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...
Thursday 8 December 2016
Thursday 27 October 2016
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...
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...
Tuesday 27 September 2016
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...
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...
Monday 12 September 2016
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...
"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...
Saturday 3 September 2016
Tempus Clausuris (11)
Part Eleven: I'm under your curse now, but I call it compromise.
Sasha Marx got off the 'phone to her tame doctor, and helped Hans move Gary onto the sofa.
"Jarrett's on his way. Whatever she plugged him with, he should be able to fix it."
Hans nodded, patting his babbling friend on the shoulder.
"I'll unplug the laptops. We'll probably need them."
"Zero Day..." said Gary, staring up at him.
"What?"
"Cade's...into the servers. Check the logs. Massive exploit. AktionHive...it's all about...the AV."
Sasha and Hans exchanged a look as Gary passed out again.
"Handy that we've still got their CTO with us, then." She went into her bedroom and came back with a set of car keys. Hans raised an eyebrow.
"The Citroen?"
"Comfort over situational austerity. Besides," she smiled at him, "Technically, I've still got it on trial. You and Bernie go in the back, try to figure out what the Hell Gary's uncovered." Hans nodded again, but looked uncomfortable. "He'll be okay, you know? Jarrett's had plenty of experience with this sort of thing."
"I know," said Hans, "But I'm having trouble believing that Omni could've done this."
Sasha helped him unplug the laptops and bag them up.
"Funny story," she said, poking the last of the leads into the bag, "About six months ago I had a meeting with a Mister Fisher from the Home Office. I say a meeting, but it was a lot less formal than that. More like..." she paused to consider her words carefully. "An encounter. Accidental, coincidental, highly convenient. No one likes to feel played, Hans, least of all me, but when the game's got more than two sides you have to question the nature of loyalty. In every possible context."
Hans stared at her.
"You've got immunity?"
"Not from the everyday flotsam and jetsam of random happenstance, no, but our little North Korean former friend is part of something much bigger which, thanks to thirty meaningful seconds spent with her smartphone, I can now call upon in a time of need. I'd call this a time of need, wouldn't you?"
Hans zipped-up the bags and threw them over his shoulder.
"Words often fail me, Miss Marx, particularly in your company but, whatever your standing as a...funky asset of the SIS, I'm relieved that we are on the same side."
Sasha laughed.
"Everything brings me back to Tacitus, Hans. It's an optimisation of futility, and my feminist soul rails against it, given Omni's betrayal, but I can't help feeling we're headed for something ultimately fulfilling. Just remember, a bad peace is even worse than war."
David Cutter finished his text, hit 'send' and switched off his mobile. Bernie Taylor, sitting opposite him in the back of the van, raised an eyebrow.
"Explaining myself to my wife," said Cutter, "Has become one of those...acquired arts. What about you? Haven't you got someone who should know where you are?"
"I could write a list, but it'd be very short," replied Bernie. "Frankly, Mister Cutter,"
"David. For Christ's sake, don't fall into that formality bullshit when it's just us."
Bernie shrugged.
"Frankly, David, I'd be a lot happier if the people I know never find out about this crazy shit. Ever. I'm having the weirdest forty eight hours I've ever known, and the comfort of strangers is definitely a complete myth."
Cutter nodded. Then re-considered.
"It's kind of exciting though, isn't it?"
"Totally."
They shared a laugh before the van doors were unlocked and opened. Sasha Marx beamed at them.
"Okay, guys. Consider this an upgrade - we're changing vehicles."
"About time, too," said Cutter, climbing out and blinking in the sunshine. Then he saw Hans holding two laptop bags. "Oh, great. The gang's all here."
"Relax," smiled Sasha, "You're riding shotgun with me," She pointed at the metallic grey Citroen C1 further up the street. "We can have a lovely chat about what AV means to AktionHive, and why Phylos Cade might want to have a backdoor into it."
To be continued...
Sasha Marx got off the 'phone to her tame doctor, and helped Hans move Gary onto the sofa.
"Jarrett's on his way. Whatever she plugged him with, he should be able to fix it."
Hans nodded, patting his babbling friend on the shoulder.
"I'll unplug the laptops. We'll probably need them."
"Zero Day..." said Gary, staring up at him.
"What?"
"Cade's...into the servers. Check the logs. Massive exploit. AktionHive...it's all about...the AV."
Sasha and Hans exchanged a look as Gary passed out again.
"Handy that we've still got their CTO with us, then." She went into her bedroom and came back with a set of car keys. Hans raised an eyebrow.
"The Citroen?"
"Comfort over situational austerity. Besides," she smiled at him, "Technically, I've still got it on trial. You and Bernie go in the back, try to figure out what the Hell Gary's uncovered." Hans nodded again, but looked uncomfortable. "He'll be okay, you know? Jarrett's had plenty of experience with this sort of thing."
"I know," said Hans, "But I'm having trouble believing that Omni could've done this."
Sasha helped him unplug the laptops and bag them up.
"Funny story," she said, poking the last of the leads into the bag, "About six months ago I had a meeting with a Mister Fisher from the Home Office. I say a meeting, but it was a lot less formal than that. More like..." she paused to consider her words carefully. "An encounter. Accidental, coincidental, highly convenient. No one likes to feel played, Hans, least of all me, but when the game's got more than two sides you have to question the nature of loyalty. In every possible context."
Hans stared at her.
"You've got immunity?"
"Not from the everyday flotsam and jetsam of random happenstance, no, but our little North Korean former friend is part of something much bigger which, thanks to thirty meaningful seconds spent with her smartphone, I can now call upon in a time of need. I'd call this a time of need, wouldn't you?"
Hans zipped-up the bags and threw them over his shoulder.
"Words often fail me, Miss Marx, particularly in your company but, whatever your standing as a...funky asset of the SIS, I'm relieved that we are on the same side."
Sasha laughed.
"Everything brings me back to Tacitus, Hans. It's an optimisation of futility, and my feminist soul rails against it, given Omni's betrayal, but I can't help feeling we're headed for something ultimately fulfilling. Just remember, a bad peace is even worse than war."
David Cutter finished his text, hit 'send' and switched off his mobile. Bernie Taylor, sitting opposite him in the back of the van, raised an eyebrow.
"Explaining myself to my wife," said Cutter, "Has become one of those...acquired arts. What about you? Haven't you got someone who should know where you are?"
"I could write a list, but it'd be very short," replied Bernie. "Frankly, Mister Cutter,"
"David. For Christ's sake, don't fall into that formality bullshit when it's just us."
Bernie shrugged.
"Frankly, David, I'd be a lot happier if the people I know never find out about this crazy shit. Ever. I'm having the weirdest forty eight hours I've ever known, and the comfort of strangers is definitely a complete myth."
Cutter nodded. Then re-considered.
"It's kind of exciting though, isn't it?"
"Totally."
They shared a laugh before the van doors were unlocked and opened. Sasha Marx beamed at them.
"Okay, guys. Consider this an upgrade - we're changing vehicles."
"About time, too," said Cutter, climbing out and blinking in the sunshine. Then he saw Hans holding two laptop bags. "Oh, great. The gang's all here."
"Relax," smiled Sasha, "You're riding shotgun with me," She pointed at the metallic grey Citroen C1 further up the street. "We can have a lovely chat about what AV means to AktionHive, and why Phylos Cade might want to have a backdoor into it."
To be continued...
Tuesday 23 August 2016
Tempus Clausuris (10)
Part Ten: I'll whisk them up in no moonlight.
In the blue room at 27A, Omni was watching Gary type. It was the first time in weeks that they'd been alone together in the flat.
"What are you doing?" she asked. He glanced up at her.
"Chasing a ghost, I think. Oh, and setting myself a thesis topic for when...if...any of this ever gets normal again. I'm sorry, I'd forgotten you were still here. Do you need to get home? I've got the Suzuki parked round the back and a spare crash helmet..."
"It's fine," said Omni, "I was going to tidy up a bit before Sasha gets back."
"That may be quite a while," sighed Gary, leaning back from the laptop. "Hans seems to think they're all going on a destiny special today, which is why I'm stuck with the Cade intrusion brief." He laughed. "A ghost chasing a more experienced ghost in and out of a defective haunted house. That's not a thesis topic, it's a fucking Hollywood 'B' movie."
Omni pulled up Hans' chair and joined him at the makeshift desk.
"I'm not going to pretend I understand what's going on right now, Gary, but consider this me taking an interest. I know you and Hans have made Sasha a fuckload of money lately."
Gary nodded.
"Just shy of a quarter of a million, give or take, in nine days. But this is different. You saw the video. This is something else. It's a challenge, and I'm not sure anyone really gets it, y'know?"
Omni reached out, almost making contact with Gary's thigh, but then held back.
"I get it, Gary. To an extent you would hardly believe. Do you know how many North Koreans there are in London right now? Fewer than fifty. Sasha took me in, like she takes in anyone who intrigues or surprises her, but in the months I've known her I've never seen her this...distracted. Mick's really put a cat in her pigeon coop."
"Well," said Gary, "She has a bit of history with Mick Routledge, that's for sure. You remember Gomez from that trade fair we crashed in April? He put me straight on a few details about them, and yeah, they had a pretty serious relationship going for a while there. It kinda makes sense he'd bring her this, especially given her connections, but...you were right last night. It's the levels beyond the subtext. And that's all encoded in the data, which is pretty damned awesome."
Omni broke the final barrier, and gripped Gary's thigh.
"Tell me about the ghost," she said, leaning towards him conspiratorially.
Gary stared at her, both flattered and astonished.
"Phylos Cade. Kind of a legend. Seems he followed-up Hans' intrusion at AktionHive with his own, but masked his entry point as something internal. But then he blew it by adding his initials to the IP code. I've tracerouted it, and it's total bullshit, so bonus points to him for sheer...chutzpah, I guess. But there's something else."
Omni was fishing in her pocket for something.
"Go on,"
"Well, I can't confirm it yet, but I think Cade's hit AktionHive's servers with a Zero Day exploit. I mean, a really clever one. Just not sure what it's supposed to do. The code's..."
Omni shoved the hypodermic into his leg and pushed home the plunger.
"What the fuck?"
"Sleep well," she said, "I think you've earned it." She pulled the keys out of his pocket and left him spinning in his chair. Four and a half minutes later, she was donning a crash helmet and composing a text message as she started Gary's Suzuki.
To be continued...
In the blue room at 27A, Omni was watching Gary type. It was the first time in weeks that they'd been alone together in the flat.
"What are you doing?" she asked. He glanced up at her.
"Chasing a ghost, I think. Oh, and setting myself a thesis topic for when...if...any of this ever gets normal again. I'm sorry, I'd forgotten you were still here. Do you need to get home? I've got the Suzuki parked round the back and a spare crash helmet..."
"It's fine," said Omni, "I was going to tidy up a bit before Sasha gets back."
"That may be quite a while," sighed Gary, leaning back from the laptop. "Hans seems to think they're all going on a destiny special today, which is why I'm stuck with the Cade intrusion brief." He laughed. "A ghost chasing a more experienced ghost in and out of a defective haunted house. That's not a thesis topic, it's a fucking Hollywood 'B' movie."
Omni pulled up Hans' chair and joined him at the makeshift desk.
"I'm not going to pretend I understand what's going on right now, Gary, but consider this me taking an interest. I know you and Hans have made Sasha a fuckload of money lately."
Gary nodded.
"Just shy of a quarter of a million, give or take, in nine days. But this is different. You saw the video. This is something else. It's a challenge, and I'm not sure anyone really gets it, y'know?"
Omni reached out, almost making contact with Gary's thigh, but then held back.
"I get it, Gary. To an extent you would hardly believe. Do you know how many North Koreans there are in London right now? Fewer than fifty. Sasha took me in, like she takes in anyone who intrigues or surprises her, but in the months I've known her I've never seen her this...distracted. Mick's really put a cat in her pigeon coop."
"Well," said Gary, "She has a bit of history with Mick Routledge, that's for sure. You remember Gomez from that trade fair we crashed in April? He put me straight on a few details about them, and yeah, they had a pretty serious relationship going for a while there. It kinda makes sense he'd bring her this, especially given her connections, but...you were right last night. It's the levels beyond the subtext. And that's all encoded in the data, which is pretty damned awesome."
Omni broke the final barrier, and gripped Gary's thigh.
"Tell me about the ghost," she said, leaning towards him conspiratorially.
Gary stared at her, both flattered and astonished.
"Phylos Cade. Kind of a legend. Seems he followed-up Hans' intrusion at AktionHive with his own, but masked his entry point as something internal. But then he blew it by adding his initials to the IP code. I've tracerouted it, and it's total bullshit, so bonus points to him for sheer...chutzpah, I guess. But there's something else."
Omni was fishing in her pocket for something.
"Go on,"
"Well, I can't confirm it yet, but I think Cade's hit AktionHive's servers with a Zero Day exploit. I mean, a really clever one. Just not sure what it's supposed to do. The code's..."
Omni shoved the hypodermic into his leg and pushed home the plunger.
"What the fuck?"
"Sleep well," she said, "I think you've earned it." She pulled the keys out of his pocket and left him spinning in his chair. Four and a half minutes later, she was donning a crash helmet and composing a text message as she started Gary's Suzuki.
To be continued...
Thursday 11 August 2016
Tempus Clausuris (9)
Part Nine: Running before time took our dreams away.
Sasha Marx was behind the desk, conducting a cursory websearch focused on the man who was now effectively her prisoner.
"Your tweets are quite political, David," she observed. Her tone was neutral, so initially Cutter wasn't sure how good or bad that was. He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.
"Yeah, well, it's been a bit of a year, hasn't it?"
She shook her head.
"Everything is politics. Thomas Mann. But your own leanings seem curiously...ambivalent. Tell me, were you one of those very public remainers who secretly voted for Brexit anyway?"
He stared at her.
"Why the Hell should you care how I voted?"
"I don't." She shrugged. "But that's an interesting answer. Something else is puzzling me, though."
"If it's the stuff about theme parks, blame my wife and daughter."
"No," she said. "What I don't understand is how a man who doesn't seem to care less about technology becomes the CTO of AktionHive."
David Cutter laughed.
"Oh, great. I suppose you're going to hit me with a ton of glass ceiling bullshit. Fair enough, then. You're right. I shouldn't be here. My job should've gone to...I dunno...Celia Fuckpants. Truth is, I've been here just over a year, barely have a clue what I'm doing most days, and would jump at the chance to hightail it out of here. Especially today."
Sasha raised an eyebrow at him.
"That's fascinating. You're possibly the second most ineffectually tortured man I've ever met. In different circumstances, I'd probably headhunt you myself, and keep you as a pet."
Hans came back into the office, making Cutter twitch.
"We've got a lead," he said.
"Ryland or Cade?" asked Sasha.
"We think Ryland, but she's mobile. And Cade followed our intrusion here with one of his own. I've called Gary, he's on it now."
"What?" asked Cutter. "What's going on?"
"Time for some choices," said Sasha, shutting down Cutter's PC. "Was Taylor useful?"
"Very," nodded Hans, "But Mister Routledge is something of a spare wheel, I think."
"Agreed," said Sasha, smiling. "Something he'd be the first to admit." She turned to Cutter. "For reasons you won't immediately appreciate, we're going to move your first meeting with your new intern up the schedule. For a carrot, we can promise you some answers, and a field trip."
David Cutter had already decided that he didn't want to know the nature of the stick.
Sara Ryland paid the taxi driver and joined Dikas at the front door.
"You said a cottage,"
Dikas put the bags down, and fished in his pocket for the keys.
"Did I exaggerate? It's a conversion. The owner warned me he'd had some work done."
Sara turned slowly, taking in the full extent of the landscape.
"My God, you can even see the white horse from here!"
"Indeed. The view has not changed. I believe we have close on a thousand acres, if exploration's on your mind."
She tapped him on the shoulder, making him turn.
"There's a keypad," she said.
"Yes. Don't worry, I have the code." He found the right key and turned it twice in the lock, making the keypad light up. "Here goes." He punched in a six digit sequence then pressed the enter key twice. "We have thirty seconds," he explained, pushing the door open.
"To do what?" asked Sara, following him in.
"To enter the next code." He pointed at the panel on the inside wall.
"What happens if you don't?"
"Three very negative things," he said, entering the new digits. "Including..." He paused as the lights came up and various doors automatically unlocked. "Well, never mind."
Sara shut the front door and stared at the building's interior.
"You know I'm going to ask, right?"
Dikas hefted the bags.
"He's not here, Miss Ryland."
"Is he en route?"
Dikas led the way through to the next level of the property.
"In a way, Miss Ryland, we all are, don't you think?"
To be continued...
Sasha Marx was behind the desk, conducting a cursory websearch focused on the man who was now effectively her prisoner.
"Your tweets are quite political, David," she observed. Her tone was neutral, so initially Cutter wasn't sure how good or bad that was. He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.
"Yeah, well, it's been a bit of a year, hasn't it?"
She shook her head.
"Everything is politics. Thomas Mann. But your own leanings seem curiously...ambivalent. Tell me, were you one of those very public remainers who secretly voted for Brexit anyway?"
He stared at her.
"Why the Hell should you care how I voted?"
"I don't." She shrugged. "But that's an interesting answer. Something else is puzzling me, though."
"If it's the stuff about theme parks, blame my wife and daughter."
"No," she said. "What I don't understand is how a man who doesn't seem to care less about technology becomes the CTO of AktionHive."
David Cutter laughed.
"Oh, great. I suppose you're going to hit me with a ton of glass ceiling bullshit. Fair enough, then. You're right. I shouldn't be here. My job should've gone to...I dunno...Celia Fuckpants. Truth is, I've been here just over a year, barely have a clue what I'm doing most days, and would jump at the chance to hightail it out of here. Especially today."
Sasha raised an eyebrow at him.
"That's fascinating. You're possibly the second most ineffectually tortured man I've ever met. In different circumstances, I'd probably headhunt you myself, and keep you as a pet."
Hans came back into the office, making Cutter twitch.
"We've got a lead," he said.
"Ryland or Cade?" asked Sasha.
"We think Ryland, but she's mobile. And Cade followed our intrusion here with one of his own. I've called Gary, he's on it now."
"What?" asked Cutter. "What's going on?"
"Time for some choices," said Sasha, shutting down Cutter's PC. "Was Taylor useful?"
"Very," nodded Hans, "But Mister Routledge is something of a spare wheel, I think."
"Agreed," said Sasha, smiling. "Something he'd be the first to admit." She turned to Cutter. "For reasons you won't immediately appreciate, we're going to move your first meeting with your new intern up the schedule. For a carrot, we can promise you some answers, and a field trip."
David Cutter had already decided that he didn't want to know the nature of the stick.
Sara Ryland paid the taxi driver and joined Dikas at the front door.
"You said a cottage,"
Dikas put the bags down, and fished in his pocket for the keys.
"Did I exaggerate? It's a conversion. The owner warned me he'd had some work done."
Sara turned slowly, taking in the full extent of the landscape.
"My God, you can even see the white horse from here!"
"Indeed. The view has not changed. I believe we have close on a thousand acres, if exploration's on your mind."
She tapped him on the shoulder, making him turn.
"There's a keypad," she said.
"Yes. Don't worry, I have the code." He found the right key and turned it twice in the lock, making the keypad light up. "Here goes." He punched in a six digit sequence then pressed the enter key twice. "We have thirty seconds," he explained, pushing the door open.
"To do what?" asked Sara, following him in.
"To enter the next code." He pointed at the panel on the inside wall.
"What happens if you don't?"
"Three very negative things," he said, entering the new digits. "Including..." He paused as the lights came up and various doors automatically unlocked. "Well, never mind."
Sara shut the front door and stared at the building's interior.
"You know I'm going to ask, right?"
Dikas hefted the bags.
"He's not here, Miss Ryland."
"Is he en route?"
Dikas led the way through to the next level of the property.
"In a way, Miss Ryland, we all are, don't you think?"
To be continued...
Tuesday 2 August 2016
Tempus Clausuris (8)
Part Eight: Tonight they hunt for you.
"Well," said Mick Routledge, joining Bernie at his desk, "This is all a bit fucked up, isn't it?"
Bernie Taylor nodded, and swept aside a pile of magazines.
"You should've been here an hour ago. There were guns and everything. Actually, I think Cutter might've shat his pants."
"Yeah," said Mick, perching on the cleared desk space, "Sasha can have that effect on people. Look, mate, I'm sorry this has gone nuclear but, in my defence, I really thought she might provide a shortcut."
Bernie stared at him, incredulous.
"Your ex-girlfriend...a shortcut? To what, oblivion? Armageddon? Think you might be right, there. What the Hell possessed you, man? I mean, she was always...I'm trying to think of a nice word."
"Toxic?"
"Sure, that'll do. And God knows she definitely kept freaky company, but your new pal Hans is really something else. I don't mean to judge, but I'm guessing he might be a friend of my would-be girlfriend's ex."
Mick frowned.
"Remind me. Is that the date your sister set up? That whole Victims-R-Us number?"
"Deralyn, yeah. I was going to call her when all this kicked off." He paused, remembering the text he'd received, allegedly from Cutter. "Hang on, if Hans and Sasha are right, how did he know so much?" He fired-up another tab on his desktop browser and launched the Intrusion Detection System Test. "More worrying, I suppose, is that he knew you were out for the count."
Mick grabbed a chair and joined Bernie at the computer.
"I thought you were supposed to be researching Sara Ryland."
"Been there, done that. No Facebook, no Twitter, not even Google bloody Plus. Let's just say she's not keen on exposure." He sighed, waiting for the IDST to finish scanning. "Only a slightly different scenario with the guy who might be behind her bloody video."
"Phylos Cade?"
"Yeah, and quite how that name has become common currency all of a sudden is an effing mystery to me."
"You're right," said Mick, "There's nothing but a few random blog posts, but I don't think that's it. Something in that video works like a...a referential trigger. It's subtle, but precise. Hell, it sent me on a Google search that basically led nowhere, too."
Bernie checked the countdown timer on the IDST. Forty eight seconds to go.
"Look, I get it, okay? Psytrophic animensis. It's the 21st century's version of those damned Magic Eye pictures of the '90s. Growing up, my sister had those posters on her walls. All I saw were jazzy messes. I tried 'em with glasses, and without. Nothing. She laughed at me, Mick. Welcome to my fucking childhood."
Mick Routledge tried not to laugh, but failed.
"Sorry, man, but I'm kind of picturing it. Explains a lot, it really does."
Bernie shrugged. Eight...seven...six...five...four...three...two...one.
"Oh, shit," he said. "Not just one hack, but three. Our system's compromised."
Hans Ollen came forward from the doorway, where he'd been stood for the past two minutes.
"That is unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected news, Mister Taylor. You can blame us for last night's intrusion, but I'm curious to know the details of the other two."
Mick involuntarily gulped and swivelled round in his chair.
"Been there long?" he asked. Hans patted him on the shoulder and smiled.
"Never long enough, I suspect."
"Okay," said Bernie, checking the intrusion reports. "First hack triggered at 18:36 yesterday, source re-codified from a baseline algorithm via multiple hosts...from Bolivia?"
"That's us," laughed Hans, "I've got a cousin there. Total arsehole. I'm always trying to set him up."
"Second intrusion at 20:12 yesterday, source...unknown?"
"What?" asked Mick. "Surely there's an IP trace, even if it's bullshit?"
"Nope," said Bernie. "It's showing a standardized entry point at 21.04.007.212.PC, but that's been re-flagged as internal, which is...nuts."
"No," said Hans, leaning in towards the monitor, "No it isn't. It's demonstrating his craft. He even signed it. That's...talent." His apparent admiration was undeniable.
"What about the third hack?" asked Mick.
Bernie Taylor clicked on the link.
"That can't be right."
"Why? What's the source?"
"It's a dynamic unshielded IP. I know this, it's Virgin bloody Trains, this morning!" They both stared at him. "Long story," he said, "But I can definitely trace this."
Hans leaned back, and took his mobile 'phone from his pocket.
"Gentlemen, I believe some sort of road trip may be in order."
To be continued...
"Well," said Mick Routledge, joining Bernie at his desk, "This is all a bit fucked up, isn't it?"
Bernie Taylor nodded, and swept aside a pile of magazines.
"You should've been here an hour ago. There were guns and everything. Actually, I think Cutter might've shat his pants."
"Yeah," said Mick, perching on the cleared desk space, "Sasha can have that effect on people. Look, mate, I'm sorry this has gone nuclear but, in my defence, I really thought she might provide a shortcut."
Bernie stared at him, incredulous.
"Your ex-girlfriend...a shortcut? To what, oblivion? Armageddon? Think you might be right, there. What the Hell possessed you, man? I mean, she was always...I'm trying to think of a nice word."
"Toxic?"
"Sure, that'll do. And God knows she definitely kept freaky company, but your new pal Hans is really something else. I don't mean to judge, but I'm guessing he might be a friend of my would-be girlfriend's ex."
Mick frowned.
"Remind me. Is that the date your sister set up? That whole Victims-R-Us number?"
"Deralyn, yeah. I was going to call her when all this kicked off." He paused, remembering the text he'd received, allegedly from Cutter. "Hang on, if Hans and Sasha are right, how did he know so much?" He fired-up another tab on his desktop browser and launched the Intrusion Detection System Test. "More worrying, I suppose, is that he knew you were out for the count."
Mick grabbed a chair and joined Bernie at the computer.
"I thought you were supposed to be researching Sara Ryland."
"Been there, done that. No Facebook, no Twitter, not even Google bloody Plus. Let's just say she's not keen on exposure." He sighed, waiting for the IDST to finish scanning. "Only a slightly different scenario with the guy who might be behind her bloody video."
"Phylos Cade?"
"Yeah, and quite how that name has become common currency all of a sudden is an effing mystery to me."
"You're right," said Mick, "There's nothing but a few random blog posts, but I don't think that's it. Something in that video works like a...a referential trigger. It's subtle, but precise. Hell, it sent me on a Google search that basically led nowhere, too."
Bernie checked the countdown timer on the IDST. Forty eight seconds to go.
"Look, I get it, okay? Psytrophic animensis. It's the 21st century's version of those damned Magic Eye pictures of the '90s. Growing up, my sister had those posters on her walls. All I saw were jazzy messes. I tried 'em with glasses, and without. Nothing. She laughed at me, Mick. Welcome to my fucking childhood."
Mick Routledge tried not to laugh, but failed.
"Sorry, man, but I'm kind of picturing it. Explains a lot, it really does."
Bernie shrugged. Eight...seven...six...five...four...three...two...one.
"Oh, shit," he said. "Not just one hack, but three. Our system's compromised."
Hans Ollen came forward from the doorway, where he'd been stood for the past two minutes.
"That is unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected news, Mister Taylor. You can blame us for last night's intrusion, but I'm curious to know the details of the other two."
Mick involuntarily gulped and swivelled round in his chair.
"Been there long?" he asked. Hans patted him on the shoulder and smiled.
"Never long enough, I suspect."
"Okay," said Bernie, checking the intrusion reports. "First hack triggered at 18:36 yesterday, source re-codified from a baseline algorithm via multiple hosts...from Bolivia?"
"That's us," laughed Hans, "I've got a cousin there. Total arsehole. I'm always trying to set him up."
"Second intrusion at 20:12 yesterday, source...unknown?"
"What?" asked Mick. "Surely there's an IP trace, even if it's bullshit?"
"Nope," said Bernie. "It's showing a standardized entry point at 21.04.007.212.PC, but that's been re-flagged as internal, which is...nuts."
"No," said Hans, leaning in towards the monitor, "No it isn't. It's demonstrating his craft. He even signed it. That's...talent." His apparent admiration was undeniable.
"What about the third hack?" asked Mick.
Bernie Taylor clicked on the link.
"That can't be right."
"Why? What's the source?"
"It's a dynamic unshielded IP. I know this, it's Virgin bloody Trains, this morning!" They both stared at him. "Long story," he said, "But I can definitely trace this."
Hans leaned back, and took his mobile 'phone from his pocket.
"Gentlemen, I believe some sort of road trip may be in order."
To be continued...
Sunday 24 July 2016
Tempus Clausuris (7)
Part Seven: Another truth installed by the machine.
"I can't believe how empty this train is," said Sara, looking up and down the carriage from her aisle seat. "Did you check those other reservation tickets?" Dikas shook his head, taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi and firing up her Mac. "Well, I did, and they were all booked from King's Cross. But look," she held up a hand, "There's nobody else here."
"It's a matter of perception," said Dikas, "And what some might call a greater good." He paused, taking in her blank expression. "Put it this way, we're alone here - now - because we need to be, not because thirty eight other people apparently missed their train."
Sara studied him.
"I still haven't thanked you for dinner."
"Not necessary."
"Well, I knew you'd say that, but all the same, thank you. You're a good cook."
Dikas appeared to wince at the compliment, making her smile.
"Assembly, combination, and treatment, Miss Ryland."
"Whoa," she laughed, "Easy on the descriptive passion, there." He frowned, not getting her intentional irony. "If you ever write a recipe book, make sure you get a good editor."
Even as she said it, she realised her unconscious error. Hamlet without the Prince, she thought. Damn it, that's what this is.
"Something, someone we both know who could fulfil that role," sighed Dikas. They shared a glance before he resumed typing.
"Except that's the wrong tense, isn't it? Present when it should be past." Sara looked out at the suburban scenery, trying to make sense of the numerous conflicts going through her mind. "Doing what he does. When you and I first met, I was not in a good place."
Dikas stopped typing and stared at her.
"You doubted my reality?"
"Well, yeah. Initially. I was on some pretty hardcore meds, and the connection was just so...random. I mean, what are the odds? And hitting me with that massive paradigm shift, and telling me that he'd changed..."
Dikas was holding out a handkerchief to her.
"You're crying, Miss Ryland."
"I am?" She reached up, suddenly aware of the moisture on her face. "I am. Well, there goes the fucking mascara." She laughed, accepting the handkerchief. "I'm sorry. Sometimes the focus goes a little wonky, you know? What the Hell are you working on, anyway?"
Dikas flipped the Mac around to show her the screen.
"I've been compiling notes on AktionHive's plans regarding the AV. I don't think David Cutter will be significant, but I can see why our associate might want some leverage there."
Sara raised an eyebrow.
"Our...associate? Is that what we're calling him?"
"I didn't want to..."
"It's okay, really. Christ, until you showed up I thought he might be dead."
"A more common shared belief than you might imagine," said Dikas, turning her laptop back around and resuming work.
Wherever he is, thought Sara, I hope he's dealing with all this better than I am.
To be continued...
"I can't believe how empty this train is," said Sara, looking up and down the carriage from her aisle seat. "Did you check those other reservation tickets?" Dikas shook his head, taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi and firing up her Mac. "Well, I did, and they were all booked from King's Cross. But look," she held up a hand, "There's nobody else here."
"It's a matter of perception," said Dikas, "And what some might call a greater good." He paused, taking in her blank expression. "Put it this way, we're alone here - now - because we need to be, not because thirty eight other people apparently missed their train."
Sara studied him.
"I still haven't thanked you for dinner."
"Not necessary."
"Well, I knew you'd say that, but all the same, thank you. You're a good cook."
Dikas appeared to wince at the compliment, making her smile.
"Assembly, combination, and treatment, Miss Ryland."
"Whoa," she laughed, "Easy on the descriptive passion, there." He frowned, not getting her intentional irony. "If you ever write a recipe book, make sure you get a good editor."
Even as she said it, she realised her unconscious error. Hamlet without the Prince, she thought. Damn it, that's what this is.
"Something, someone we both know who could fulfil that role," sighed Dikas. They shared a glance before he resumed typing.
"Except that's the wrong tense, isn't it? Present when it should be past." Sara looked out at the suburban scenery, trying to make sense of the numerous conflicts going through her mind. "Doing what he does. When you and I first met, I was not in a good place."
Dikas stopped typing and stared at her.
"You doubted my reality?"
"Well, yeah. Initially. I was on some pretty hardcore meds, and the connection was just so...random. I mean, what are the odds? And hitting me with that massive paradigm shift, and telling me that he'd changed..."
Dikas was holding out a handkerchief to her.
"You're crying, Miss Ryland."
"I am?" She reached up, suddenly aware of the moisture on her face. "I am. Well, there goes the fucking mascara." She laughed, accepting the handkerchief. "I'm sorry. Sometimes the focus goes a little wonky, you know? What the Hell are you working on, anyway?"
Dikas flipped the Mac around to show her the screen.
"I've been compiling notes on AktionHive's plans regarding the AV. I don't think David Cutter will be significant, but I can see why our associate might want some leverage there."
Sara raised an eyebrow.
"Our...associate? Is that what we're calling him?"
"I didn't want to..."
"It's okay, really. Christ, until you showed up I thought he might be dead."
"A more common shared belief than you might imagine," said Dikas, turning her laptop back around and resuming work.
Wherever he is, thought Sara, I hope he's dealing with all this better than I am.
To be continued...
Sunday 10 July 2016
Tempus Clausuris (6)
Part Six: Grains of sand is all we are.
David Cutter didn't look happy, but there were at least two good reasons for that, one of which Bernie recognised as soon as he entered Cutter's office. It was four minutes to ten.
"Sasha Marx," he said, taking in the gun, the designer-military gear, and her new hair colour, but choosing - for the moment - to focus on the latter detail. "You look good blonde, it really suits you."
"You know this bitch?" asked Cutter. Hans whacked him on the cheek with his Glock G22, making Cutter yelp.
"Yeah," said Bernie Taylor, "But only socially. And, by the way, I've no idea what's going on here." He looked up at Sasha. "Are you and Mick back together?"
Sasha shook her head.
"No, Bernie. Well, only geographically. He's in the van downstairs."
"And fucking fired!" shouted Cutter.
"Unconscious," added Hans, staring at Cutter and clearly debating whether or not to hit him again. "You're being unnecessarily harsh, Mister Cutter. Mister Routledge has been anything but a willing participant in this endeavour." He glanced at Bernie, inclining his head slightly. "Hans Ollen. Pleased to meet you, Mister Taylor."
"Er, likewise. Look, I'm only here to do my job, yeah? If Mick's got himself into some kind of nonsense with you lot, then that's really nothing to do with me."
Sasha laughed, slipping her gun back into its holster and jumping down off Cutter's desk.
"Opportunity should be the watchword of the vigilant, Bernie! And I doubt your definition of nonsense would truly apply here. Right now, you - and your job - represent a means to an end, for all of us. You're no slouch when it comes to specificity, that much I remember about you." She stared at him. "We need everything you can dig up on Sara Ryland. Forget the trivial, we've already checked her home address and come up with an empty flat. Lots of books, and an appalling amount of unwashed underwear, but zip in terms of either the here and now, or her connections."
Cutter frowned.
"Look," he said, "We get twenty or thirty applications for the paid internship every year and sure, I was impressed with hers, but what the fuck is your interest in all of this?"
Bernie frowned. How pseudo-clever was his boss being here?
"David, normally in circumstances like these, not that we've ever really been in circumstances quite like these, I admit, I'd give you the look, and request a quick word in your office. But we're in your office and, sorry for being boring, but I'm only here because you texted me to come in and do a data-scramble on Sara Ryland. Oh, and by the way, that thousand pound bonus will be greatly appreciated."
David Cutter shook his head.
"No. You must be out of your fucking mind, Bernie. I most certainly did not send you a text, and you can fucking well forget any kind of bonus for this fucking nightmare." He glanced at Hans and his Glock G22. "Look at this fucking stormtrooper. You think I want an audience for this shit?"
"Oh, that's interesting," said Sasha. She glanced at Bernie. "Still got that text?"
"Yeah, sure," said Bernie, handing over his 'phone. "It's the most recent one there."
Sasha did some scrolling, laughed at the reference in the text to Mick Routledge being AWOL, and then tossed the 'phone to Hans. "The rabbit hole just got a lot deeper. By design."
"Agreed," said Hans, copying the text and trans-locating the source on his own 'phone. "And, if Cade's truly running the show, then we're all players now whether we like it or not."
Bernie almost involuntarily raised his hand.
"Can I suggest getting Mick out of the van now?"
To be continued...
David Cutter didn't look happy, but there were at least two good reasons for that, one of which Bernie recognised as soon as he entered Cutter's office. It was four minutes to ten.
"Sasha Marx," he said, taking in the gun, the designer-military gear, and her new hair colour, but choosing - for the moment - to focus on the latter detail. "You look good blonde, it really suits you."
"You know this bitch?" asked Cutter. Hans whacked him on the cheek with his Glock G22, making Cutter yelp.
"Yeah," said Bernie Taylor, "But only socially. And, by the way, I've no idea what's going on here." He looked up at Sasha. "Are you and Mick back together?"
Sasha shook her head.
"No, Bernie. Well, only geographically. He's in the van downstairs."
"And fucking fired!" shouted Cutter.
"Unconscious," added Hans, staring at Cutter and clearly debating whether or not to hit him again. "You're being unnecessarily harsh, Mister Cutter. Mister Routledge has been anything but a willing participant in this endeavour." He glanced at Bernie, inclining his head slightly. "Hans Ollen. Pleased to meet you, Mister Taylor."
"Er, likewise. Look, I'm only here to do my job, yeah? If Mick's got himself into some kind of nonsense with you lot, then that's really nothing to do with me."
Sasha laughed, slipping her gun back into its holster and jumping down off Cutter's desk.
"Opportunity should be the watchword of the vigilant, Bernie! And I doubt your definition of nonsense would truly apply here. Right now, you - and your job - represent a means to an end, for all of us. You're no slouch when it comes to specificity, that much I remember about you." She stared at him. "We need everything you can dig up on Sara Ryland. Forget the trivial, we've already checked her home address and come up with an empty flat. Lots of books, and an appalling amount of unwashed underwear, but zip in terms of either the here and now, or her connections."
Cutter frowned.
"Look," he said, "We get twenty or thirty applications for the paid internship every year and sure, I was impressed with hers, but what the fuck is your interest in all of this?"
Bernie frowned. How pseudo-clever was his boss being here?
"David, normally in circumstances like these, not that we've ever really been in circumstances quite like these, I admit, I'd give you the look, and request a quick word in your office. But we're in your office and, sorry for being boring, but I'm only here because you texted me to come in and do a data-scramble on Sara Ryland. Oh, and by the way, that thousand pound bonus will be greatly appreciated."
David Cutter shook his head.
"No. You must be out of your fucking mind, Bernie. I most certainly did not send you a text, and you can fucking well forget any kind of bonus for this fucking nightmare." He glanced at Hans and his Glock G22. "Look at this fucking stormtrooper. You think I want an audience for this shit?"
"Oh, that's interesting," said Sasha. She glanced at Bernie. "Still got that text?"
"Yeah, sure," said Bernie, handing over his 'phone. "It's the most recent one there."
Sasha did some scrolling, laughed at the reference in the text to Mick Routledge being AWOL, and then tossed the 'phone to Hans. "The rabbit hole just got a lot deeper. By design."
"Agreed," said Hans, copying the text and trans-locating the source on his own 'phone. "And, if Cade's truly running the show, then we're all players now whether we like it or not."
Bernie almost involuntarily raised his hand.
"Can I suggest getting Mick out of the van now?"
To be continued...
Sunday 3 July 2016
Tempus Clausuris (5)
Part Five: Miracles will happen as we speak.
Bernie Taylor arrived home feeling annoyed, and his mood didn't improve when his sister called.
"Yeah?"
"Oh wow, you sound pissed off."
"I am," said Bernie, opening the 'fridge door and looking for something - anything - with a use-by date within the last calendar month. "A bit, anyway. What do you want?" Beef stew and dumplings. He had some issues with the 'British Classic' by-line, but it fell into his 3-day zone of safety, so into the microwave it went.
"Nothing spectacular, but Deralyn wanted you to know that she thought your shorts were very funky."
Bernie frowned, trying to remember who the Hell Deralyn was. Then it hit him - the pseudo-date his sister had arranged last weekend.
"Y'know, she's got my number. She could've told me herself."
Silence on the line. Never good.
"Bernie..."
"Look," he said, watching the countdown timer on the microwave and grabbing a fork from the draining board, "I know your world view barely functions without everyone in it being in a soul-destroying, so-called stable relationship, but I've got to tell you, I couldn't care less. Three years since I parted company with Jess, and I really haven't looked back. At all. I'm okay, sis, I truly am. Thanks for your efforts, but you've got to stop with this ersatz matchmaking bullshit, okay?"
More silence. Guaranteed shitstorm.
"She likes you, but you freaked her out talking about Nietzsche, and being overwhelmed by the tribe. Her ex-boyfriend is a neo-Nazi, for fuck's sake!"
"Well, I had no way of knowing that, did I?" Ping. Beep, beep beep, beep, beep. "I gotta go. Dinner's ready."
He pressed the hang-up rounded square on his 'phone before she could get into that familiar diatribe about their mother being 'right' all along.
Sitting on the sofa, prodding at his unappetising dinner with his fork, he scrambled through his 'phone for Deralyn's number. As he did so, a text came in from his boss, David Cutter:
"Sorry to bother you on downtime, but this is BIG. Routledge is AWOL. I need you to data-scramble Sara Ryland, all bases. Meet me back at office 22:00. Bonus if you need it. 1K."
Bernie poked at a lump of what once might've been beef, and stared at it.
"A thousand pounds for doing what I do best, but off the books? Fuck, yeah. I'll see you as something else in the Chicken Shack, Sloane Square, covered in BBQ sauce, baby."
Less than a mile away, at that exact moment, Dikas froze at the keyboard.
"They're coming, Miss Ryland. Many forms, many directions. Many purposes."
She looked up from her back-up Mac, surprised.
"What?"
"For you, for him, for us."
Sara slammed down the lid of her Mac.
"Could you be a little more...specific?"
Dikas leaned back, seemingly taking in his surroundings for the first time.
"This is a bad place, Miss Ryland. Hard to defend. Not what Fate would like."
She glanced at her Ikea shelf units and rugs from the Warehouse.
"Right now, I feel like telling Fate to go fuck itself."
Dikas grimaced, and shut down the laptop.
"This is never easy. It never gets easier. This, I have noticed. It's the burden of impromptu physicality in a digital world, but no less intimidating. We need to go."
Sara Ryland stood up, shoving her Mac back into its bag.
"Go where? Do I need to pack anything?"
"Essentials," said Dikas, "However you define them. As for where we should go, I have some options." He hesitated, taking in her expression. "Most of them you'll hate, but one is totally off their..." He paused again.
"Radar? That's the expression. 'Off their radar.'"
"Such old technology!" laughed Dikas, clapping his hands.
"Yeah, sure," said Sara, "Now you're up to date with all the whiz-bang horrors of the twenty-first century."
He widened his eyes.
"Excellent point. Best leave your 'phone behind."
She busied herself around the flat, grabbing bits and bobs and shoving them into an old Spirit of St. Louis holdall. By the time she'd finished, Dikas was standing at the door.
"So where are we going?" she asked, checking that her Oyster card was still in her pocket.
"You won't like it."
"Try me."
"Kilburn."
"Well," she said, "That could be worse."
Dikas looked sheepish.
"Kilburn, North Yorkshire. I have access to a cottage." He produced a set of keys, jangling them in front of her as she let out a resigned sigh.
To be continued...
Bernie Taylor arrived home feeling annoyed, and his mood didn't improve when his sister called.
"Yeah?"
"Oh wow, you sound pissed off."
"I am," said Bernie, opening the 'fridge door and looking for something - anything - with a use-by date within the last calendar month. "A bit, anyway. What do you want?" Beef stew and dumplings. He had some issues with the 'British Classic' by-line, but it fell into his 3-day zone of safety, so into the microwave it went.
"Nothing spectacular, but Deralyn wanted you to know that she thought your shorts were very funky."
Bernie frowned, trying to remember who the Hell Deralyn was. Then it hit him - the pseudo-date his sister had arranged last weekend.
"Y'know, she's got my number. She could've told me herself."
Silence on the line. Never good.
"Bernie..."
"Look," he said, watching the countdown timer on the microwave and grabbing a fork from the draining board, "I know your world view barely functions without everyone in it being in a soul-destroying, so-called stable relationship, but I've got to tell you, I couldn't care less. Three years since I parted company with Jess, and I really haven't looked back. At all. I'm okay, sis, I truly am. Thanks for your efforts, but you've got to stop with this ersatz matchmaking bullshit, okay?"
More silence. Guaranteed shitstorm.
"She likes you, but you freaked her out talking about Nietzsche, and being overwhelmed by the tribe. Her ex-boyfriend is a neo-Nazi, for fuck's sake!"
"Well, I had no way of knowing that, did I?" Ping. Beep, beep beep, beep, beep. "I gotta go. Dinner's ready."
He pressed the hang-up rounded square on his 'phone before she could get into that familiar diatribe about their mother being 'right' all along.
Sitting on the sofa, prodding at his unappetising dinner with his fork, he scrambled through his 'phone for Deralyn's number. As he did so, a text came in from his boss, David Cutter:
"Sorry to bother you on downtime, but this is BIG. Routledge is AWOL. I need you to data-scramble Sara Ryland, all bases. Meet me back at office 22:00. Bonus if you need it. 1K."
Bernie poked at a lump of what once might've been beef, and stared at it.
"A thousand pounds for doing what I do best, but off the books? Fuck, yeah. I'll see you as something else in the Chicken Shack, Sloane Square, covered in BBQ sauce, baby."
Less than a mile away, at that exact moment, Dikas froze at the keyboard.
"They're coming, Miss Ryland. Many forms, many directions. Many purposes."
She looked up from her back-up Mac, surprised.
"What?"
"For you, for him, for us."
Sara slammed down the lid of her Mac.
"Could you be a little more...specific?"
Dikas leaned back, seemingly taking in his surroundings for the first time.
"This is a bad place, Miss Ryland. Hard to defend. Not what Fate would like."
She glanced at her Ikea shelf units and rugs from the Warehouse.
"Right now, I feel like telling Fate to go fuck itself."
Dikas grimaced, and shut down the laptop.
"This is never easy. It never gets easier. This, I have noticed. It's the burden of impromptu physicality in a digital world, but no less intimidating. We need to go."
Sara Ryland stood up, shoving her Mac back into its bag.
"Go where? Do I need to pack anything?"
"Essentials," said Dikas, "However you define them. As for where we should go, I have some options." He hesitated, taking in her expression. "Most of them you'll hate, but one is totally off their..." He paused again.
"Radar? That's the expression. 'Off their radar.'"
"Such old technology!" laughed Dikas, clapping his hands.
"Yeah, sure," said Sara, "Now you're up to date with all the whiz-bang horrors of the twenty-first century."
He widened his eyes.
"Excellent point. Best leave your 'phone behind."
She busied herself around the flat, grabbing bits and bobs and shoving them into an old Spirit of St. Louis holdall. By the time she'd finished, Dikas was standing at the door.
"So where are we going?" she asked, checking that her Oyster card was still in her pocket.
"You won't like it."
"Try me."
"Kilburn."
"Well," she said, "That could be worse."
Dikas looked sheepish.
"Kilburn, North Yorkshire. I have access to a cottage." He produced a set of keys, jangling them in front of her as she let out a resigned sigh.
To be continued...
Monday 27 June 2016
Tempus Clausuris (4)
Part Four: You and your Devil.
Mick Routledge changed his mind and got off the Tube train at Stamford Brook, acknowledging that some impulses made less sense in the context of threat management.
Hitting the intercom button for flat 27A, he took a deep breath and prepared himself as best he could.
"Yeah?"
Male voice, no distinct accent. Just a hint of thudding, grimy techno in the background. Shit.
"Hi, is Sasha there?"
A pause, long enough for him to almost recognise the tune in the background, ended with a distinctly feminine laugh.
"She is," replied the male voice. "And she would like to know how men love."
Mick frowned. This was old school, and he hadn't been expecting it.
"In haste," he said, "But they detest at leisure."
"Bravo, Byron." The buzz of the door release made his palm twitch. "Come on up."
To say that the flat had changed since Mick had last seen it four months ago would be an understatement. The girl who let him in introduced herself as Omni, and waved him through the incense clouds towards the now blue-painted living room, where two heavily-bearded men with shaved heads were working on high-end Linux laptops, coding God knows what. One of them looked up as he entered the room, nodded and smiled.
"Love nature more than Man, dude."
"I never really find that difficult. Maybe I should've brought flowers..."
"Not with my allergies," said Sasha, patting him on the back and taking a hit from her E-cigarette. "It's good to see you, Mick. Sorry for the...formalities."
He stared at her, taking in the now-blonde hair, the military-style clothing, and her determinedly geeky spectacles.
"Glad I remembered my Byron," he said. "I was going to say something about absence, but I guess you've got that covered, too."
She smiled, ushering him towards the sofa in the corner. The music faded out and ceased.
"Four months, two days. I think you're cured. Omni, could you throw together some cocktails? The boys would probably appreciate some enhanced coffees, too." Omni nodded, and went into the kitchen.
"Enhanced?" asked Mick, studying the two coders with interest. They appeared to be working in unison.
"There are stimulants, and there are precursors to augmented decisive action. Right now, Gary and Hans are maximising the potential Brexit investment opportunities with a freaking vengeance, and need the latter."
Mick laughed, and reached into his pocket for his own E-cig. Sasha stayed his hand.
"Try this," she said, passing him her own, "And if it hits a nerve, let me be the first to tell you that enhancement has a universal application across delivery systems."
Mick Routledge took the device from her, fascinated merely by being in her presence again.
"Sasha, I'm going to want to talk to your suppliers, aren't I? What have you done? Got THC into a heatable liquid?"
She laughed.
"Close, but no traditional cigar. At least, not in this case. Rest easy, Mick. Time is infinitely mutable for those who appreciate how complexity can slipstream into simplicity."
He pressed the button on the device and inhaled deeply, breathing in the vapour. Omni returned from the kitchen with two cocktail glasses filled with pinkish liquid, setting them down on the black-painted coffee table.
"Enjoy," she said, reaching out to Mick but not making contact. "Don't forget your purpose."
"Purpose?" Mick pressed the button again. "Purpose! Of course." He reached into his shirt pocket for the flash drive. "Sasha, you need to see this. It came in today. Sara Ryland. I think there's something..." The second hit from Sasha's modified E-cig suddenly took hold. "Holy crap, what's in this?"
Sasha leant forward, extricating the flash drive from his pocket as Mick leaned back on the sofa, lost in his own semi-hallucinatory distractions.
"Hans, we have something new. Take a break and fire it up, would you?"
They watched the .mp4 file on the flash drive - twice. Omni was the first to speak:
"So...many...levels."
Gary nodded.
"I think the poetry of heaven just gained a few more stars."
Hans looked up at Sasha, his hands still poised above his keyboard.
"Psytrophic animensis, Sasha. I've seen this before, but not for a very long time."
Sasha nodded, glancing at Mick on the sofa, now passed out and snoring.
"Agreed. I thought he was dead, but Phylos Cade is obviously still alive. We need to find this...Sara Ryland."
Omni shrugged, and headed back to the kitchen.
"Enhanced coffees all round, then."
To be continued...
Mick Routledge changed his mind and got off the Tube train at Stamford Brook, acknowledging that some impulses made less sense in the context of threat management.
Hitting the intercom button for flat 27A, he took a deep breath and prepared himself as best he could.
"Yeah?"
Male voice, no distinct accent. Just a hint of thudding, grimy techno in the background. Shit.
"Hi, is Sasha there?"
A pause, long enough for him to almost recognise the tune in the background, ended with a distinctly feminine laugh.
"She is," replied the male voice. "And she would like to know how men love."
Mick frowned. This was old school, and he hadn't been expecting it.
"In haste," he said, "But they detest at leisure."
"Bravo, Byron." The buzz of the door release made his palm twitch. "Come on up."
To say that the flat had changed since Mick had last seen it four months ago would be an understatement. The girl who let him in introduced herself as Omni, and waved him through the incense clouds towards the now blue-painted living room, where two heavily-bearded men with shaved heads were working on high-end Linux laptops, coding God knows what. One of them looked up as he entered the room, nodded and smiled.
"Love nature more than Man, dude."
"I never really find that difficult. Maybe I should've brought flowers..."
"Not with my allergies," said Sasha, patting him on the back and taking a hit from her E-cigarette. "It's good to see you, Mick. Sorry for the...formalities."
He stared at her, taking in the now-blonde hair, the military-style clothing, and her determinedly geeky spectacles.
"Glad I remembered my Byron," he said. "I was going to say something about absence, but I guess you've got that covered, too."
She smiled, ushering him towards the sofa in the corner. The music faded out and ceased.
"Four months, two days. I think you're cured. Omni, could you throw together some cocktails? The boys would probably appreciate some enhanced coffees, too." Omni nodded, and went into the kitchen.
"Enhanced?" asked Mick, studying the two coders with interest. They appeared to be working in unison.
"There are stimulants, and there are precursors to augmented decisive action. Right now, Gary and Hans are maximising the potential Brexit investment opportunities with a freaking vengeance, and need the latter."
Mick laughed, and reached into his pocket for his own E-cig. Sasha stayed his hand.
"Try this," she said, passing him her own, "And if it hits a nerve, let me be the first to tell you that enhancement has a universal application across delivery systems."
Mick Routledge took the device from her, fascinated merely by being in her presence again.
"Sasha, I'm going to want to talk to your suppliers, aren't I? What have you done? Got THC into a heatable liquid?"
She laughed.
"Close, but no traditional cigar. At least, not in this case. Rest easy, Mick. Time is infinitely mutable for those who appreciate how complexity can slipstream into simplicity."
He pressed the button on the device and inhaled deeply, breathing in the vapour. Omni returned from the kitchen with two cocktail glasses filled with pinkish liquid, setting them down on the black-painted coffee table.
"Enjoy," she said, reaching out to Mick but not making contact. "Don't forget your purpose."
"Purpose?" Mick pressed the button again. "Purpose! Of course." He reached into his shirt pocket for the flash drive. "Sasha, you need to see this. It came in today. Sara Ryland. I think there's something..." The second hit from Sasha's modified E-cig suddenly took hold. "Holy crap, what's in this?"
Sasha leant forward, extricating the flash drive from his pocket as Mick leaned back on the sofa, lost in his own semi-hallucinatory distractions.
"Hans, we have something new. Take a break and fire it up, would you?"
They watched the .mp4 file on the flash drive - twice. Omni was the first to speak:
"So...many...levels."
Gary nodded.
"I think the poetry of heaven just gained a few more stars."
Hans looked up at Sasha, his hands still poised above his keyboard.
"Psytrophic animensis, Sasha. I've seen this before, but not for a very long time."
Sasha nodded, glancing at Mick on the sofa, now passed out and snoring.
"Agreed. I thought he was dead, but Phylos Cade is obviously still alive. We need to find this...Sara Ryland."
Omni shrugged, and headed back to the kitchen.
"Enhanced coffees all round, then."
To be continued...
Saturday 11 June 2016
Tempus Clausuris (3)
Part Three: You were asking where the magic went.
Dikas was still finding his way around the keyboard, never mind the Internet, but had already become distracted by his accidental discovery of YouTube. Sara Ryland watched him with a combination of pity and sympathy.
"If there's one comfort in all of this," she sighed, "It's knowing that every question you'll ask me from now on will begin with 'Why'."
He looked up from the laptop screen and gave a little shrug, then realised he'd missed something and moved the video slider back. She shook her head and went into the kitchen to make coffee. It's going to be a long night, she thought.
The e-mail from Mick Routledge at AktionHive had arrived four hours earlier, closely followed by a much shorter one from Bernie Taylor and then, almost an hour later, the shortest yet from the CTO of AktionHive himself, David Cutter. With varying degrees of praise and further enquiry, they all concerned the animation she'd submitted to the company. Against her better nature, and what she realised was over a decade of social conditioning, she'd decided not to reply immediately - to any of them. Instead, she'd called Dikas to let him know that whatever they'd started had now truly begun, and that she could use some support.
"Fear not, Miss Ryland."
"I think you can call me Sara, you know."
"I will be with you very soon." There was a pause.
"But?"
"Adjustment. It's required. It's going to be required."
"Jesus, I'm not asking you to move in with me," she said, laughing.
"Not what I meant. And...I will need instruction. In some matters."
More curious now than nervous, she'd stopped laughing.
"Okay. Well look, we can discuss all that when you get here. I need to make a start on what's going to pass as my presentation. They're badgering me for a time and date to meet."
"Patience as a virtue knows no cultural boundaries, Miss Ryland. They'll wait."
Yeah, she thought, for the elephant to finally arrive in the room. How the Hell am I going to spin this? Suddenly, something occurred to her.
"Oh crap," she said. "If this is going according to plan, they may already be looking for him."
Dikas made a 'Mmmm' sound.
"You're agreeing with me? Is paranoia contagious?"
"That too, I think, we'll learn in time."
"Very reassuring. You really need to work on that, Dikas."
"One hour," he said. "I'll bring food."
"That's really not..." He'd already rung off. "Necessary."
To be continued...
Dikas was still finding his way around the keyboard, never mind the Internet, but had already become distracted by his accidental discovery of YouTube. Sara Ryland watched him with a combination of pity and sympathy.
"If there's one comfort in all of this," she sighed, "It's knowing that every question you'll ask me from now on will begin with 'Why'."
He looked up from the laptop screen and gave a little shrug, then realised he'd missed something and moved the video slider back. She shook her head and went into the kitchen to make coffee. It's going to be a long night, she thought.
The e-mail from Mick Routledge at AktionHive had arrived four hours earlier, closely followed by a much shorter one from Bernie Taylor and then, almost an hour later, the shortest yet from the CTO of AktionHive himself, David Cutter. With varying degrees of praise and further enquiry, they all concerned the animation she'd submitted to the company. Against her better nature, and what she realised was over a decade of social conditioning, she'd decided not to reply immediately - to any of them. Instead, she'd called Dikas to let him know that whatever they'd started had now truly begun, and that she could use some support.
"Fear not, Miss Ryland."
"I think you can call me Sara, you know."
"I will be with you very soon." There was a pause.
"But?"
"Adjustment. It's required. It's going to be required."
"Jesus, I'm not asking you to move in with me," she said, laughing.
"Not what I meant. And...I will need instruction. In some matters."
More curious now than nervous, she'd stopped laughing.
"Okay. Well look, we can discuss all that when you get here. I need to make a start on what's going to pass as my presentation. They're badgering me for a time and date to meet."
"Patience as a virtue knows no cultural boundaries, Miss Ryland. They'll wait."
Yeah, she thought, for the elephant to finally arrive in the room. How the Hell am I going to spin this? Suddenly, something occurred to her.
"Oh crap," she said. "If this is going according to plan, they may already be looking for him."
Dikas made a 'Mmmm' sound.
"You're agreeing with me? Is paranoia contagious?"
"That too, I think, we'll learn in time."
"Very reassuring. You really need to work on that, Dikas."
"One hour," he said. "I'll bring food."
"That's really not..." He'd already rung off. "Necessary."
To be continued...
Friday 27 May 2016
Tempus Clausuris (2)
Part Two: And this is where you get off.
"Creative structures," sighed Bernie, reviewing the latest animations with undisguised contempt. "Basically, they're showreels for when they fuck off to Warp Zero. Or Blizzard. Or...anyone else who'll have 'em."
Mick nodded. "I hear your pain."
"The thing is," said Bernie, "I totally get why they're doing it. They know we're picking two of 'em to handle virtually everything Cutter wants done on the AV, and the rest of 'em will just have to float 'n' hope when they get the sorries and goodbyes."
"You realise that Cutter doesn't have much choice about it, right?"
"Doesn't stop me hating the system, but yeah. Powerless dickwad. I get it. Hang on, what the fuck's this?"
Mick glanced across at Bernie's monitor.
"Woo. What is that?"
Bernie checked his paper manifest.
"Sara Ryland. She submitted late. Jesus. That's...involved."
They watched for another ninety-six seconds in silence. Then it ended.
"Get her on the 'phone," said Mick. "Seriously. We need to bring her in."
"I don't think we've got her number," said Bernie, flicking through paperwork. "Shit. Just an e-mail address. Should we check with Cutter?"
"Come on," groaned Mick, "You know exactly what he'd say."
"Yeah, but...he's gonna want to see this."
"Then we'll show him," said Mick, "But first, run it again, and...send me her e-mail address."
"Really?" asked Bernie. "You want to take a shot at this?"
"Call me crazy," said Mick, "But I think this is one of those...divisional moments."
As they watched the animation for a second time, an element of psytrophic animensis passed through the accepted matrix into their perceived reality. Mick sensed it first.
"We need to talk to Cade."
"What? Who?"
"Huh?"
"Who's Cade?"
Mick shook his head.
"Jesus, I think I'm going to have to Google. That's never happened before. E-mail her, get her in here. I need to go and...sort some things out. This is good."
Bernie watched him leave, somewhat unsteadily.
"No argument here, dude."
To be continued...
"Creative structures," sighed Bernie, reviewing the latest animations with undisguised contempt. "Basically, they're showreels for when they fuck off to Warp Zero. Or Blizzard. Or...anyone else who'll have 'em."
Mick nodded. "I hear your pain."
"The thing is," said Bernie, "I totally get why they're doing it. They know we're picking two of 'em to handle virtually everything Cutter wants done on the AV, and the rest of 'em will just have to float 'n' hope when they get the sorries and goodbyes."
"You realise that Cutter doesn't have much choice about it, right?"
"Doesn't stop me hating the system, but yeah. Powerless dickwad. I get it. Hang on, what the fuck's this?"
Mick glanced across at Bernie's monitor.
"Woo. What is that?"
Bernie checked his paper manifest.
"Sara Ryland. She submitted late. Jesus. That's...involved."
They watched for another ninety-six seconds in silence. Then it ended.
"Get her on the 'phone," said Mick. "Seriously. We need to bring her in."
"I don't think we've got her number," said Bernie, flicking through paperwork. "Shit. Just an e-mail address. Should we check with Cutter?"
"Come on," groaned Mick, "You know exactly what he'd say."
"Yeah, but...he's gonna want to see this."
"Then we'll show him," said Mick, "But first, run it again, and...send me her e-mail address."
"Really?" asked Bernie. "You want to take a shot at this?"
"Call me crazy," said Mick, "But I think this is one of those...divisional moments."
As they watched the animation for a second time, an element of psytrophic animensis passed through the accepted matrix into their perceived reality. Mick sensed it first.
"We need to talk to Cade."
"What? Who?"
"Huh?"
"Who's Cade?"
Mick shook his head.
"Jesus, I think I'm going to have to Google. That's never happened before. E-mail her, get her in here. I need to go and...sort some things out. This is good."
Bernie watched him leave, somewhat unsteadily.
"No argument here, dude."
To be continued...
Monday 16 May 2016
Tempus Clausuris (1)
Part One: Why the long face, Mister Horse?
It had been a long time, and she couldn't deny it. Lesser souls might've termed it 'decimation', but her innate devotion to the precision of grammatical precepts had knocked that particular descriptive on the bonce with little or no mercy. "History is everything, Miss Ryland. Everything with a pinch."
She still heard his voice. Here, there, and everywhere. Much of it, she knew, was an illusion born of frustration, originally engendered by the cruelty of enforced separation.
"We're going on a journey, you and I, and none of it foretold, nor predestined by what passes as Fate. I hope, for your sake, you're equipped for the bumps."
The 'bumps', as he had termed them, turned out to be nightmares in both flesh and consequence. Removal and repair, readjustment and regret, resplendour and replacement. They were all covered, but never in glory.
At the interchange between Happenstance and Salvation she encountered Dikas. He was interesting, because he professed to knowing at least one of her former associates.
"Y'know, he's not as dead as some might suggest. He's still there, doing what he does, but you should know he's changed."
"Changed how?" she asked, checking her pockets for the piece of paper that would determine whether or not she was dreaming.
"At a fundamental level," said Dikas, reaching out to stay her hand. "He's not my friend, Miss Ryland. He could never be that. Truth be told, he says he got no friends, straight up. There's a new particular upon the tapestry, something you should definitely be aware of. Here's how it works..."
Dikas revealed a vastly complicated paradigm in the form of symbolic structures built upon waveforms in the accepted matrix, and then he cut it all with a spike.
"Too much," said Dikas, waving his hands like a thing possessed. "Too much!"
"No!" she cried, "Not enough!"
Dikas held his hands to his face with sadness. "I failed you all."
"What?"
Dikas moved back, his hands still fusing with the power of the constrained paradigm. "It is what it is, Miss Ryland. All this power, all this knowing, it's..."
The voice cut in, oblivious to the existing correspondence.
"Unknowable."
To be continued...
It had been a long time, and she couldn't deny it. Lesser souls might've termed it 'decimation', but her innate devotion to the precision of grammatical precepts had knocked that particular descriptive on the bonce with little or no mercy. "History is everything, Miss Ryland. Everything with a pinch."
She still heard his voice. Here, there, and everywhere. Much of it, she knew, was an illusion born of frustration, originally engendered by the cruelty of enforced separation.
"We're going on a journey, you and I, and none of it foretold, nor predestined by what passes as Fate. I hope, for your sake, you're equipped for the bumps."
The 'bumps', as he had termed them, turned out to be nightmares in both flesh and consequence. Removal and repair, readjustment and regret, resplendour and replacement. They were all covered, but never in glory.
At the interchange between Happenstance and Salvation she encountered Dikas. He was interesting, because he professed to knowing at least one of her former associates.
"Y'know, he's not as dead as some might suggest. He's still there, doing what he does, but you should know he's changed."
"Changed how?" she asked, checking her pockets for the piece of paper that would determine whether or not she was dreaming.
"At a fundamental level," said Dikas, reaching out to stay her hand. "He's not my friend, Miss Ryland. He could never be that. Truth be told, he says he got no friends, straight up. There's a new particular upon the tapestry, something you should definitely be aware of. Here's how it works..."
Dikas revealed a vastly complicated paradigm in the form of symbolic structures built upon waveforms in the accepted matrix, and then he cut it all with a spike.
"Too much," said Dikas, waving his hands like a thing possessed. "Too much!"
"No!" she cried, "Not enough!"
Dikas held his hands to his face with sadness. "I failed you all."
"What?"
Dikas moved back, his hands still fusing with the power of the constrained paradigm. "It is what it is, Miss Ryland. All this power, all this knowing, it's..."
The voice cut in, oblivious to the existing correspondence.
"Unknowable."
To be continued...
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