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...
Sunday, 24 July 2016
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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