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-1OCT1993

-by Stanley Lieber

-Written 2004-2010

-This book was typeset (troff -ms|lp -dstdout|ps2pdf) in Times by the

-author, using an IBM Thinkpad T43p running the Plan 9 operating system.

-Reprinted with corrections, October 2012

-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.

-MIT/CC0/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 awaythe 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 blendI 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

-aisles 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

-thingsas far as those wrong people were concerned, anywayquiet.

-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 missingand remain missing, above my

-complaintswhich 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 ideawhat with the

-declining birthrates, the continuously falling bombs, the constant

-danger of disfigurement and deathbut 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 commercean aptitude, you

-might sayand 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-upthe waris 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

-situationhe's not yet up to the task of cynical apprehensionbut

-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 toreferred to in the literature, that

-isas 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 perilousthough certainly, at this clinic,

-treatableailment 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 outI knew the last thing the kids needed

-was the added drama of having to wait for me to show up and take my

-lumpsbut 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 requeststructural 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 waythere 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 momentand 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 itselfwhich, presumably, should

-	transcend the language that was used to describe it.

-	This presents an interestingI'd say insurmountableproblem,

-	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

-	courtadministered by his own people, no lessa 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 mythan 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 intellectualsthe 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 storieslies, in

-factthat 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 immediatelyI felt it pull against my stomachbut 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 isand this is as important

-as any other detail you'd care to focus onthe 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

-leverageeven 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 bodythe 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 aisle. 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 pissboth 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 governmentsit 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. <Thomas_>

-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.

-<Rog> Is someone stroking you off over there?

-<Thomas_> That's offensive. And just where the spam have you two been.

-<erikw> 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

-<erikw> 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!

-<Rog> I was in the cafeteria and I heard Sarge talking spam about us

-not getting 20 minute breaks anymore after this quarter

-<erikw> fuck that! argh. that does it, i'm deleting his account on

-webster. no more free zero day for him!

-<Thomas_> Hey guys.

-<Thomas_> 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 centuryit'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 ofcommuned

-withthe 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: <gcajs0+q6lf@groups.thegreen>

-> In-Reply-To: <gc66fj+5ers@groups.thegreen>

-> 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"

-> <nosuchname@residential.thegreen>

-> 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"

->> <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 <samslammer@...> 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.lunsfordA 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 cashI 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 evidenceself-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 knockan abrupt punctuation to his thoughtsand 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

-operationat 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:

-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 quartersI 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 hiswhat 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 ragwhat other rags were even leftwas 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. Petalsfloorswhipped 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 yearsbringing the public state-of-the-art almost up

-to date with that of his own great-grandfather's famous, proprietary

-workbefore emergent plant mimicry was fully integrated into the

-mainstream of public works. While it was true that most citizen

-hovelseven todayevinced 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

-	toysplanesflying 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, andwellit 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-believemade-up

-	nonsensethe 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 redand 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

-	reflexesit seemed that someone had been sleeping in my bed,

-	if you willwhich, 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 aisles. 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,

-feministto 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 andsurprise of all surpriseshe

-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

-aboutsome small percentage of his peers in the industrysee 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 facultiesthat 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 teamfunded by drug moneyto 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 anymorenot 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 switchI

-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 convincedno, 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: 1960, margaret, tab1, tab2, the_chief

-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 necessarythe visor was picking out each recipient quite

-efficiently, on its ownbut 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

-	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 aisle 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 aisle 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 alonethat is, his decision

-was finalbecause 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 linePlinth 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 itI 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

-blankor 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 Moldreport 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 himand to

-their fatherit 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 bewhen not running

-in enhanced mode, anywaycolor 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 chefall of his

-crewwould 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

-addendum

-'CRASH ORIGIN'

-CRASH ORIGIN

-tags: 1987, piro, tab1, tab2

-1

-Le Bourget, Paris, 1987.

-Mid-morning. Overcast. Thomas and Piotr are threading through a crowd

-of spectators.

-"Sunscreen check," announces Piotr.

-"But the sun's not even out," complains Thomas.

-Piotr shoots him a look."Safety first. Next, comfort."

-Thomas produces a small tube of sunscreen from his pocket and proceeds

-to apply it evenly across his nose and cheeks.

-"Satisfied?" he asks.

-"Never," Piotr replies,"But I'm close to spectacular."

-Thomas observes the slight distance between them, then bumps shoulders

-with his twin brother.

-"Not in the field," Thomas says, his thoughts apparently moving

-towards evening.

-My son is never prepared for anything. This is intersubjectively

-testable. Try surprising him. You'll find him unprepared. Example:

-Send a number of military jets crashing into the ground. You'll find

-he can think of no response. Piotr is always pulling clean-up duty.

-This has been the steady pattern, played out over two decades.

-The boy has now turned thirty. The peak of his operational powers.

-Still, he does nothing. Sits there and trades one-liners with his

-partner. No return on investment. My reports frequently exaggerate his

-exploits.

-After all, this all comes out of my budget.

-Sunlight cracks the clouds as the first plane careens into the

-pavement. I steer a brightly painted Mig-29 into the crowd,

-accidentally clipping a building in the process. Debris pelts the

-bystanders below. Probably, eighty or ninety dead. Thomas and Piotr

-are a few hundred yards off, but they enjoy a clear line of sight to

-the carnage.

-Thomas' response?

-Bewilderment, at first. My son stands transfixed. He fingers his

-visor, instinctively, but evinces no other reaction. Not even a change

-in his facial expression.

-Piotr suffers no such paralysis. He shifts contexts with ease, drawing

-his side-arm and sweeping the corridor overhead. When no new danger

-presents itself, he looks towards Tommy.

-Priorities.

-I bring in the next two planes simultaneously. A pair of old RF-4Es.

-Piotr's side-arm is quite naturally useless against the two masses

-traveling at such a velocity. For his part, Thomas remains riveted to

-his spot. Even if his visor is malfunctioning, there is still the

-sound, the smoke from multiple impacts that has surely reached his

-nostrils. Why doesn't he react?

-Piotr grasps him by the back of the shirt and hurls him behind a high

-wall as flames envelop the vacant space beside them.

-2

-This is not how I expected it to happen.

-At the same time, it very much conforms to my vision of the

-destruction. Even if the alarm is ringing six years late.

-The planes are falling.

-Piro is yanking on my shirt, we're diving behind a building. There are

-flames.

-That first plane was Soviet. Seems to be a multilateral engagement.

-The logical result of Glasnost?

-Of course, I'm not harmed. I'm invulnerable. Class 100 strength.

-Flight.

-Piotr's photographic reflexes aren't much use against disintegrating

-architecture, but he has a knack for getting out of the way of large

-objects.

-I punch my way through the wall and barrel face first through the

-smoke. Bodies are splayed everywhere. Horrific smells. Some dead

-children.

-I lift some older citizens away from the fires, then report back to

-Piotr.

-"Something's not right about this, boss."

-Piotr's eyes are focused on some distant point. By the gentle arc of

-his stare I deduce he is tracking a moving object.

-"RIIIIIIIIIGHT FACE!" he cries. Instinctively, I spin ninety degrees

-to my right, just in time for Piotr to give me a hard shove.

-He's shot me in the back.

-I go down.

-3

-He's impossible.

-At least he's toppled over. That one almost got us.

-I give him a hand and then dust off his back. I guess I've ruined his

-shirt.

-He seems to think it's funny, so we're good.

-A lot of activity in the sky, now. Some planes are starting to land

-instead of just crashing into the ground. Notably, a Blackbird and

-what appears to be an F-117A. Strange that the latter should be out

-and about during the day. And at a foreign air show, no less.

-Officially, the plane doesn't even exist.

-A number of jeeps escort the two planes off the runway. A hangar is

-opened up and the parade disappears behind closed doors.

-I motion to Thomas and he confirms.

-We need to investigate.

-4

-What the hell are they doing?

-Thomas and Piotr are inside the hanger. I lost them for a moment but

-then I caught site of my son's ridiculous spiked hair.

-I move a few sentries into an adjacent corridor.

-Then the boys turn left.

-Suddenly, I flash on an idea.

-The boys still haven't made their way out of the administrative

-offices. There is time to move the planes out the other side of the

-hangar. When they finally break through, the hangar will be empty.

-It's simple sleight of hand.

-Obviously, nothing could ever be that easy.

-Piotr picks up on the sounds of activity and they're faster breaching

-the main corridor than I had anticipated.

-I make an executive decision to light up the whole building. The Air

-Force will have to take the loss. These men knew what they were

-signing up for.

-I console myself that this will look great on television. Especially

-with the Soviet plane coming down first.

-All in all, not a total loss.

-5

-When the explosions kick in I know for sure that my father is

-involved.

-I hoist Piotr by his backpack and punch a hole through the roof. We're

-well above the fray by the time the building collapses. Piotr takes

-potshots at the scrambling jeeps.

-The sky seems alive with fighter jets, all converging on our position.

-I fly faster.

-6

-I'm shouting curses in Thomas' ear but at this speed he can't hear me.

-I know he can survive in a vacuum but I hope he remembers I've no

-protection against the cold. In the hopes of surviving our escape, I

-snatch the respirator from my backpack and stick it on my nose. The

-sky is growing dark.

-7

-My son is an idiot.

-IMPRESSIVELY ARTICULATE

-tags: 1989, 1990, christopher, eva_bright,

-john_ratcliff, ken_thompson, piro, tab1, tab2

-1

-The Chrysler Building. New York. 1989.

-New Year's Eve.

-"I'd like to propose a thought experiment for anti-Evolution

-Creationists: Suppose God created the 4-D space/time football six

-thousand years ago."

-"Complete with billions of years of real history?"

-"Exactly."

-"Are you suggesting this would bypass their objections to evolutionary

-theory?"

-"I'm suggesting it would confuse them."

-2

-"Here you are, doing the Devil's work."

-Super-Sonic. John Ratcliff. White Male wearing tattered jeans and a

-gray sweater. Acclaimed poet. Enforcer.

-"The Devil can cite Scripture for his own purpose. I'm merely

-speculating on possible angles of attack."

-The Raven. Christopher. No last name on record. African-American

-vigilante. Black T-shirt with slogan in white News Gothic:

-'Impressively Articulate.'

-"I'd really like to hear what my father would have to say about all

-this."

-Sonic Boom. Ken Thompson. Not that Ken Thompson. Asian-American

-speedster. Green polo shirt. Jeans.

-"You're drowning in rhetoric," John observed."Argumentation is not the

-best weapon against these types."

-"Stipulated," allowed Christopher.

-"You guys are too cynical."

-In unison:"Shut up, Ken."

-3

-"Brothers, please. Decorum."

-Actron. Thomas Bright. White male. Ostensible leader of the Actron

-Team. Blue cotton button down shirt with black silk tie. Thomas

-brushed aside the disturbance and poured himself a glass of water from

-the fridge. Ken popped up the collar of his polo shirt and leaned back

-into his seat.

-"I don't mind, really. My ideas are still forming."

-"Shut up, Ken," said Thomas.

-"Enough of this dick party. We need a woman's opinion. Where's Eva?"

-Christopher pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. He made

-eye contact with John before vacating the room.

-"Nevermore," he rasped, sarcastically, and left.

-4

-"What's his problem?" asked Ken.

-"They're not getting along," said Thomas, stating the obvious.

-"Seriously though," continued John,"Where is she? We were discussing

-this just last week. I know she has something to contribute, but I

-don't want to speak for her. I want to hear her explain it herself."

-Thomas gestured with his glass, spilling a small amount of water onto

-the kitchen floor."I think she's on the phone with Los Angeles."

-5

-"Yeah, let's not tell him I called," Piro wheezed into his mouthpiece,

-still catching his breath."I don't think we need to bother him with

-every detail of the operation."

-"Fine with me. You take care of yourself out there. From what I

-understand, L.A. is starting to..."

-"Yeah, L.A. is."

-Eva clicked her phone shut and crushed her cigarette in the

-retractable ashtray. She wondered when it would be possible to move

-her corporation away from the cocaine trade. Recent developments in

-domestic politics were making it difficult to keep her agents' names

-out of the news. She sighed, then drew the blinds in her office and

-made her way to the kitchen.

-6

-"Why did economists not do a better job of anticipating the crisis?"

-"Tom, it's just not that simple."

-"You always say that."

-"The causal mechanism behind growth and decline is not fully

-understood. All known models are essentially useless."

-"You always say that, too."

-"I don't know what else to tell you."

-"Well, tell me something. Tell me anything. I need answers."

-John rolled his eyes.

-7

-"What are you guys talking about?"

-Eva sat down at the kitchen table and dealt a hand of cards.

-"This and that," said Thomas, picking up his cards and inspecting his

-hand.

-"Christopher was going on about Creationists. Then he got mad and

-left."

-"Shut up, Ken," said Eva.

-Ken fumed silently. John remained silent for an appropriate interval

-and then picked up the dangling thread.

-"Our Chris has an antagonistic bent. I suggested we should hear your

-side of the story. That was too much for him to bear."

-"It's not like I would have defended the Creationists," said Eva."But

-I would have been fair."

-"Exactly," smiled John.

-"Whatever. Christopher is really focused on this issue. I'm sure it

-will come up again."

-"It's inevitable," sighed John.

-"By design," added Ken, and this time no one bothered to correct him.

-8

-Thomas' luck was infuriating to his teammates. He won every hand but

-didn't even understand the game.

-"I'll just take this one out of your paychecks," he said.

-"Your poker record is truly remarkable," started John,"Considering we

-have to remind you of the rules every time we play."

-"What's to remark? The fruits of a superior motivation."

-"Also known as the Will to Power. Tell us, just what lengths are you

-willing to go to in order to achieve your goals?"

-"Not funny. Just a fact. Besides, I've moved on from Nietzsche."

-"There are no facts. And no one moves on from Nietzsche. We've caught

-you before. I suspect you've found a new way to cheat."

-"All right, I feel stupid," admitted Thomas."I don't know what to

-say."

-John relaxed his posture, enjoying the easy victory."I'll give you a

-few seconds to come up with a story."

-"Fuck," said Thomas.

-"All right boys," interrupted Eva, scooping up her playing cards and

-returning them to the deck."Let's keep it PG-13."

-"Mom, he's cheating!" cried John."Punish him!"

-"No, I'm serious. You're all fired," Thomas said, and left the room.

-No one was sure if he was serious.

-"And that settles that," said Ken.

-Eva's phone rang as the clock turned over into 1990.

-She switched off the ringer.

-YOU'VE POSTED THIS BEFORE

-tags: 1990, john_ratcliff, ken_thompson, piro, tab2

-1

-The Chrysler Building. New York. 1990.

-January.

-"You've posted this before."

-"No shit."

-"So why are you posting it again?"

-Piro arched an eyebrow."It's tradition."

-"Seriously?"

-Piro sat at the keyboard clacking away. Simple, declarative sentences.

-Topical assertions.

-"Nobody cares about this stupid newsletter," offered Thomas.

-Piro remained silent. Typing.

-"Nobody's even going to read it."

-Silence.

-"Your spelling sucks."

-Piro flicked on the radio and turned up the volume.

-Thomas grimaced."I hate reading."

-Piro leaned over the mimeograph machine, making small adjustments to

-various knobs and switches while Thomas fidgeted in the doorway.

-"There's literally no way I'm going to help you fold all of those

-things."

-"I don't care."

-"This whole side-project is stupid. You really think the value-added

-is necessary? This stuff sells itself. No'free gift with purchase'

-required."

-Piro stopped what he was doing and turned to face his twin brother.

-"If you're not going to contribute to the newsletter, please go into

-the kitchen and start bagging up rocks."

-Thomas shrugged and wandered out of the room.

-2

-Ken steered the Actron Team's 1978 Lincoln Town Car through the

-streets of Alphabet City. Trash on the sidewalk reflected in the car's

-fresh candy paint. Passing some children, Ken boosted the volume on

-the custom sound system. The children giggled and pointed. He smiled

-and mashed the gas pedal. Shining.

-Destination: The G-Spot.

-Ken rounded the final corner and slowly brought the outsized car to a

-stop. He lowered a tinted window and inspected his immediate

-surroundings. The parking lot was deserted save for two NYPD cruisers

-and a 1979 Chevrolet Monte Carlo (sky blue metal flake, white

-interior, whitewall tires; that would be John). Ken popped the collar

-on his polo shirt and exited the vehicle.

-Inside, the club was all but vacant. Smoke from an abandoned cigarette

-snaked upward towards a light bulb hanging from the ceiling. The two

-police officers were inspecting a briefcase full of cocaine. One of

-them turned around and smiled dumbly, coke caked in his mustache. John

-Ratcliff stood nearby, a duffel bag full of money slung over his

-shoulder. When he saw his partner he frowned and shrugged.

-Ken stood in the entryway and surveyed the empty stage. Strobe lights

-clicked rhythmically, strangely loud in the otherwise silent environs.

-"Where the white women at?" he finally asked.

-The cop with the coke mustache started to giggle, but never finished

-his outburst. Ken activated his super-speed and closed the distance

-between himself and the two officers in a hundred milliseconds flat.

-He slammed the meat of his open hand into the first officer's chin,

-then rolled with the momentum into the second officer's chest,

-following him to the ground. Both cops collapsed, unconscious, Ken

-straightened himself and dusted off his knees.

-"Hmph," he he remarked, unimpressed.

-John hoisted both men from the floor and hung them by their jacket

-collars on coat hooks near the front entrance. Each would see hospital

-time but neither would suffer permanent injury. John tossed the bag

-full of money at Ken and made his way over to the bar to pour himself

-a drink.

-"Tired of this grind."

-"So quit."

-"You're funny."

-Ken sighed.

-"Yeah."

-3

-Outside, some children had wandered into the parking lot and were

-peering inside Jon's Monte Carlo, noses pressed up against the glass.

-"Boy, is that white leather?"

-"Sure is."

-"My brother's car is like this, but his doesn't have leather."

-"Sounds like your brother needs to find himself a better paying job."

-Ken flopped the briefcase full of coke onto the hood of the car.

-"Take this to your brother. If he brings it back in a week, filled

-with money..."

-"We have great health insurance," interrupted John."Dental and vision.

-Also, free car detailing. We'll see what we can do about his vinyl

-seats."

-"Wow, mister! Thanks!"

-John patted the boy on the head and then got into the Monte Carlo and

-peeled out. Ken smoked a cigarette, wandered back to the Lincoln and

-rolled over a beer bottle on his way out of the parking lot. There was

-no damage to the Town Car's bullet-proof tires.

-As soon as the adults were gone the boys pounced on the briefcase,

-numerous hands scooping out coke and heaving it carelessly over their

-shoulders. As it happened, directly into the wind. Some of the powder

-blew back and caught in their teeth and hair. Undeterred by this minor

-annoyance, the boys wiped the backs of their hands across their faces

-and soon discovered the rows of individually wrapped crack rocks that

-lined the bottom of the briefcase. Immediately, they went to work

-removing the wrappers.

-Tossing the pebbles of crack aside, each paper wrapper was inspected

-closely, compared carefully with the others. Soon it became apparent

-that all of the wrappers were identical. Worse, the material was

-immediately recognizable. Not just predictable, but in fact an exact

-duplicate of an issue they had all read before.

-"It's a fucking reprint," said one of the boys.

-He flipped over the wrapper, frantically scanning for the publisher

-information. There, printed in bold Helvetica, was the name of their

-nemesis:

-Massive Fictions. Piotr Bright, Publisher.

-The Chrysler Building.

-NYC.

-One of the boys produced a brick phone from his backpack and put in a

-call to headquarters.

-Calling in for backup.

-YOU ARE NOT A GADGET, HE CLAIMED, VIA CELLPHONE

-tags: 1990, eva_bright, freeway_ricky_ross, jaron_lanier,

-ken_thompson, piro, tab1, tab2

-1

-Dreamed I was a tomcat.

-Trundling along the side of the road, fur matted with dirty snow.

-Searching for illegal narcotics.

-My women were nowhere to be found.

-Which was fine.

-I happened to be armed. As I ambled along, a car sped by and splashed

-sludge in my face. I fired three rounds into its rear-right tire and

-the driver went over an embankment. An excruciating crashing noise

-followed. It rang in my ears.

-I approached the vehicle and emptied the rest of my weapon into the

-driver's chest.

-I found part of a hollowed out cantaloupe and slipped it over my head.

-Cute.

-No one would prosecute a Persian cat.

-2

-"Oh, great."

-"What?"

-"I accidentally saved an image of Spider-Man in my porn folder."

-"So? Move it. Or delete it."

-"But I clicked'Save' without seeing the name of the file."

-"So?"

-"So, how am I supposed to find it? This folder is 5TB. I don't want

-that Spider-Man image to someday be found amongst my archival porn."

-"So, go back and start to save it again and see what the suggested

-filename is. You probably just hit'Enter' when you saved it."

-"That... is a very good idea."

-"I think I once helped your dad with a similar problem."

-3

-Jaron Lanier scooped up a handful of the white powder and inspected it

-closely.

-"This appears to be cocaine."

-"No shit, Lanier," said Piro.

-Lanier peered into his hand, face wrinkled in concentration.

-Piro turned to Thomas."He's always like this."

-"He doesn't get high out of our supply, does he?"

-Piro stopped Thomas before he went any further with that line of

-thought.

-"No. At least, not that I'm aware."

-4

-It turned out that my son had the drugs.

-Nepeta cataria. Fifty grams. I'm certain his intent was to sell.

-I left ten grams with an I.O.U.

-The rest I put in my nose. I then put on dark sunglasses to mask my

-dilated pupils, the visible redness in my eyes.

-A car drove by and its pilot tossed an empty beer can at my head. It

-bounced off the cantaloupe and skittered into the grass by the side of

-the road.

-I peered at the exhaust trail over the top of my sunglasses.

-Then I pulled out my gun.

-5

-It was Ken on the phone.

-"Lanier, I need some help with these verb tenses."

-"Not now, Ken, we're... weighing... the drugs."

-Piro snatched the phone away from him and barked into the mouthpiece.

-"Ken! Not on this phone!"

-He jammed his thumb on the'End' button and then turned back to Lanier.

-"Are you damaged? He can study on his own time!"

-"Sorry, sorry," said Lanier, taking a kilo off of the scales.

-Piro extracted the SIM card from the phone and crushed it in his hand.

-"Card," he said.

-Ricky tossed him a replacement and Piro snapped it into place, booted

-up the phone. He dialed New York.

-"Eva, patch me through to Nicaragua."

-Some moments passed and then Piro began shouting into the mouthpiece

-in gutter Spanish. He rung off and handed the phone back to Lanier.

-"Don't lose that."

-Thomas finished with his baggies and then dusted off his hands.

-"Ken's obsession with Japanese culture is becoming a problem. He can't

-keep his mind on his work. Someone needs to ship him back to Japan."

-Piro rolled his eyes. Not for the first time that day.

-"His parents don't want him back. At least not until he learns to

-speak Japanese."

-"Huh. That seems unlikely to happen. Couldn't we just do fansubs for

-them?"

-The men all shared a laugh and then got back to work.

-6

-Ken unpaused and then re-paused the DVD.

-He was at an impasse. The episode of DOUBLE CATS was only a quarter of

-the way through, but he was having trouble understanding the dialogue.

-Finally, he had given up and called Lanier for help.

-He was supposed to be translating these episodes for the torrent site.

-How could he admit that as a native Japanese, he couldn't even speak

-his own language?

-His mind raced. Activating his super-speed, he cleaned up his

-apartment and did the dishes in just under four seconds, moving so

-fast he knocked over a bookshelf and had to re-shelve the books. This

-added another two seconds to the tally. He started a pot of spaghetti

-noodles boiling and took some wine out of the refrigerator. Another

-half-second.

-The impending public humiliation would surely kill him.

-Unexpectedly, the phone rang.

-"Ken."

-It was Lanier.

-"I can't stay on here long, but let hear some of the phrases and I'll

-give you some quick translations."

-"All right, the cat is wearing a cantaloupe on its head, it just

-pulled out a gun and shot out the tires of a car. The car went into a

-ditch and crashed. Now the cat is smoking a cigarette and putting on a

-pair of sunglasses. The cat says: Baka."

-Lanier paused before answering.

-"What... What exactly are we translating here?"

-"It's an anime. I'm supposed to be doing fansubs. I committed to the

-first six episodes by tonight."

-"That's a lot of work, Ken. You're not a gadget, you know."

-"Yeah, but geeze, shouldn't I at least be able to handle this? I

-didn't even start learning English until I was six years old. How

-could I have completely forgotten my own language?"

-"Uh, I've gotta go."

-Lanier hung up.

-7

-"What are you doing? Give me the phone."

-Piro took the cellphone and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He pushed

-Lanier out of the way and then locked the door to the kitchen.

-"Thomas. Set the timers. We need a good twenty minutes to get out of

-the neighborhood."

-Thomas set all the detonators and the team evacuated the little house.

-"Maybe I should call dad," he said, once he had finished loading up

-his gear.

-"Why?"

-"He might have some good ideas about how to..." Now it was Thomas'

-turn to roll his eyes."Oh, never mind."

-The men climbed into their white van and pulled away from the safe

-house. As the vehicle accelerated into traffic, Lanier began to

-scribble in his notebook.

-Piro gestured towards him, frowning.

-"I don't want this guy coming along with us next time."

-"What did I do," Lanier protested.

-"Shut up," the rest of the men said in unison.

-"This is a business," Piro began."There's not time for dicking around

-with language studies and sketching portraits."

-Thomas pretended to ignore the scene from behind his visor. He brought

-up some sports scores and wondered at the meticulous pointlessness of

-the statistics industry.

-"Huh. It looks like the Bears have taken the Super Bowl."

-The van hit a bump and for a split second Thomas' visor slid up and

-exposed his face.

-"Oh God, what's wrong with his eyes?" asked Lanier.

-Thomas stuck out his tongue and went back to scanning the news.

-SENSE OF DEBT

-tags: 1954, 1990, coco_schwab, david_bowie, piro, ragnarok, tab2

-1

-November, 1954.

-Bowie picked up the envelope and ran his finger along its edge,

-holding it in his hand for a moment of silent admiration before

-tearing it open with his fingernail and devouring its contents.

-But inside was an actual piece of correspondence.

-He slammed the door to his dressing room and sulked in his chair. This

-was unconscionable.

-The note was from his mother.

-	Dear Son,

-it read.

-	I have received another notice from your creditors.  This

-	cannot go on.  I am going to give them your address.  If you

-	do not write to them, I'm going to suggest that they call the

-	police.  There is nothing more I can do for you.  I will not

-	pay off another one of your debts.  If that means that you go

-	to jail, then so be it.

-	Love, Mom

-Bowie crumpled the note and tossed it on his makeup table. He opened a

-bottle of water and poured it on the carpet, tracing an occult symbol

-that was only present in his mind.

-The bitch! I have overhead!

-A quiet knock came at the door. Then another, somewhat louder.

-He straightened, all trace of disquiet drained from his face.

-Time to take the stage.

-2

-Piro and Thomas hopped into the RAGNAROK and strapped on their

-seatbelts. The engine warbled softly as Thomas adjusted his data

-gloves.

-"What's the difference between a raven and a writing desk?" asked

-Thomas, gesturing through a cloud of invisible information.

-"By weight?" asked the other.

-"Sure."

-"I'd say bout fifty kilos."

-"Sounds about right," agreed Thomas, scribbling in his palm."Anyway,

-we ought to go further back and try to sell some of this stuff to all

-those 19th century artsy types who were hooked on heroine. Can you

-imagine?"

-"No, I can't," said Piro.

-"Aw, come on."

-Ignoring his twin brother, Piro accelerated smoothly into the clouds

-above New York City.

-Lately, Thomas was spending far too much of his free time reading

-children's literature.

-3

-Bowie stomped through the concert, affecting strange poses. Back in

-his dressing room, he unwadded the note from his mother and then

-wadded it back up again, lit it on fire with his cigarette lighter.

-Coco rushed over and doused the flames with a tumbler of scotch.

-Which didn't help at all.

-Bowie stripped off his Puerto Rican jacket and patted out the fire. He

-was careful of his shoes.

-"That was incredibly stupid," he said, icily."Now I've ruined my

-shoulder pads. What were you thinking about?"

-"Reflex," was all she could offer in reply.

-Changing tacks, Bowie started digging around in her purse.

-"You've got so much crap in here. Where's the coke?"

-"We're out."

-"What," he growled, turning back towards her, baring his teeth. The

-cigarette fell out of his mouth and landed on the carpet. Coco ran

-over and crushed it with her heel.

-She was out of scotch.

-Bowie also noticed that she had retrieved a baggy from a hidden

-compartment in her brassiere.

-"Only kidding," she said, waving it towards his face.

-Bowie snatched the baggy and sat back down in his chair. Engrossed.

-"We can't have any more of these close calls," he sighed, and dove in.

-4

-Piro piloted the RAGNAROK towards 1954.

-Thomas was dozing. Noticing this, Piro took the opportunity to put on

-some soft music.

-Suddenly, Thomas started awake. He shot forward and Piro heard a loud

-thump. He looked over and Thomas had hit his forehead on the

-dashboard.

-"WHAT! IS! THIS! CRAP!" he shouted. Piro couldn't be certain whether

-he was reacting to the noise or to the pain.

-"Bowie.'Golden Years.'"

-"You're one of those people who listens to every album by an artist

-while you're driving to see them in concert, aren't you."

-Piro remained silent. Piloting.

-"Plus, your chronology is off. In 1954, he hasn't even written this

-song yet."

-Piro reached for the dash and ejected the cassette.

-"Fine. See? I'm putting it away."

-5

-Coco had come up with a new supplier. She was on the phone with them

-now. Bowie stared nervously at her hands as she wound the phone cord

-around her finger. A knock came at the door while she was still

-talking. Now she was chewing on her pencil. She didn't seem to hear.

-Bowie glanced at the door, and then back at Coco.

-Oblivious, she kept on talking.

-Bowie coughed, quietly. His eyes were pleading with her to hear, to do

-something. Of course, he couldn't say anything. It was not his place

-to answer the door. Sweat running down his neck, he kicked over a

-chair. Then tried to look composed.

-The knock came again.

-This time, Coco noticed the disturbance. She picked up the phone and

-started towards the door.

-Bowie fell back in his chair. A wave of relief swept over his sunken

-features.

-He lit a cigarette.

-6

-Piro pulled out his flip-phone and dialed the new customers.

-"I'll just make sure they're ready for us," he whispered.

-Piro talked for ten minutes. It seemed like an endless amount of

-chitchat. Thomas had no patience for customer relations, but Piro

-seemed to relish any opportunity to interact with a client.

-And this woman.

-Was Thomas actually jealous?

-He booted up his gun.

-Now Piro was knocking on the door. Why? Just tell her we're here.

-Hm. No answer from the marks.

-7

-Just as Coco turned the door handle, both of the doors blew violently

-inward, completely off of their hinges. Coco was thrown to the ground.

-Fortunately for her, the Bakelite telephone took the worst of it.

-Bowie stared in paralyzed horror at the shattered pieces of plastic on

-the floor. He was transfixed. There was something familiar here.

-Something about the pattern of debris... Abruptly, he snapped out of

-it. This was how it always was with him, he observed. One second in

-dreamland and the next fully focused.

-"Coco. Take dictation."

-"Rrrrm..." she moaned.

-"Get up," he insisted.

-Piro and Thomas entered, weapons drawn, targeting both adult humans

-with practiced efficiency.

-Bowie ignored them.

-"When the phone broke, I looked down at the carpet. The cracked

-plastic formed a picture. I saw the letters: s, h, n, z, n."

-Coco maintained her expression. It would take more than an explosion

-and a broken telephone to rattle her.

-"It's Shenzhen, China."

-"What?" asked Thomas.

-I see, Coco said with her eyes."Real estate or commodities?"

-"Real estate. Get Tony on the phone. We'll grab as much as we can,

-now, while it's still available. Sort it out later. I've got a good

-feeling about this one."

-"How much do we spend?"

-Bowie was rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, loosening his necktie.

-He snorted conspicuously and answered quickly.

-"All of it."

-8

-"I don't know, Mr. Bowie, it seems rather unorthodox to sign your

-mother's name to a cocaine bill."

-"She's my business partner. And we're going to need plenty of marching

-powder for the new venture."

-Coco arranged the paperwork on the table as Bowie signed his mother's

-name at the bottom of each page. She reached over and smoothed down

-his eyebrow as he worked.

-Thomas was smiling.

-Piro decided it didn't matter."I guess it will have to do."

-Bowie suddenly looked concerned."Are you sure you won't have any

-problems filling the standing order?"

-Thomas motioned with his thumb.

-"You wouldn't believe how much of this stuff we have back in the

-ship."

-At this, Piro decided to interject.

-"So long as you can come up with the money, there is literally an

-unlimited supply."

-Bowie looked please with himself. His yellow teeth shined a skeleton

-grin.

-"Friends. I think this is going to work out just fine."

-BIG PANTIES

-tags: 1991, 4086, christopher, eva_bright, ken_thompson,

-maude_mold, piro, plinth_mold, tab2

-1

-May, 1991.

-These memories simulate a very dark period in my life.

-2

-I had dumped an awful lot of money into Next Computer.

-For obvious reasons, this troubled the King.

-"Maryland Procurement Office," I would remind."We're just shoring up

-inventory."

-"It's easier to buy a judge than to ask for permission," the King

-would retort.

-Whatever that was supposed to mean.

-"Perot is our man. Remember who works for whom."

-But the King did in fact hold the purse strings. At least in this

-decade. I looked forward to a time when the man could be properly

-disposed of. Driven from the enterprise.

-At this rate, he would snort his way through our operating capital in

-a matter of weeks.

-3

-I grew weary of kings. After a short period of deliberation I disabled

-comms with 4086. It was an obvious measure too long delayed.

-4

-Christopher threw down his leaf in disgust.

-"This book is crap," he said.

-Ken checked the flashing index. BLACK GANGSTER, by Donald Goines.

-"So, what's so bad about it?" he asked.

-"Nothing. If you've never committed a crime in your life, and you

-don't know the difference between gorilla pimping and"

-"I don't know, I read it when I was a teenager. It seemed realistic

-enough to me."

-Christopher rolled his eyes until it hurt and snapped a new clip into

-his pistol. He decided to change the subject.

-"You got the crack?"

-"I don't know, Chris, I'm not so sure I can trust your judgment

-anymore. I'm starting to wonder if your political views are having an

-influence on your"

-Christopher pulled down his ski-mask and turned off his phone. He

-walked over and poked Ken directly in the chest.

-"I don't give a fuck who you think you can trust. Stop whining and get

-in the van."

-The two men took their places in the vehicle.

-"I'm in like Flynn," said Ken.

-Christopher punched Ken in the neck.

-"Put on your seat belt."

-5

-My organization ran with a minimum of friction.

-Piro handled operations. Eva ran comms. Thomas... mostly stocked

-shelves.

-I took notes.

-In this way, the years advanced, unrolling like paper tape from under

-one of my old shirts.

-I liked to stay hands-off. There could be no benefit to my constantly

-butting heads with the lower-level management. Besides, Piro was

-reasonably competent.

-We didn't fraternize, on the whole.

-My wife was a different story. She simply couldn't follow the program.

-I discovered her trail more than once.

-Unacceptable sloppiness. This was a business.

-In November, 1991, with some regret, I disabled her power source.

-6

-"Instead of improvements, we got features."

-"These panties are huge."

-"Just put them on."

-Christopher pulled into the driveway and withdrew his key from the

-ignition. He looked over at Ken and wondered how the man had ever

-passed a cursory background check.

-Christopher adjusted his costume panties.

-Without warning, the windshield exploded inward.

-Plinth Mold's hand extended well beyond its normal range, traversing

-the length of the van's hood and grasping Christopher's flack jacket.

-His other hand slithered into the cabin and found purchase around

-Ken's throat.

-Plinth yanked both men from the vehicle, trailing bits of shatterproof

-glass. He deposited them both onto the sidewalk.

-7

-"Boss! What are you doing here?"

-Plinth tapped Ken's face to the ground. The smaller man writhed

-mindlessly, firearm forgotten, oversized panties gathered around his

-ankles.

-Plinth examined the situation. It was a stuck process. Too late for

-circumcision, but too soon for canonization.

-And yet, he couldn't fire these men. Not exactly.

-"Why are you both wearing giant panties?"

-The two characters represented a significant investment of system

-resources. Several proven quantities from the writing pool had been

-used up, filling in their histories. It was likely that, once

-terminated, the processes would not even relinquish the memory that

-had already been consumed.

-"It's our body armor, boss."

-It was not the answer Plinth had wanted to hear.

-Never mind. He resolved to make yet more adjustments to the running

-system.

-He dialed the Chrysler Building and patched himself through to Piro.

-8

-The incompetence...

-It wouldn't have been fair to blame them, but still I couldn't look at

-their faces. Could I see myself in this?

-Never mind. I resolved to make yet more adjustments to the running

-system. Not premature optimization, but triage. The machine hadn't yet

-crashed, but experience had taught me to expect more trouble.

-Perhaps humorously, I still thought it possible to prevent a

-catastrophe.

-I dialed the Chrysler Building and patched myself through to Piro.

-9

-Plinth's wallet had deactivated itself due to suspicious activity. The

-King had emptied the last of the corporate accounts. As a result, it

-took more than two years to hup the errant processes. With his other

-resources tied up in acquisitions, Plinth simply couldn't afford the

-man hours needed to affect the required changes.

-In the end, as he suspected, the corrupted system memory was not freed

-when the processes restarted.

-Programs continued to hang. The big panties should have been a clear

-warning sign, but this was a realization that came little, too late.

-Eventually, the entire system bogged down.

-Plinth couldn't log out.

-10

-Fuck it, I'll reboot.

-11

-Years ago, the plane jerked.

-FINAL REPORT OF TEAM 34

-tags: 1991, 1994, federal_grants, nana_mold,

-paris_mold, piro, plinth_mold, shit_mold, tab2, violet

-1

-August, 1994.

-Team 34, initial report.

-As dictated by Captain Paris Mold.

-Tear down. Clean up. Soft seductions.

-We're always called in on the quiet jobs. The ones with a lot of work

-to be done, preferably without a lot of noise.

-I have to admit, the world is a pretty big mess.

-My team is competent. We pack light, so we can cover a lot of ground

-in a short period of time.

-Reputation. Dependability.

-We don't deal in names, but we're well known to the people that

-matter.

-We do okay.

-2

-I task three assets to the South Pacific. One to the Chrysler

-Building. I don't trust anyone but myself with Plinth.

-Violet continues to elude us.

-We've laid down some perimeter product placement, biding our time.

-Nothing is coming up. It's difficult to predict emerging demographics,

-the interactions of different products. And Violet is a professional.

-Humans melt in her hands.

-I decide to call my mother.

-3

-"Barfight! Dipstick! Bricoloage! Go! Go! Go!"

-Mother screams at my men through her mouthpiece. They aren't used to

-hearing her shouting on the wire.

-"Nana! Where the hell have you been? We're on overtime!"

-A firefight is underway. Clearing old signage means engaging Plinth's

-aerosol defenses. We're prepared, but understaffed.

-"Keep formation, boys! I'm losing your signal!"

-At least Plinth is alone in this fight. We were careful to remove old

-man Jerrymander from the board, decades prior to the meltdown.

-For her part, Mother keeps a tight handle on the Mold family backups.

-4

-February, 1991.

-Federal Grants straightens his paperwork and peers deeply into Plinth

-Mold's single working eye.

-There is a subtle click and Mold's head inclines towards Grants. The

-gesture is all but imperceptible.

-"Why don't you tell me about your childhood."

-Dust plays in the sunlight streaming in through the library window.

-"Have you ever read a book called THE INDIAN IN THE CUPBOARD?" asks

-Plinth."A children's piece. Published around 1960."

-Fed stifles a guffaw."Please. I don't read kiddie trash. I've never

-even heard of it."

-"My brother Pennis and Iwe published that book."

-Immediately, Grants realizes his tactical error."II'm sorry."

-"It was a thinly veiled retelling of the origin of our family."

-This is no good. Grants panics, leaps from his seat."Sir, I"

-"I think we're finished here."

-Plinth rises, exits.

-5

-PLINTH'S LOG

-524780 SECONDS FROM THE EPOCH

-With the last hard boot less than a year in the past, the world is

-already growing crowded. Mostly with clean-up crews. I assume my

-brother Paris is amongst the rabble.

-There are many starting conditions to seed.

-Mother called, earlier today. Clean-up proceeds apace. Paris is

-amongst the rabble, but Violet remains hidden. I've asked her not to

-reveal my whereabouts, either, for the time being.

-I've also reinstated the Crown. And the Crown has renewed my funding.

-I'm thinking about re-spawning Thomas and Piro. They might amuse me in

-this new world.

-And, that's about it. For this month. More after the new year.

-6

-January, 1995.

-Team 34, final report.

-As dictated by Captain Paris Mold.

-Product placement has been completed. Rulesets have been configured.

-Once customers start populating the layouts, later this year, we

-should start to see good numbers. I think we can handle the traffic.

-We've decided to go with a variation on the initial predilections from

-the last iteration. Non-standard prejudices. These first new customers

-will find themselves inexplicably drawn towards the Asiatic races and

-the flickering of camp fires. There is some debate over whether or not

-a fascination with fire will hamper their survival rate. Will they

-fuck themselves to death before they even get a chance to starve? Will

-the flames and their genitals mix favorably?

-Ha, that's the test, isn't it?

-Still no sign of Violet.

-Or my brothers.

-Mother has gone quiet.

-Ping.

-END CRASH ORIGIN

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