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