'm off the +clock. The Lunsford affair was a wake-up call nobody wanted to hear. +The collective, meaty fist of the Green aristocracy simply mashed +their alarm clock and rolled over on their 800 thread count sheets. +Hopefully, right into the wet spot. + +Overheard from my place behind the podium: + + +_I'm warning you,_ don't _try to kiss my ass. I mean that. Don't do it. +I'm_ serious, _now. Don't. I_ hate _it when people try to kiss my ass. +Oh, yes, you may kiss_ his _ass as often as you please!_ + + +And: + + +_He said it was life or death. He was pounding against the police +vehicle, just going to town. My man at the dispatch center reported +the machine wouldn't authorize his identoplate. So, no entry to the +back seat. I told him, it must have been a clerical error. Nothing to +be done, you see. I got the impression his partner was irritated, but +he didn't say anything as he drove me away from the rioting crowd of +students. I never found out what became of the officer we left behind._ + + +Raucous laughter, all around. These people are far from funny, but +they don't even know it. + + +_From time to time, an exceptionally gregarious, obviously very +special student will arrive in our class, and vex us all with their +easy brilliance. I know what you're thinking. Each and every one of +you is smiling now, convinced that I'm talking about your child. Well, +I'm not. Ha ha. Let us stipulate that I'm not referring to your +particular little brat._ + + +You might say that this is a bit of a roast. I'm not entirely +comfortable, exposing myself like this on stage. + +But the weak humor is contagious. Someone in the audience gets +clever and plays back the sound of crickets chirping. I squint at the +crowd and realize that it's my support man, apparently trying to blow +his cover. I want to yank on his bolo-tie and force-feed him a handful +of the ship's platinum salad forks. Connecting us directly in this +context is a mistake. But in spite of his gaffe, you simply can't +launch a wetwork operation from aboard THE STRAND without a hype-man. +Since the script is a shambles, we'll be ad-libbing from here on in. + + +Mercifully, I complete my monologue without further interruption +and I'm cleared to leave the stage. I'm not entirely sure what all +I've just said, but the audience seems to more or less approve. My +counterpart will have to sort it out later. I warned him I was no good +in front of an audience. + +I check THE STRAND's operating radius for other ships. This +particular sector of the South Atlantic is out of bounds to commercial +traffic. In fact, at this time of year, THE STRAND is the only ship +permitted to ply its waters at all. But that doesn't mean we're alone +out here. + +I've got to keep an eye out for Piro. + + +Before I know it I've been scooped back up on stage. This time the +lights are dimmed and I can make out the players from the various +fandoms that were listed in the mission brief. I throw in some +targeted references to key episodes of the relevant series. It goes +over very well. + + +_We've heard from a lot of educators tonight! But no one has even +mentioned the litigators! Let's hear it for general counsel!_ + + +This brings on a spate of vigorous cheering and I am once again +whisked offstage. + +Four thespians in black tights approach the boards, each with +brightly colored puppets sewn onto the fronts of their shirts. The +effect, in combination with the carefully controlled lighting, is one +of disembodied cartoon animals who glide back and forth across the +stage, seemingly disconnected from the floor. The performance itself +is protected by copyright. I refer to these creatures as thespians, +but in reality they are _Consortium_ members, plucked at random from +the crowd. An annual tradition with this group, the script, such as +it exists, is familiar, and the audience members _cum_ dancers have +little trouble falling into the routine. Their friends and family are +by this time well and truly soused, voicing their approval at +considerable volume. Monitors throughout the ship pipe the performance +into the corridors, and even into the head. Men are pissing +themselves listening to it. + +I catch myself drumming on the table and immediately shove my hand +back into the pocket of my tuxedo jacket. + +I'm here for a reason. + +Not to participate in the show. + + +On schedule, I spasm wildly and vomit across the lap of my +companion. Over her protestations (etiquette, you see) I am pulled +away from the table and assisted to my cabin. Once alone, I remove my +outer garments and verify that my stresspants boot up at optimum +capacity. Impulsively, I clip the bow-tie from my stage costume onto +my wetsuit, directly under my chin. I regard myself in the mirror and +then squeeze myself out, through the porthole, exiting the cabin +forever. + +The ocean is slick with rain, a flickering black mirror of +half-reflected moonlight. My visor activates as I dip below the +surface, attempting to compensate for the darkness. Short-range sonar +detects no walls, floors or obstructions anywhere nearby. I'm +momentarily blinded in a large room with no light. + +Gradually, my testicles shrink up, triggering my stresspants to +activate. + +At length, mission intel streams to life, glittering into my field +of vision across the back of an enormous gray whale. + +Plinth Mold. + +It is time. + + +1OCT1993 + +tags: 1993, pennis_mold, piro, plinth_mold, tab1, violet + +"That's no whale." + +"Sure it is, sir." + +"No." + +Piro had not yet been informed about the lighthouse. He stood on +the bridge of the carrier and surveyed the scene cautiously, not +rushing to judgment. He took in the particulars of the situation +before venturing forward, hoping to avoid the unhappy possibility of +issuing conflicting orders. Something in him sensed that this was an +unusual situation, one that called for careful handling. His +instincts, he guessed. + +"That cannot be a whale." + +Absorbed in disbelief, Piro realized that his reasoning had not +been made clear to the command team of the carrier. + +"A whale is not green," he explained. + + +"But _Pennis,_ he's _up_ there, _right now!"_ + +"But _Violet,_ I don't _care!"_ + +"Come on now, sir, you'll be okay once we get you up on your feet. +You can't allow a little seasickness to scuttle the whole mission." + +"Negative. I've ruined some of the leaves." + +Pennis Mold tried to wipe off his stack of leaves. The vomit had +made them sticky, clingy. His shirt was also damp. It would take a +while to extricate the devices, one from the other. Luckily, at least, +all of them seemed to be functional. + +"New paradigm. Synergy. I'm staying in bed." + +"Pennis, sir, stand up." + +"No." + +Violet decided to take matters into her own hands. + + +Okay, I'm floating and I'm not-floating at the same time. +Alternating, I should say. Accosted by a whale with arms. Arms that +are, presently, dipping me in and out of the water at an alarming +rate. I'm thinking now that maybe this is not really a whale after +all. + +Before I know it, the scene changes up and I'm being strangled by a +large set of gray fingers. + +I recall that, per my mission rider, I'm equipped with a variety of +specialized tools. I react smoothly, activating reflex algorithms that +in turn select an appropriate utensil for sawing my way out of the +tentacle headlock. As the automated system goes to work, the +not-whale's gripping apparatus gradually begins to loosen its hold. +Perhaps having thought better of snacking on highly trained covert +agents, the not-whale withdraws its remaining tentacles, and I make +the most of a bad situation by allowing the current to drag me the +rest of the way out of its reach. As I'm floating off, I login to my +side-arm and lob a few rounds into its bulging, unblinking eye, +wondering where a foul creature such as this houses its genitals. +Wondering, also, if its genitals are larger, or smaller than, its +brain. + +After inadvertently swallowing a bit of sea water, I discard my +ruined sawing tool and wade towards Plinth's ship, syncing my +chronometer with it's time server. Scrolling, I see that the lead crew +has just finished their lunch. The percept team will be light on men +for another thirty minutes or so, depending on their local union +agreement. + +Hoisting myself up, onto Plinth's ship, I traverse the railing and +immediately drop to the deck, slapping my face against its cold, slick +surface. Sixty seconds later I'm still catching my breath. + +I'm taken slightly off guard, startled, when Piro sets to screaming +in my ear about the impending comms disruption. + +Did I just black out? + + +"Piro to P. Mold, it looks like we're going to have to abort." + +"Nonsense, I'm pro-life." + +The men in the green microfiber suits held their expressions, +ignoring Plinth's attempt at easy humor. + +"I can only guarantee channel integrity for another twenty seconds, +sir. Less, if the enormous green squid off our portside bow chews the +carrier in half." + +Plinth turned to his attorneys. Then he thought better of it and +returned to the men in the microfiber suits, who remained inscrutable +as before. A number of alternatives spun through his mind until he +abruptly halted the evaluation loop, manually copied a single string +of data into his speech buffer. Discarding the false starts, he parted +his lips and began to speak in his customarily assured and controlling +tone, but was interrupted by the unfolding of events. + + +The crashing of a particularly large wave causes me to lose a few +words, but I'm able to follow the gist of the conversation. Piro had +said that the not-whale was, in fact, _green._ Puzzling, as it +certainly doesn't look green to me. + +Jarred by the incongruous data, I'm overcome by a sudden awareness +that I can't remember _ever_ having seen colors outside the overlays in +my visor. Amazingly, I think that I may actually be -- when not +running in enhanced mode, anyway -- color blind. How in the name of +the Green could I never have noticed this? How could this possibly +have been overlooked during the course of my career? + +It boggles, but these are definitely questions best considered +post-mission. After a few quick adjustments, I can now see the squid +in what I will assume is a true-color representation. + +It's spamming _big._ And it's _definitely_ green. + +Color blind. It figures that this is the sort of thing I would have +to discover in the field. + + +A brief interlude of silence, stillness, in contrast to the clatter +that buttressed it on either side. Piro looked around and the quiet +seemed to be coming from the deck, of all places. + +_Directional silence,_ he thought. + +Presently, the ambient audio resumed. A neon, flickering tentacle +appeared above Plinth's ship. Continuing its downward arc, the +tentacle proceeded to slice Lt. Commander Wetbeard's lookout tower +cleanly in half. Comms silence followed, as Piro, instantly refocusing +his display, attempted to mitigate the situation by routing through a +backup transceiver. + +He blinked rapidly as his vision went to bluescreen for a period of +seconds. + +... + +Cognizance returned, Piro began to notice a stream of water on the +windshield that did not abate after each passing sheet of sea mist had +dispersed. The deck of the carrier was sloshing now with... Of course. +He vectored his line of sight vertically from the horizon and +instantly achieved visual confirmation of his suspicions. + +So now there was rain to contend with, in addition to the other +problems. Piro drew his weapon and booted it up as he exited the +bridge of the carrier. He realized, then, that with comms down, he +would be unable to login. It seemed that today, _everything_ would have +to be switched to manual. + +Fortunately, Piro habitually equipped himself with serrated, as +well as network, weaponry. He rotated out the crippled network device +and attached a classical bladed instrument to his right arm. + + +Awake. Floating again, this time on deck. The variable terrain will +complicate movement towards the forward cabin and bridge. It looks +like the ship's taken some damage from the not-whale. Curiously, the +percept team hasn't regrouped to try and correct the course drift. I +wipe the blood out of my eyes and start moving again, forward as +always, towards the target. + +As I make my way past the final civilian stateroom, partial comms +are restored. + +Spam it, Plinth is no longer aboard. He's already transferred to +another ship. + +Intuitively, my gaze shifts to the Cold War era aircraft carrier +that has lately appeared off the starboard bow. + + +Piro located the appropriate elevator and returned to the deck of +the carrier. Splashing through the rain, he approached one of the main +guns from behind and relieved its pilot. Once strapped into the weapon +he bore down on the enormous green squid, focusing his ammunition at +the beast's underside. The dead pilot's body floated away behind him, +his protestations about licensing rendered meaningless by the absence +of conscious volition. + +As if in response to the barrage of weapons fire, the squid +embarked upon a series of awkward physical maneuvers. First, its soft +underbelly appeared to open up, forming an uncertain grin. From out of +this novel orifice, a flood of pink squares that turned into pink +cubes that turned into pink bubbles were loosed upon the deck of the +USS DOM DELUISE. Several forward members of the percept team slipped +and lost their balance, went tumbling to the boards, rolling one over +the other in a visual cacophony of limbs and bodies. Even so, each man +tried to keep his wits about him. + +"It's all pink on the inside," went up the call from the +forward-most man. + +"All pink on the inside!" echoed down the line. + +Piro kept on firing, willing himself not to look away even as he +shifted his aim and emptied the remainder of his ammunition into the +squid's exposed eyeball. Aside from releasing an excessive amount of +smoke into the atmosphere and a troubling amount of black ink into the +water, Piro judged that the ammunition had seemed to achieve little +destructive effect. As he unleashed a brief salvo of explicit +invective, the squid's enormous eyeball blinked, as if to mock his +_merely human_ judgment. + +"But, a squid cannot blink." + +Piro understood then that his words were not going to win the +fight. Even from his heavily vested point of view, he had to +acknowledge that the battle was not going well. Some alternate +strategy must be devised, put into play. + +_So,_ he thought, _What next?_ + + +Alone in the head, it was almost quiet. + +Pennis eased his stick back into his trousers. He watched with some +interest as a milky white bead of his semen broke apart and ran down +the door of his stall. He coughed, weakly. He'd given himself quite a +workout this time; his heartbeat was still audible in his ears. Why +did vomiting always make him so horny? Lost in thought, his eyes +remained glazed over as he pulled up his slacks. + +Exiting the stall, a glimmer of light registered in his peripheral +vision, immediately snapping him out of his reverie. He noticed that +across the counter, one of the Green certificates was blinking. +Fumbling to wash his hands, he shook the moisture off and rushed over +to see what was the matter. A small amount of water transferred from +his fingertips onto the first device, causing a non-permanent +deformation of the imagery that floated along its external boundary. + +After subjecting the leaf to a thorough examination, Pennis moved +on to the next unit from the top of the stack. Then, increasingly +disoriented, to the next. Finally, he doubled back to check his work. +The record presented by the leaves could not possibly be accurate. The +narrative was inconsistent with the facts as Pennis knew them, had +experienced them over the years and decades since he had become aware +of himself as a Mold. + +And yet, the certificates all seemed to be in order. + +It was, quite simply, astonishing. + +Pennis shook his head, and then he shook it again. According to the +evidence laid out before him, his brother, Plinth Mold, was the sole +patent holder and undisputed trademark administrator of _several_ of +the key technologies that had been licensed to develop the +sub-framework of the Green. Possession of these certificates would +radically alter the tone and substance of any future negotiations +between Plinth and the _Green Consortium._ Let's be honest, he thought, +Between Plinth and _anyone, anywhere._ It was a remarkable collection +of documents. + +Pennis attempted, at this point, to deduce what his brother was +really up to. He knew from long experience that seeking to puzzle out +Plinth's actual motives would be an exercise in futility. An obvious +dead end. Instead, he would focus upon the likelihood of various +outcomes, and attempt to discern Plinth's intended destination. +Perhaps predictably, no matter which tangent his speculations +followed, no matter what obscure avenue his suspicions swept down, as +he approached a final, unified model, his concentration would crumble +and he would be left with no theory, no explanation, no articulate +conclusion; only the visceral, irrational certainty that: + +_I want no part in any of Plinth's dubious intellectual property +schemes._ + +He felt that, even in the absence of a convincing rhetorical +argument, his objection would prove appropriate. Call it a gut +instinct, he thought. + +In the end Pennis sensed that, by resisting, he was merely +prolonging the inevitable. For his trouble, Plinth would probably +simply shrug and set him up in a new job. Pat him on the head and tell +him not to take things so seriously. Thanks to their father, the +family still owned the government, no matter what trouble the Mold +brothers found themselves in. + +Pennis resigned himself to chairing yet another board of directors, +to driving yet another thriving, multinational corporation into the +ground. + +He supposed things could be worse. + + +In the midst of all the action, a new thought occurred to Plinth +Mold: + +Why not simply cut his losses and end it all now? + +No sooner had the question formed in his mind than Plinth +understood the notion to have contained its own affirmation. He was +beside himself, amused. Had events honestly progressed to the point +where such a thought could present itself as a question? He realized +the concern was immaterial. + +Plinth fingered his chronometer and marked the date. 1Oct1993. +Later than he had planned, actually. Something had kept the cycle +going this time, well beyond the projections he had laid down in his +youth. Curious... He was surprised to discover that he was no longer +entirely in control of his emotions. Imagery from previous eras +flooded his awareness, overwhelming his ability to track. As the +sensation intensified, he steadied himself against the conference +table. + +This fleeting nausea was troubling. + +He reflected that Piro, Thomas, the attorneys, the chef -- all of +his crew -- would be lost in the transition to follow. In point of +fact, all of humanity would be dropped from memory. No record would +survive. None would need to. + +Except, he thought, for one. + +"I'm pro-life," he said, apropos nothing. + +Plinth's attorneys glanced up at him, arching their eyebrows +professionally. The men in the green microfiber suits had, for the +first time since their introduction, altered their facial expressions. +They were laughing amongst themselves at an obscure joke involving the +manual to Photoshop 3.51. This second group of men betrayed no sign of +having heard what he'd said. + +Plinth Mold gazed at the humans with affection. + +Without further delay, he spoke into his shirtsleeve and killed all +processes of the Eternal September. + + +Bits of Plinth's boat were splayed across the surface of the water. +For some reason, not sinking. Plinth reacted casually to this. He +paddled over to a piece of debris and attached himself such that he +could remain afloat without having to expend further effort. + +Fingering his chronometer, Plinth discovered that comms were still +down. Even long-range channels were unresponsive. He switched to +satellite and got nothing. Inside, his servos were running blind +without network updates. + +So, he'd really done it. + +Plinth continued to float there, alone. + +The sun was up. Redaction Day, again. The real whales had arrived +by now and were beginning to circle the remains of the broken-up +ships. Plinth ignored them and made a few final checks before +accepting the obvious. Humanity, minus one, was gone. His Hard Boot +had taken effect. + +Plinth jettisoned the dead equipment from his makeshift raft and +began to scan the area for signs of life. Eventually, he went into +damage control mode, straightening the front of his shirt and slicking +down his hair. He lit a cigarette and adjusted his eye patch. A whale +crested nearby, displacing, and finally submerging, one of the +scattered islands of refuse. Plinth was starting to get hungry. He +discovered that somewhere along the line, he'd developed a painful +erection. + +Violet, the mother of civilization, should be floating along soon. + + +END BOOK THREE + + +_the saga continues_ + +textadventure.stanleylieber.com + + +_about the author_ + +Stanley Lieber should probably be doing something else.