Forthcoming 3-parter.

At this stage, all you really need to know is that it's called Dawn of the Isolationist, it has a spot-on, modern setting with two highly visible lead characters (one male, one female), a 'hidden' third character at the direct centre of the mystery, and I've broken the story up into three (fairly) equal parts for purely structural reasons.  It also references (in no particular order) the work of H. G. Wells, Brian Aldiss, George Orwell, Dennis Wheatley, John Fowles, Michael Moorcock, and a few others.  I've been working on it, on and off, since about November last year, and it's almost ready to go public.  Almost.

My only hesitation, and it's nothing really, is that - for a while, there - I thought I might be able to capitalise upon a few major changes in British television personnel, and slip this one past the gatekeepers.  But that really wouldn't do, and I'm actually happier to release it this way.

So, that's what's coming here next.  The first part should be with you before the end of this week.

Thanks for keeping the faith...

Nature abhors a vacuum. Silly old judgemental Nature, eh?

Fear not, there will be something of more substance here fairly soon (largely concerning a crippled ex-adventurer troubled by dreams which may not be his own...oooh) but, in the meantime, I've been savaging a couple of terrible (and slightly disturbing) television advertisements.  You can read my commentary on 'em at the following YouTube links:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JMATJ5J5NTQ  and https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iTe8iux86E4 (that one's the real offender, since Victoria isn't merely stupid, she's potentially dangerous as well).

Keep the peace, eh?

Selling The Pitch - The Return of Castor Farnum

[Editor's note:  Part of this entry first appeared in a post entitled "Disparity Flinch", originally intended for publication on the 1st of January this year, but relegated to the Drafts folder upon anguished reconsideration.  The parts detailing a short story written in 1984 about a homicidal Santa Claus were eventually deemed far too outré in light of what happened in Istanbul, and the jokes really weren't good enough.  A slightly jaundiced critique of House of Fraser's Christmas television advertising campaign in the UK, however, has been salvaged, and is included here for the sake of convenience, given that the world is currently lurching in and out of accidental post-modernism, although no one worth their salt would ever want to call it that.  We now inhabit a Trumpian universe.  Deal with it as best you can.  Some dialogue in "Disparity Flinch" about manga, animé, hentai, and footnotes might turn up elsewhere at some point, if only because "tentacled madness" makes me smile almost as much as "abject historicity".  Okay.  On with the show.]

There's a darkness coming.  Some people think it's already here, but they tend to focus on shadows as a matter of course.  Ultimately, the substance will always be scarier.  Solide terribilis...

     "You're late," Duncan pulled the chair out for his father.  "But no stick?"
     "No stick.  I'm limping nakedly for a thrill."
     "Well, that's going to haunt me for a while.  Thanks."
     "Have you ordered?"
     "Of course not."  Duncan frowned at the older man.  "If I had any telepathic ability whatsoever I certainly wouldn't waste the gift on second-guessing your menu choices."
     "Interesting.  I'm glad your values even apply to hypothetical discharges."
     "Are you being deliberately disgusting, or is this some new accidental aberration?"
     "Now, I know you've read my treatise on Hegel and disproportionate reader emphasis, because at the time you sent me about twenty pages of notes."  He smiled at his son and reached for a menu.  "I particularly liked that stuff about Deepak Chopra, and redefining accidents as causal imperatives."  Duncan rolled his eyes.
     "Christ, they were the early days of e-mail, weren't they?  I'd forgotten about that.  I was at..."
     "UCL.  Weren't you in that basement flat then?"
     "No, fifth floor at International Hall."  Duncan shivered.  "Campylobacter bloody enteritis.  That's when I moved out."
     "Of course.  Great chat for a restaurant, by the way.  Ah, Cajun pork loin medallions and wholegrain mustard pommes frites with salsa dressing.  Perfect.  You know, they have a really lovely Sancerre Blanc here, too.  It's hardly traditional as an accompaniment, but..."
     "It'll offset all the spices.  I get it.  Sold."
     Castor Farnum turned and nodded at the waiter.  Duncan slid his own menu across the table, unread.
     "There are two massive, improbably confused elephants sitting in this room, Dad."
     "Ah, I sense a metaphor arriving.  Should I grip the table?"
     Duncan fished his smartphone out of his pocket.
     "Anything for dramatic effect, eh?  No, you can skip the theatrics.  But I need to tell you something.  Unlike you, I am on Twitter, and I've got a blog."
     "I hope you're not expecting me to feign surprise."
     "Hardly.  But here's the thing.  Yes, I wrote up our last encounter.  Sort of.  And I did a bit of a number on the punchline."
     The older man looked surprised.
     "There was a punchline?"
     "Don't...do that.  It's all too...Roger Moore as the Saint.  I'm half-expecting a white halo to appear above your head if anyone says your name out loud.  Christ, you even do the eyebrow thing.  It's embarrassing."
     "Blame genetics.  And look forward to your own Simon Templar moments to come."
     "You see, I knew you'd get the reference.  And not just because I grew up in a house with all the books, and then the videotapes, and Sunday nights spent watching Ian Ogilvy driving his Jaguar XJS around Europe.  Little wonder my Mondays at school were hell after all that...subliminal brainwashing."
     "You know," said Castor, leaning forward in his chair, "The Roger Moore thing was really down to your mother, and all those days off school.  ITV used to repeat the series in the mornings, just after Pipkins as I recall."
     "How would you know that?"
     "I do my research."
     "Of course you do.  And that's really the thing, isn't it?  Do you know what happened after I blogged about your...incident on the bus?"  Duncan scrolled through entries on his 'phone and turned it around to show his father the screen.  "It started trending.  No apostrophe, sure, but 'Reproduction Isn't Compulsory' is right there, look."
     "I find the lack of an apostrophe...disturbing."
     "Really?  Star Wars?  You know I've still got the gatefold sleeve soundtrack of the first film on vinyl with the massive poster, right?  God knows how much that's worth now..."
     "I'm sure you could look it up."
     "Yeah, like I'd ever sell it."  Duncan returned his 'phone to his pocket and sat back, exasperated at something he'd have a hard time defining, let alone resolving.  Whilst they waited for their lunches, Castor stared out of the window, finally deciding to broach the subject when the waiter brought the wine, as previously arranged.
     "So, one elephant stunned, if not incapacitated.  His or her compadre may be expecting some similar treatment by now."
     "They're definitely related," sighed Duncan, taking a sip of his wine.  "All right, I took a chance, and Mel warned me that I was being an idiot..."
     "Mel?"
     "Yes, Mel.  My girlfriend, remember?"
     "Actually, no.  I'm sorry, but it's hard to keep up with you on that score.  I mean, that...matter."
     "Great save.  Much against my better judgement, I invited you over to ours at Christmas."
     "She's moved in?"
     Duncan frowned.
     "You really don't remember?"
     "Lately I've been living in the past and the future.  It makes the present just that much more...indefinable.  Bradford Skow is your man for this stuff, by the way.  Block universe, eternalism, and all that jazz.  Suffice to say that I really wasn't around for Christmas.  Sorry."
     "No kidding."
     "The adverts alone were enough to drive me back to Pontoise.  Wanting to inform House of Fraser that their Christmas TV advertising failed because they never actually told people what they sell represents another unreliable endstop in the circuitry of general frustration.  All that silly dancing, and banging on a table, for what?  Sure, the dancers were holding boxes - but what's in them?  Nice tune, definitely, but if there isn't a House of Fraser store on your high street you'd be hard put to recognise anything in the adverts that you might want to buy.  Cutlery?  Wrapping paper? Er...  They're wearing clothes - they're not naked.  Is that a clue?  No prices quoted, and the camera doesn't stop moving long enough for anyone to actually see anything properly, so that's just a red herring and a half.  The arrogance may be implied, but it's circumstantially significant when a casual viewer of an advertisement is left clueless about its actual purpose.  Ultimately, for the uninitiated, it has about as much value and use as a random dream."
     Duncan stared at him as the food arrived.
     "I really need to talk to you about random dreams some time."
     "If you think it will help."
     "I don't, but that won't necessarily stop me."
     Castor Farnum saluted with his fork.
     "Always glad to hear that."


Castor Farnum will return, more coherent than ever...

  

    

The Coherence of Castor Farnum

Horror vacui?  No.  If Nature truly abhors a vacuum, then we can only conclude that it has questionable taste.  In hoc casu significado...

     "I think you've found the only coffee shop in Bayswater that actually looks and smells like one in Amsterdam."  Duncan wrinkled his nose disapprovingly and joined the older man sitting in the corner window seat.
     "For a moment I thought you were actually going to say it."
     "Say what?"
     "Something along the lines of...do you come here often?"
     "God, no."  Duncan shifted uncomfortably.  "You're joking, right?"
     "Nearly always."
     "Look," said Duncan, "I know there are protocols for this sort of thing, but you've been virtually invisible for over a year, and to say that I wasn't expecting your call would be putting it mildly.  By the way, you don't do social media do you?"
     "You checked?"
     "I had to.  Don't feel flattered."
     "Of course.  But no, there's absolutely no point in my adding to the cacophony of trivial drivel out there."
     Duncan frowned.
     "Is that how you see it?"
     "Oh dear, have I caused offence?  That seems to be happening more and more these days.  My apologies."
     "Not at all.  It's just somewhat...out-of-step, shall we say?"
     "Ah yes, I understand.  And I received a sharp lesson in my apparent dissonance with modern humanity on the bus this morning."
     "Really?  What happened?"
     "Well," he held up his walking stick, "This latest accessory isn't mere affectation I'm afraid, and I was sitting in one of those single seats for people with reduced mobility at the front when a young woman got on with a pushchair, oh and another two children in tow."
     "Right.  And?"
     "And, for some reason, she was shooting me evil looks as she rammed her pushchair into the wheelchair space.  Quite intense it was.  Sustained, like a sort of challenge.  Not entirely sure what her expectations might've been, but some sort of reassuring, advisory response seemed justified."
     Duncan stared up at him from behind the menu.
     "You said something to her?"
     "I did."
     "Something reassuring and...advisory?"
     "Well, I thought so, but it elicited gasps and rather a deal of tutting from my fellow passengers.  Perhaps, in retrospect, it was lacking the sentimentality more commonly accorded the subject."
     "Okay," sighed Duncan, visibly preparing himself for the worst, "What did you say?"
     The older man sipped his fruit tea.
     "Dad?  What did you say to her?"
     The twinkle in his eye was unmistakeable as he replied.
     "Reproduction isn't compulsory."


Castor Farnum will return, more coherent than ever...

Tempus Clausuris (14)

Part Fourteen:  In a world full of people only some want to fly.


Dikas was standing over her, the cold compress in his hand.
     "How are you feeling?" he asked.
     "I'm not sure," said Sara, trying to take in her surroundings.  "Something happened?"
     "It did," he nodded.  "You passed out.  You've actually been out for a while."
     She leant up, instantly regretting the movement.
     "Ow.  What did I miss?"
     Dikas glanced up at the ceiling.
     "Some interesting corporate takeovers, and the United States of America has a new Madame President elect.  Probably best to get used to that, as I think it will be significant."
     Sara Ryland shifted on the sofa.
     "We're still in Yorkshire, right?"
     "We are."
     "Then you need to tell me why."  She fixed him with her best determined stare.  "Seriously, you've been playing me since I first met you, and I've spent more than a little time wondering if you're real."
     Dikas frowned, the hurt showing in his eyes.
     "That's a little insulting, but I forgive you.  Time hasn't been kind."
     Sara raised her eyebrows.
     "Temporal victimhood?  No, I don't buy that.  My ex-boyfriend was...is a master of misdirection, but I can't credit him with all this.  I've been riding this insane thunderbolt for months, and the points of contact with reality are looking more and more like something constructed by a...a vengeful God at the point of divine insanity."
      Dikas reached forward to mop her brow, but her fingers shot up to stop his hand.
     "Enough, Dikas.  Time to come clean.  What's your deal?  Is he playing you, too, or are you something greater?  Why are you so dedicated to this...cause?"
     He looked at her fingers grasping his wrist, strong and decisive, and found himself weeping.
     "I promised to protect you," he said, "To ensure your safety at all costs, no matter what demons were sent to try you, or how circumstance might attempt to throw you from the path."
     She nodded and released his hand.
     "Job done, then.  Consider your obligations fulfilled.  From here on in, I'm taking charge.  If I'm right, he's heading here by whatever methods he has available, and for once I'll be prepared.  I can't say anything for the opposition, but at least we'll have the advantage of...defined presence.  And whatever tricks and traps he's built into the security set-up here."
     Dikas held his right hand to his heart and splayed his fingers out in a gesture of affirmative fealty.
     "Forever by your side, Miss Ryland."
     She smiled at him, and got up from the sofa.
     "I wouldn't have expected any less, Dikas."


To be continued...


    

Tempus Clausuris (13)

Part Thirteen:  Sit and listen, sit and listen.


She poured herself another glass of Yalumba Viognier as he explained why the HDMI port was inevitably going to change in both design and function.
     "Let me stop you there," she said, "Because, if I don't, this is going to turn really nasty very quickly."
     He glanced at what was now a bottle three quarters empty.
     "Okay.  Sure.  What's up?"
     "Two things.  And I'm being kind by ignoring most of what you've said in the last ten minutes.  Firstly, I genuinely believe that you're onto something, vis-a-vis the corporate machinations of players in the field of artificial intelligence, and where all that might be leading in the next three decades."
     "Wow.  You were listening."
     "I was.  You should never have doubted that.  Secondly, I think you need an audience more than you need a doomed date sanctioned by flawed algorithms."
     He blushed, caught out and involuntarily captioned.
     "Y'know, I was going to start a blog, but I've been down that road before and it all just...turned to shit.  Twitter was worse.  Much worse.  You have no idea..."
     She held up a hand.
     "I have every idea.  That's kind of my thing.  And I read your blog, all seventy five entries.  Your Twitter posts seemed to be cries for help that got covered in crap, so I gave up on them."
     "Very wise," he said, topping up his own glass.  "I think I lost that one as soon as my workmates found it.  But listen, I'm really flattered that..."
     "Shut up," she said, "And listen.  To me.  There's a hole in the fabric of conspiratorial theoretical subjugation.  It's massive, and no geek worth his salt has been able to fill it.  Until now."
     She leaned in, her auburn tresses splaying as she did so.
     "I need you to believe in yourself.  Right here, right now.  There's a message that you need to get out, and it's one that you can definitely deliver because, ultimately, it's true."
     He stared at her, entranced but confused.
     "You're on," he said, "But I feel it's only fair to warn you that no one seems to be listening these days."
     She smiled at him, amused by his apparent naivete.
     "The underestimation of man is a cause to believe in."
     "Voltaire?"
     She laughed, slapping the table between them.
     "And this is why I could love you, if circumstance weren't so arbitrary.  No, not Voltaire, although you should read his treatise on dogs if you ever get the chance.  He deigns to consider them an unnecessary evil, but we should remember that he lost a close friend to rabies."
     "Is that true?"
     "Truth is a flexible perception based upon need, so yes, it's as true as you need it to be."
     He stared at her, astonished.
     "You don't care, do you?  History is just a mix and match philosophy for you."
     She shrugged.
     "Something along those lines, yes.  But the broken reality is all we've got sometimes, so I need you to remember this, and to post about it tomorrow.  Phylos Cade is dead.  Peregrine Conway is alive.  Ownership never represents control, and darkness subsumes the lawmakers.  Think you can remember all that?"
     He retrieved his Moleskine notebook from his pocket and rescued a pen from his courier bag.
     "Forgive me if I'm a bit oldschool on this," he said, writing everything she'd said down.  "Help me out with the spelling?"
     Omni grinned.
     "Whatever it takes is fine with me,"

To be continued...  

Tempus Clausuris (12)

Part Twelve:  Love don't pay no bills.


"Gary's bike's gone," said Hans, getting into the back of the Citroen with Bernie.  "So we can add theft to Omni's personal list of misdemeanours."  Sasha checked his pissed-off expression in the rear-view mirror and started the car.
     "Noted," she said.  "Now give Gary's laptop to Mister Taylor, and let's hope that the trail hasn't gone cold."
     "Which trail?" asked David Cutter, studying the C1's dashboard instrumentation.  In truth, he'd been considering getting the same Citroen himself to replace his Ford Focus.
     "Actually, that's a good question," said Bernie, watching the laptop boot up.  "Password?" he asked Hans, who gritted his teeth and typed it in for him.  "Thanks.  What I mean is, we know which train Sara Ryland was on, and I uploaded the Wi-Fi access data to the servers."
     "Which may be compromised, if Gary was right about the Zero Day exploit, and if it's been triggered," added Hans.
     Sasha Marx reached a decision.
     "Too many ifs.  Boys?" she said, "Swap laptops.  Now.  Hans, see how far Gary got with the exposure of AktionHive's AV project.  Bernie?  I need you to determine, if you can, what Sara's stepping-off point might be.  Cade is central to all this, we just haven't found the connection yet, so factor that in."
     "Got it," said Bernie, handing Gary's laptop to Hans.
     "Don't mess with my files," warned Hans, handing his own laptop to Bernie.
     Cutter turned to Sasha, looking amused.
     "Kids, eh?"
     Sasha kept her eyes on the road, heading for the A1 exit.
     "You're not off the hook, Mister Cutter.  I had to call a doctor to help my friend.  Not your fault, I know, but Gary's last words to Hans were about your company and the AV, and that's got me really puzzled."
     David Cutter sighed.
     "Well, a lot of it's above my pay grade, and taking on two paid interns was never my idea, but Conway sees the Advanced Virtualisation deal as crucial to how AktionHive functions in the next decade."
     "Conway?  Peregrine Conway?" asked Sasha.
     "Yeah," said Cutter, "He took over as CEO a couple of months ago.  We're not listed, so it was no big deal.  No shareholders to mollify, and the board couldn't believe their luck.  Er, am I missing something here?"
     Three brains in the car were working overtime, but it was Bernie Taylor who spoke up first.
     "I never want the fact that I knew about this, and never bothered to do anything with the information to be held against me.  If it's above David's pay grade, you can safely bet it's above mine."
     "Nice cop out," said Hans.
     "Thanks," said Bernie, "But I've got data, and we should all be grateful that Sara Ryland uses a Mac.  Also, my subscription to Shodan finally paid off."  He turned the laptop to show Hans.
     "Impressive," said Hans.
     "Explain," said Sasha.
     "It's a search engine," said Hans, "But so much more.  The internet of things?  This is where it is.  And that's a very big red dot."  Bernie inclined his head, accepting the sideways compliment.
     Sasha pulled her E-Cig out of her pocket and hit the button, inhaling deeply.
     "Do we have a precise destination?" she asked.
     Bernie was checking the property ownership register, and cross-checking with Hans' own findings.
     "We do," said Bernie, scribbling down the address and handing it to Sasha.
     "Confirmed," said Hans, "And the remote access codes are encrypted, but not for long."
     He and Bernie allowed themselves a high five.  David Cutter looked more than lost.
     "I don't even know how you guys are getting Wi-Fi in here."  Sasha came to his rescue - sort of.
     "I take it that you've never met Perry Conway?"
     "No," said Cutter, "He was in the building once, but I was porting the kids to their new school.  Emily was having a bad day."
     "Well," said Sasha, "Here's the thing.  I have.  And suddenly, everything makes sense.  You should gen up on Cicero, David.  The traitor within.  Whatever you think you've gained with Peregrine Conway as CEO, you've lost with Phylos Cade as the supreme infiltrator."
     Hans nodded.
     "A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious.  A nod to you, Mister Cutter.  But it cannot survive treason from within.  Sly whispers rustling through all the alleys.  My God, it's beyond the text of the book!"
     "Textbook," offered Bernie.  Hans inclined his head, mimicking Bernie's previous gesture.  They were really getting along now.  Sasha, however, looked worried.
     "We're still missing a link.  I'm probably being generous - several links.  Can you connect Sara Ryland and Phylos Cade?"
     "Not yet," sighed Bernie Taylor.  "But it's just a matter of time."
     "Well," said Sasha, changing gears and heading down the A1, "Let's hope that's not against us."


To be continued...