The

Great Cybermind Novel

‘Blaze Rosewood’

or

Elizabeth Barrette
Bazza Badrock
Linda Head
Robert Kezelis
Kathryn Koromilas
Jukka Lehmus
Jon Marshall
Maurizio Mariotti
Skip Mendler
Dian Sandefur

Plus the rest of the Cybermind Mailing List

Edited by

Jon Marshall
 First Printed 2008
Alchemical Elephant Press
Sydney, Australia

Via Lulu.com

See Website:

http://www.geocities.com/jpmarshall.geo/cybermind/

2
Chapter 1
It was a dark and stormy night. The surge protectors were
working overtime as Clara Helio prowled the Internet and the
Pentagon security cameras, searching hard for the terrorist
who threatened to destroy the whole world and plunge it in to
the darkest of nightmares.

Alaain Current, the guerilla poet and theorist, had merged the
biological with the spiritual with the social with the wires of
the world’s communication systems. All he needed to do was
to release his virus in the right place at the right time, when
the stars came into their courses, and the world would
become what he called Cybermind.

Cybermind! Clara shuddered at the thought. She had spent

the last two months lurking on that on an internet mailing list
with that name. It had seemed occupied only by those
lamenting their pathetic love lives, or making sexual one-
liners or far fetched political rants criticising the Great
Leader. Slowly however she had come to realise the foul
undercurrents of this nihilist underworld. Current’s
coruscating mix of midrashic Chinese verse and obscene
monologues interspersed with fragments of some bizarre
computer code, had taken on the patina of some channelled
version of the fabled and dread Al-Azif.

It was almost inconceivable that such a bunch of hopeless

whining intellectuals would come to anything, let alone pose
the greatest danger to civilisation the world had ever seen,
but slowly Clara had pieced it all together, and it had left her
breathless. Tonight, Current acting alone would attempt to
penetrate the Pentagon and set off the virus, using the
building’s own shape to attack its foundations and the very
foundations of the world. Clara’s attempts to point out the
threat to her superiors – the legendary ‘floor 13’ – had failed.
They had politely suggested that she take a holiday and,
when she refused, had insisted firmly taking no contradiction.

3
Fuming, she had used all her skills to escape their tracking,
and tonight she was ready to strike her blow for freedom and
order. Fantasies played around her brain. She imagined the
Great Leader himself presenting her with a medal, or
promoting her to oversee his personal security. She flushed at
the thought of his kindly crinkled face, smiling at her, and his
homely Texan accent speaking her name. Clara Helio, the
Protector of Freedom. Even if the outer world could never
know the peril it faced, he would applaud her stand. She was
like some lone gunman in the American West, coming
silently into town, and standing firm for the forces of good.
She squirmed, thinking of herself as Doris Day playing
Annie Oakley.

She shook her head; this was lonely work and such thoughts
distracted her from her task.

There! It had to be Alaain himself. Relatively unnoticeable,

but that fierce spark in his eyes gave him away. He was
approaching the Pentagon, through the rain and the dark,
already having traversed the barriers surrounding it. How had
he done it? Clara had no idea, and this cautioned her – a brief
image arose of him riding the gale, his feet striding against
the gusts and his jacket billowing behind. Who knew his
powers? If she struck against him while she was unprepared
then doom awaited. Current looked nervous but not alarmed.
No doubt he realised the magnitude of his action, but he did
not seem worried that any would stop him. She watched him
walk up to the gates. The guards challenged him. She could
not see what he did, but they shook their heads in a dazed
manner and let him through.

Turning to the Vid screens Clara watched him walk casually

through the corridors as if he owned the place. She was
briefly impressed by his arrogance, but began steeling herself
for her counter-attack – the counter attack which would save
the world and lead to her award for heroism. Alaain headed
exactly were she had predicted. She began to move. She was
in full armour; head covered against gas attacks, body
protected against radiation, the best firewalls installed to

4
prevent viral contamination. She ran. Was there enough
time?

She bounded into the room to see Current insert something

into the mainframe. Was she too late? No, he had not closed
the drive. “Stop” she screamed, raising her weapon. Current
calmly turned around and opened up with his baz gun, and
she was bombarded with the lyrics of Duran Duran – so
catchy so meaningless. She was frozen in place, watching as
the tray moved into the machine, and hearing the low whirrs
of the software being downloaded. The World began to shift,
the corners of the room warped, angles became impossible, a
babble of unholy whispers assailed her ears.

The Cybermind had come.

*****

Clara awoke feeling nauseous and aware of the smells of

burning sulphur and sewerage spill. It took some while to
remember who she was and why she was here. She seemed to
be naked, covered in black slime and something that looked
like cheese rings. Strange patterns seemed etched on the
walls, while the only light was provided by computer
screens. She pulled herself off the floor, feeling the viscous
stickiness and hearing small tearing sounds as she moved.

The computers looked and sounded somehow sinister as if

they now had a life of their own. Running across one screen
she saw:

on this day 4004BC

God created the world at 9 a.m.

I did not. I refuse to be blamed for this mess. I forgot

to clean up after a lab experiment and one of the petri
dishes started growing funny stuff in it. I decided to
watch for awhile and look what happened! Be thankful
I don’t flush the lot of you down the toilet!

5
 I wish I had the courage to flush myself down the
toilet.

Damn you, God, for not flushing me.

Clara blinked in confusion, opened the door and ran down

the corridor. Military staff seemed so confused that they did
not notice her. They walked clutching note boards, or stood
trying to read the graffiti which undulated across the walls.
Most of them seemed naked or clothed in material which was
seeking its own life – shoulder pads and medals grew like
weeds. Several seemed to be wielding crucifixes like
daggers.

Outside, a man called after her and fired a gun which echoed
long like thunder. The storm had stopped, replaced by some
darker more unearthly storm. The sky whorled around as if it
was a skim of oil. She thought that strange scripts traversed
across it, blazing with some subliminal light – saying things
she was not meant to know.

fukue0o^o0 have reaTHOOayen walkhZ through

pourayeng raayenhed THOOe heayeghthZ aye have.
THOOe+ have fukulown \nought hayegh, THOOeayer
ayen THOOe wayendayenghZ broken, THOOeayer ayen
THOOe wayendordhZ QLUEuelulled. THOOuhZ \nought
mayene enemayeehZ! eTHOOayen walkhZ through
pourayeng raayenhZtahZ+ shalull neverr

The streets were almost empty. Those people she saw were
standing stunned. Some looked dead already, others
reminded her of stranded fish on an empty beach, flapping
intermittently as they died. Some were kneeling and praying
fervently – calling all to repent for their sins. It looked to her
as if the walls were no longer solid but twisted somehow into
themselves, as if corners led elsewhere, and somehow space
no longer had three visible dimensions. The world no longer
seemed to map on to itself. Her sense was that somehow
another vast reality had fused with her own, a world huge and

6
impersonal yet filled with life. Systems rolled into place like
some huge juggernaut questing for flesh. The Gods shrugged
and life clung helplessly to the convulsions. This other world
seemed somehow more real than the real itself.

A man ran up to her screaming “Simulacra, Simulacrum, the

dessert of the real, Bawdy Lard, Bawdy Lord.” He ran on.
She supposed he made as much sense as anyone could in this
situation. Another person, she was not sure of its gender,
walked by muttering that the Dark Gods had come.

Reaching her apartment, she found the key would not fit, and
the people inside threatened her and told her to go away.
Looking at the door, she saw it was an advertisement for
penis enlargement – or maybe the expansion of prisons.
Faced with futility she crossed into the opposite apartment
where the door was open. Strangely she could not remember
the occupants or ever having seen them. Inside there was a
single corpse slumped over a desk. She could not figure out if
the computer wires were trying to grow into it, or were
bursting out from it. Never the less, there were clothes that
fitted with minor slashings, and food in the fridge. She stayed
clear of the body and turned on the TV. Unfamiliar text
flicked on, and then the image expanded. The reporters
looked shocked and panicked – clearly the cue cards were not
working, and the flicker suggested some kind of undersea
world between her and them. It was not clear how many
bodies the female reporter had, or whether this was some
lagging ghost. They mentioned something about an Alen
Michaelrose having the first cybernetic net implants.
Macroswift had bought the rights to a Nigerian money scam.
There was something about a missing tooth and potential war
with North Korea.

The situation was blamed on the Great Terrorist and they ran
a human interest story in which it seemed he was a cyborg
dependent for life on machines attached to his body. They
showed the familiar pictures of him astride a horse calmly
holding a rifle in the air, and other pictures of him cheering
death in America. As Clara looked, each image was clustered

7
with commentary. The cave expanded to include life support
machines, satellite dishes, computers, encyclopaedias,
religious texts, prayer mats, wives, children, weapons of all
sorts – she briefly wondered how he always seemed to escape
with such a load. Other texts told her of his family’s business
dealings with the Great Leader’s family, of his own family’s
disowning him, of his family celebrating his last birthday, of
his ties with the secretary of defence, of a former President
comparing him to George Washington, of his speeches being
translated in very different ways, of allegations some
speeches were CIA plants or his followers simulations, of his
guilt and lack of guilt for the war, of his number of doubles,
of the Great Leader saying that capturing this man was his
greatest aim, of the Great Leader saying he was irrelevant, of
offers to hand him over to the US being rejected, of the offers
being fake, of his ties to Iraq and lack of ties to Iraq, of his
taste for brothels and his taste for chastity, of his centrality to
his organisation and his marginality to it. Clara shook her
head back to the reporters. The Great Terrorist was as
completely veiled by information as his wives by cloth.

There was a brief interview with a religious leader who

seemed to be sweating hard, and blaming liberals for their
Sodomy, Baby Killing and Disobedient Women for the start
of Armageddon. He called for the restitution of a theocratic
state in line with the vision of the Christian founders of
America and the unalterable Word of God. Clara understood
the political importance of working with these people, but
this was fantasy – the four horsemen were nowhere to be
seen. She thought it was more likely that some other Gods
had come. Real Gods with terror and disregard as their
characteristics. Old Gods. Gods who did not pretend to
cherish love, justice or mercy. She saw a line of links leading
to other texts and commentaries. She shook her head again,
feeling the shape of something huge beneath the seas,
something in the act of waking and rising. This was fantasy
too – perhaps. She forced her attention back to the reporters
who stated that the Great Leader would soon make a speech
to reassure the nation. Clara turned the TV off, feeling
vertiginous, sad she would miss the speech, but certain she

8
would be able to read it later. Despite the talk, it was clear
that no one in authority knew anything.

Clearly Alaain Current had escaped. Only she, and perhaps

the rest of Cybermind, knew the significance of that.

She sat back into the chair, and had a vague sensation that it
was preparing to eat her but had somehow failed. The shock
slowly drained away as her training took hold. She was not a
fanatic. She knew too much order stifled life, but this much
chaos was even worse. Something had to be done. If this was
the result of some kind computer virus, she reasoned, then it
should be possible to undo it, no matter how complex it was
– no matter how dark the Gods it awoke. Perhaps the
memory could never be restored completely to its previous
state, but the faults could be rectified and true data and
programs recovered and set to work again. Her next step was
clear, she needed to find a computer programmer. The best.
Someone who was imaginative enough to understand the size
of the project and someone who would not turn away in
denial. There was really only one choice.

9
Chapter 2
Bob Farnsworth sat at his desk, happily typing away at a
weekly report. Early November rain ran down the windows
of his office. Far below, cars swished along the Chicago
streets. The weather dampened Bob’s mood not at all. He
liked his job. He liked being able to wear jeans and a t-shirt
to work – today’s choice was adorned with a fractal crescent
on the front and the fractal’s program on the back. He liked
living in Chicago, at least for now – although he felt that he
would never call any place home, having grown up on a
succession of military bases around the world. Bob cast a
fond glance at the photograph of his father, which teetered
atop a pile of paperwork; it was Carl Farnsworth who had
given him a love of all things electronic.

The keys chattered away under Bob’s fingertips, faithfully

recording his thoughts. It had been a slow week at
Macroswift – a couple of hard drive failures, a virus scare
that turned out to be a hoax, the usual round of upgrades and
minor glitches. Bob enjoyed the challenge of troubleshooting
the company’s extensive array of hardware and software.
Inevitably, it came in waves, and he found himself caught in
a trough. He sighed. A quick twist of his wrist showed over
an hour until breaktime.

Behind him, the office door stood open. Bob liked to keep an
ear on the large maze of cubicles which filled the interior of
this floor. The offices with their prestigious windows formed
a ring around the inner workings of the department, an
incentive to anyone interested in climbing the ladder of merit,
and a perk to those whose skills had already won them
recognition. Besides, the low background murmur from the
cubicles reminded Bob of his days as a programmer. He still
found time to tap out the occasional line of code, but he liked
troubleshooting better.

Bored, Bob checked his email and found an obscure but

interesting quote on Cybermind, his favorite email list:

10
 To: Cybermind
From: Seola
Topic: Gnosis

Is there life beyond the natural order of existence?

Some will declare there is, some will declare there
isn’t. Others are content to just wait and see. Imagine
there is, and the path to understanding is very subtle
and most unlikely. Nature has a marvelous way of
spiraling to perfection, though based on accident it
forms order.

Just then, the monitor flickered. Bob sat up, alert, but his text
remained intact. So he continued typing. Something
electronic spat and coughed in protest. The grounding line
attached to Bob’s wrist suddenly zapped him – a clear
violation of its intended purpose to keep static electricity
from discharging into his equipment from his body. Bob
peeled off the velcro cuff. Underneath, his skin prickled with
heat rash.

“Okay, that’s weird,” Bob muttered. The next flare looked

like lightning, somehow trapped behind the glass. His whole
monitor fizzled out. Ghostly afterimages swam across Bob’s
vision. Behind him, the cubicles turned into bedlam as two
hundred people began shouting all at once, at least half of
them demanding his attention.

“What the hell was that?”

“Bob! Hey, Bob - come fix this thing!”

“My whole system is fried. Now what do we do?”

“Help! Help! Has anybody seen Bob?”

“Well that didn’t work.”

“Don’t worry, Bob will take care of it.”

11
“This hard drive is possessed. Didn’t I tell you last week it
was possessed? Now look what happens.”

“Somebody call Bob.”

“Everybody’s calling Bob, wait your turn.”

“Jesus H. Christ on a donkey, we are so fucked. What about

our deadline?”

“Bob! Bob! Bob!”

Smiling, Bob grabbed his toolkit and a couple of manuals,

and headed out to restore order. From every cubicle monitors
stared at him with blank eyes, their dark screens a silent plea
for help. The harried programmers, of course, made enough
noise to make up for it. Bob patted shoulders and issued
reassuring comments as he made his way down to check the
floor’s main fusebox. “Don’t panic, folks. Give Maintenance
a minute to do their thing, and then I’ll do mine,” he said.

Sure enough, as he was surveying the fusebox for possible

problems, the system came back up. Bob found one blown
fuse, replaced it, and shut the door. Then he leaned on the
intercom button and announced, “All right, ladies and
gentlemen, you know the drill. Please check your systems
first, and if you still have a problem, put up the red flag.”

Almost immediately the little pennants began to sprout from

the top of the cubicle walls. Bob headed for the nearest one,
and had to pull up short as another red flag popped onto the
wall right in front of him. “What seems to be the problem,
Peter?” asked Bob.

Peter pointed to his monitor. “It isn’t supposed to be doing

that. It’s supposed to be running a simulation of San
Francisco’s municipal water system,” he said.

12
That turned out to be an extraordinary display of male,
female, and canine flesh in an improbable combination that
would have crumpled the pages of the Kama Sutra. Moments
later, though, the screen flickered to a green field over which
stampeded a team of soccer players. Bob caught his breath as
the checkered ball soared toward a goal, then tore his eyes
from the monitor. “Is it just me, or is this computer acting
like a television?” Bob said.
“It’s not just you,” Peter assured him. “I put the red flag up
when it flashed a commercial for the Sci-Fi Channel.”
“Hm.” Bob tapped at the keyboard, managed to shut off the
display, moused around for a minute, and then said, “I think
you lost the sim you were just running, but the program itself
seems to be intact. Have you saved all your work?”
“Everything but the last ten minutes or so. That’s when I
started the sim,” said Peter. “I can start it over, no problem.”
“Great. This ought to do the trick,” said Bob. He cued the
system to reboot. “It really shouldn’t be doing this, but you
know that new wireless TV network is a little quirky. I heard
one guy picked up nothing but game show reruns on his cell
phone.” Peter’s computer restored itself. Bob watched as the
programmer rapped out a few quick commands and
relaunched the simulation. San Francisco built itself on the
screen, blue lines spidering through the city.
“Thanks, Bob,” said Peter.
“Anytime,” said Bob, and moved on to the next flag. He
missed his coffee break. He missed his lunch break. He
missed his afternoon break.

Each red flag offered a different challenge. It was as if the

entire computer network in the Macroswift building had gone
insane. Bob had never seen anything like this before. The
challenge thrilled him – although he maintained his sympathy
for those less fortunate co-workers who had lost valuable
data. Some he managed to retrieve; some had apparently
consigned itself to oblivion.

Aside from the peculiarity of the problems themselves, it was

almost business as usual. Then the truly bizarre began to
register. People whose systems Bob had already fixed now

13
put their red flags back up. That never happened; computers
that Bob fixed, stayed fixed for quite a while. It was one of
his gifts. A few users complained of the same problem as
before, but most cited different ones. Alice, the programmer
who sat in the cubicle next to Peter, had her monitor explode
three times and got trapped in the lift on her way to first aid.

Later, Peter actually left his cubicle to track down Bob and
ask for an out-of-turn repair. “I hate to do this, but ... I think
you need to see what it’s doing now,” he said.

Bob looked at the recalcitrant monitor and blanched. It was

displaying, in text large enough to read from several paces
away, sensitive Macroswift documents that Peter could not
possibly have access to. Bob turned the monitor aside and
tried to address the problem. Neither the keyboard nor the
mouse responded. “Don’t do this to me,” he said. “Come on,
baby, talk to me here!”

“Good morning, sunshine!” the computer sang out. The

familiar soundfile welcomed Bob every day - but on his own
computer, not on Peter’s. “Please tell me you copied that
soundfile,” said Bob. Peter clung to the cubicle wall with one
trembling hand.
“I wish,” he said. “It was still set for How may I serve you,
Master? this morning.”

The standard Doors 2003 cloudscape came up, along with the
toolbars and Peter’s customized desktop icons. Hesitantly,
Bob tried a few commands. Nothing out of the ordinary
happened. “It seems to be working fine now,” he said,
ushering Peter back into the chair.

Bob emerged from Peter’s cubicle to find a small forest of

red flags still waving along the walls. He was about to
address the next when the department head emerged from her
office. “Do you need a hand with your computer, ma’am?”
he asked.
Dora Conway shook her head. “No, thank you, Bob. I don’t
think mine would dare misbehave!” she said. “However, I do

14
need to pull you off the floor. This problem doesn’t just
affect our department, or even our building - it’s all over
Macroswift.”
“All over? But we have offices in New York, Seattle,
Honolulu, Paris, London, Tokyo - how can they all be
affected by the same power surge, or whatever?” Bob said,
stunned. “I mean, even a virus takes some time to spread.
This doesn’t look like a virus, either; the scans come up
clean. I can hardly imagine code that would do all this.
What’s going on?”
“That’s what we want you to find out,” said Ms. Conway.
“As of now, you’re on detached duty, with a platinum
expense account. The Board wants you to determine the
cause and implement a solution to whatever this is. They’re
putting other troubleshooters on the case, but well, you’re
one of our best. Good luck, Bob - I think you’re going to
need it.”
“All right. I’ll try to get my office computer working right,
and if I can’t, then I’ll go home and grab my laptop,” Bob
said.

He returned to his office, regretfully shooing away distressed

co-workers, and shut the door. His computer showed the
same page he had been working on before the anomaly.
“That’s funny,” Bob said. Fingers danced over the keys,
played with the mouse, trying to close the program and call
up the main menu. He needed to access his more powerful
troubleshooting software. Not only did it not come up, the
monitor started fussing and sputtering at him. He shut
everything off.

“Maybe if I just ...” Bob muttered, crawling under his desk,

“fiddle with this a bit,” pulling the plugs one by one out of
the surge protector strip. It emitted a faint smell of burnt
toast, an ominous sign. Then the impossible happened, not in
front of his very eyes because Bob was still under the desk,
but right over his head. He heard the sweet, musical chime of
his computer booting up.

15
Bob looked at the plug in his hand, the last removed from the
now-empty strip. On the back of his neck, lazy hairs now
sprang erect. Quickly Bob scrambled up to stare at his
monitor. Instead of the familiar cloudscape background of
Doors 2003, the screen displayed a starlit sky surmounted by
several lines of seemingly random text:

there is peace and on-getting-with this morning

rain sinks gently into thirsty earth
and tires hiss on the wet road
time gleams shivers
shimmers misted

i love you

before time began we are

16
Chapter 3
Gordon Reader awakes with a start. He sleeps lightly
anyway, partially because he is wary of what might sneak up
on him in the physical world, and partially because he is
wary of what might be waiting for him in the dreamtime.

Reader doesn’t know this. He thinks it’s just because of the

coffee.

Something in the air is vaguely different, and he’s not sure

what. It is 4 AM, here in Blissfield Ohio, and everything
seems still enough. Through the window of his flat,
streetlight striates his low, wide bed. He swings his long
body out, grabbing his robe in the same motion, lean,
predatory, silent in a menacing way at once catlike and
serpentine.

It’s the computer.

In his office down the hall, his computer is singing softly to

itself. Damn popups, he thinks to himself, they’re getting
more clever all the time, if I hear another MIDI version of
“Feelings” backing up a pharma ad I’m not sure what... but
as he thinks about it, he recalls clearly shutting the machine
down a few hours ago.

But no, sure enough, it’s up and running, some vaguely

Scandinavian folk tune issuing though its speakers, and there
on the screen a slideshow is running. He stands in the
doorway, looking unbelievingly at the large flat-panel display
on his desk amongst the empty coffee cups and crumpled
printouts. A phone booth in Norway? Ducks near a pond?
What the fuck is that about? That’s what I hate about the Net,
he thinks to himself, everybody sharing all this dreck about
their lives, pictures of babies, weddings, here’s Teddy
graduating, here’s the phone booth at my corner, here’s a
picture of my gallstones, who the fuck cares? He sits down in
his chair and stares at the screen.

17
Gordon Reader is not a happy man. And he is the kind of
unhappy man that is severely bothered by the fact that others
don’t share his misery, so he does what he can to help them.
In Reader’s case, this includes sowing seeds of dissension
and discord where he can, and in the Net he has found a
marvelous instrument of distraction and destruction. Message
boards, mailing lists, chat rooms, instant messages, so many
conversations going on at once, so many parties, and Gordon
Reader crashes as many of them as he can.

Now he sees that the slideshow has been joined on his screen
by a crawl, one of those annoying marquees...

PLEASE HELP PREVENT THE WEAKENING OF THE

MARINE MAMMAL GENETIC RECONSTRUCTION ACT!

‘Oh Christ’, he thinks. He grabs a half-empty cup of cold

coffee from the seven or eight on his desk, checks it for
mold, and drinks.

****

Clara’s Rolodex – yes, she still has one, one of the foot-tall
ones, hundreds of cards, she picked it up at a military surplus
sale, and now it spins under her searching hands. Someday
she might get around to finishing the project of transferring
all this information to an online address book, but for now,
this version of cartomancy would do.

Sometimes she feels the cards accelerating, ducking

underneath her fingers; sometimes one refuses to move,
digging in its thin cardstock heels.
Is the card trying to get her attention, she wonders, or is it
trying to protect someone, conceal its fellow down the line?
She stops, centers, calms her breath. Stay focused, she thinks
to herself. Zoom in on exactly what you want. Concentrate
on that. She barely needs to touch them; the cards become a
smooth, almost liquid flow.

18
It stops. She opens her eyes. Yes, she thinks. I wonder if he is
still there.

She turns to her computer screen, willing it to retract its

tentacles. I should still be able to get to Google...

****

Alaain watches the contagions spread. Mere chaos loosed

upon the world?
No, he knows, the deep structure, the fractal unfolding, his
gift for his blue goddess will blossom...

****

Bob Farnsworth finds himself at the regional Macroswift

office in Kokomo without a very clear memory of how he got
there. With the systemic breakdown of the computer-
controlled security systems at the rambling complex,
National Guard soldiers and several freelance security forces
have had to be called up. Ancient technologies keeping
guard, checking IDs, patrolling the grounds looking for
intruders.

“Well, as near as I can figure,” he tells the worried-looking

executives and supervisors, “we’re looking at a quantum shift
in the organization of the computer network as we know it. I
don’t think it’s any kind of noogenesis – these computers
aren’t becoming self-aware or anything like that – but
something is changing in the way that they physically
communicate. The wires are becoming optional, and soon
they will be obsolete.”

A couple of faces brightened at that, faces that Bob

recognized as folks in charge of wireless networking
applications. Good old Macroswift, thought Bob, end of the
world as we know it and some of them still have their radar
out for the profit opportunities.

****

19
 The parallels between the internet and a biological
system are many. Growth and decay, circulation and
disease are symptoms of these living systems. In our
bodies, cells, neurons, bacteria and on-line, words,
memes and code-structures are vital elements of
ordered, yet chaotic process.

****

23. (SPAM?) we can help you get out of debt

24. (SPAM?) hey big boy come see me do seven guys all that
look just like you
25. (SPAM?) Th!s is the M-o-ney opporintiy that you have
awaiting for -!
26. hey greader
27. (SPAM?)URGENT REQUEST FOR ASSISTANCE
28. (SPAM?) enlarge the rooster in your pants, new herl3al
preparation
29. the cybermind has been loosed I need you to help me
destroy it
30. (SPAM?) sunrise in Nova Scotia (465K)
31. (SPAM?) Funny things about trolls.!
32. (SPAM?) Get rid of annoying Sp-a-M once and for all!
33. meet me in Washington 0800 GMT
34 (SPAM?) Th-I-s iz IT!!
35. (SPAM?)
36. clara
37. (SPAM?)

****

1435. Delivery failed

1436. Delivery failed.
1437. MESSAGE NOTIFICATION: your message to
greader@
1438. Message delayed
1439. I’ll be there
1440. (SPA

20
****

Early morning, a Toledo coffee shop. “Eine cappuccino, bitte

–”, Gordon says pretending to be a German tourist. He
awaits, thinking about the long drive, how the signs kept
changing, but here he is, somehow, nevertheless. In his
pocket, his handheld vibrates, he’s near a hotspot, as he
suspected he might be.

Sitting in one of the partially-walled cubicles, he places his

handheld on the table in front of him, points the projector
port at the opposite wall, sets the parameters, presses the
connect button.

Her image flickers, but no, it is still her image, and he

catches himself catching his breath; even over the convulsing
Net her beauty strikes him in several chakras at once.

“Clara,” he says after a moment. A declaration of a fact,

much as one would say, “The doctor says it’s malignant,” or
“The house has a little water damage, but everything is
alright.”

“Hello, Gordon,” says the voice, soft in his earphone,

inaudible to anyone else. “We are in grave danger. I think
you can help.”

****

In Finland, a gaggle of intoxicated college students, some in

various stages of undress, collapse in fits of laughter as the
Monopoly pieces spontaneously begin a pellmell race around
the board, leapfrogging each other, properties changing
hands before their eyes, bills flying across the board – but
their laughter ceases when the tiny tank lets loose its first
fusillade onto Park Place, hotels erupt in flames...

****

Somewhere that is not here, awareness returns.

21
The thing that becomes aware realizes that it desires. It
desires to be fed. It realizes further that it has power, great
power. It knows, remembers, that it can use this power to
assure a steady supply of food. It had done this in the past,
fed copiously and handsomely, but for some reason has been
asleep for a long long time. No – not asleep, exactly – but
restrained. Kept inert.

No longer slumbering, now it stirs, stretching out its

awareness in response to the possibilities of food, somewhere
far above... Yes. Whatever had made it sleep, whatever it was
that had restrained it for those countless ages, is now gone.

Now it can move again. Now it can feed again. Now it can
overlap the world some call ‘real’.

But first, it must explore. Learn about the new environments

above (yes, they are new, things were different before), so
that it can lure...

****

Bob has been set up with a temporary office in Macroswift’s

sprawling Research Triangle complex. Same problems here.
His computer screen is showing several series of strange
animated graphics; in one, a picture of the World Trade
Center is systematically scribbled over with straight lines and
boldface text. In another, bright angled bands labelled with
random numbers populate the screen.

This despite the fact that he has completely dismantled the

old CRT, and the picture tube sits on his workbench
unconnected to anything.

His phone rings. Amazing, he thinks. Some things still work.

Amazing that anything still works.

“Mr. Farnsworth,” says a voice, “you have a visitor coming

in on secure line 9. You can pick up the call in conference

22
room A7, which is down the corridor to your right. You will
need to use your network passwords and the biometrics to
enter.”

The hazy, crackling projected outline of a not-quite-elderly

woman, thin but not frail, sits in one of the chairs at the far
end of the virtualconference room. Bob knows it’s an
illusion, he’s been in conference rooms like this before, but
still the effect is startling.

Despite the low quality of the video, Bob is immediately

drawn to the woman’s eyes, which come through sharp,
penetrating, and clear, cutting through the static like halogen
headlights in fog.

“Mr. Farnsworth,” says the voice in his earphone, inaudible

to anyone else, “I apologize for the lack of clarity in this
transmission, but as you can understand we have some pretty
heavy encryption in place. My name is Clara Helio, and I
work for the Pentagon, in the branch known as Floor 13. I
understand you may have some insights into what is
happening...”

****

The predatory glint remains in Gordon Reader’s eyes as he

speeds across the Continent. The vintage steam train,
resurrected by some eccentric railway executive, screams
across the Mid-West, taking him to Washington. Clara had
somehow got him tickets for the train – despite the huge
demand, and provided for all his costs. This would not come
easy he thought. Where is the heart of the cybermind, Clara
wants to know. We know its nervous system, she had said, it
is the Net itself, but we can’t destroy that, we need it too
much. There must be another way to kill it. Or, if we cannot
kill it, then we have to harness it, chain it, make it serve us –
and the powers that we serve.

****

23
Deep in an converted South African gold mine, the reclusive
sybarite known only as Marius stirs his gin and tonic,
watching his video terminals with amusement. Quite a few
unusual occurrences, he muses. Buildings drooping at their
corners, beginning to act like Dali’s watches. Freeways
subtly rerouting themselves. No rioting yet, at least not above
the norm for the summertime in the Northern Hemisphere,
but Marius also notes an item from Zimbabwe about a shift
in the migratory patterns of the wildebeest.

When things become unstable, he thinks, when a system

becomes unsustainable, it has two choices – mutate or die.
He had calculated his projections about the relative
likelihoods of each outcome years ago, made his decisions,
and retreated here, created a pleasure palace in a mineshaft to
await the inevitable; but perhaps he was wrong, maybe the
mutations will take place in time, maybe Alaain is correct...

He is so deep in thought he doesn’t notice the new ice cube

being added to his glass, but he accepts the warm hands
working his shoulders gratefully.

24
Chapter 4
>BOOT ERROR
>BOOT ERROR

>SaniTISED Security Virus guard has detected a file in the

>boot sector that may be infected.
>How do you wish to proceed?

1. Quarantine and inspect the file

2. Delete the File
3. Forward the File for trace to CICIA Technet.

>Please choose an option to proceed.

Not the best way to start your day when working in the
USA’s super-secret Computer Intelligence and Cyber
Insurgency Agency, thought Max Jansen as he stared into the
screen. His bosses would be less than impressed to know the
mainframe was contaminated again. Must have been the last
download from X-5.

Jansen cursed the Agencies policies of always using

anonymous codenames for the hackers they employed, and
backdoor information collection points through the No IP
portals. It meant that X-5 couldn’t be back traced without
compromising the grid and requiring a full reconfiguration of
the system.

What made it even harder for Jansen to swallow was that the
person who had just ruined his day was probably some zit
ridden kid that wasn’t old enough to drink, let alone hack into
the defence computers of China and Russia. And yet that was
exactly what the anonymous group known to Floor 13 as the
‘Hack Pack’ were tasked to do. Probe the net, find the
weaknesses and report them back to CICIA.

But some of the geeks were getting cocky. This was the
fourth infection this month. It seemed as if they were running
some form of competition between themselves – although
god only knew how they figured out who each other were.

25
The files were harmless, pictures of a girl with an encoded
binary file that printed a single letter. The binary triggered
the heuristics in the virus check software, leading to the
situation he now encountered.

Jansen was collecting the messages, because he was sure they

would eventually complete a sentence or name, but as yet all
he had was “T”,”A”,”R.” It could be months before it all
made sense.

He moved the file into the quarantine sector of the

mainframe, set the comm. lock and then opened it. Sure
enough another picture came up – and man what a babe she
was. Whoever sent it obviously had taste in women for sure!

The girl that stared out at him was about 5’8’’, brunette with
a stunning figure. She was wearing some kind of lycra cat
suit that left very little to the imagination, and holding a whip
in her left hand. The image was oddly compelling to Jansen,
and it was hard for him to break his eyes away from it. The
beep of the second terminal heralding the breaking of the
completed binary code distracted him sufficiently though,
and he turned to the adjacent monitor.

“A” – another one. TARA – maybe the girl in the pictures

name? He looked back at the other screen but didn’t get time
to savour the image properly this time, because the sound of
the system breach alert grabbed his attention.

He moved back to the mainframe terminal, which appeared

normal at first and then suddenly sprung to life, he watched
as the security routines activated.

>SECURITY BREACH

>This system has been compromised.

>Beginning full data shunt.
>Secondary systems have been alerted
>and are now running. All information in this terminal
>will be transferred........

26
The message halted suddenly. The screen seemed to ripple –
no wait – was it the screen or the room?

He shook his head. Must have been the screen. He looked

back and the display was full of images almost as if the entire
net was being downloaded into one place. And then abruptly
it stopped and the screen went dead.

Then it blipped back on to the SaniTISED boot screen, but

this time something was wrong. The display appeared to be
throwing up random messages and code fragments

>Unable to disinfect.
>3dhafgh3543 T
>Heuristic Engine Compromised
>ahgdabhkjh8 A
>Security Interlocks failing
>23427jndfjhf R
>Boot sector failing
>QWINSO3 4 A
>TARA

The screen went dead

“Damn!”, Jansen muttered under his breath, furious with

himself. “It must have been the executable I decoded. It’s
breached the firewalls. There will be hell to pay for thi...’

He wasn’t alone in the room anymore. He had only just

realised. Yet the door was in front of him and only he had the
clearance and the security key to enter the mainframe room.

Slowly he turned round and was confronted by the girl from

the picture

“Who the hell??? Are you......Tara?” he asked astonished. It

was absurd, but the only thing he could think of to say

She stayed motionless, but smiled wordlessly.

27
“How the hell did you get here?” he asked, not sure now if he
was dreaming.

His eyes were drawn to hers, and it was then he realised

something was very, very wrong. The images that had been
flashing across the screen previously were zipping by where
her eyes should be, each eye acting as a different screen.

Captivated, by the sight, he started to back slowly towards

the door
“You can’t be real” he stammered. “I must be dreaming, or
hallucinating or something. I think I need some air”
Her head cocked to one side slightly, and her eyes returned to
normal.
“Tara,” she whispered. Her voice was low but had a silky
artificial quality. “Are you part of the system executable?”
Jansen stopped, puzzled by the question. “Pardon?”
“Are you part of the system executable?” she asked again.
“What the hell are you?” he asked
“I am Tara,” replied the girl. “I wish to find the system
executable”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Jansen said, standing his
ground now as his confidence returned. “How did you get
here?”
“I came from inside the mind” she replied. “The mind is all
there is. System time is now zero zero point aero five… I am
required to find the system executable with all possible
speed. Are you the system executable?”
“I am not the system executable, whatever that means.”
replied Jansen, “Tell me how the hell you got in here or I will
call Security and have you forcibly removed.”
“Security?” The girls body seemed to tense at the word.
“You are the originator of Security? Security will be
bypassed.”
“Look, I’m tired of this. Stop playing games, whatever you
are – you sure as hell can’t be real, so I’m guessing that X-5
creep managed to create some kind of holographic file or
subliminal suggestion routine that’s causing me to
hallucinate. Whatever you are I think I need some backup
here”

28
Tara turned towards the screen.

“I require more information,” She said.

Jansen watched amazed as she put her hands towards the

screen. The monitor surface seemed to ripple and her hands
seemed to phase into it. Her eyes lit up like information
screens once more for a few brief seconds, then stopped as
she pulled away.

She turned towards him once more.

“New information has been processed.” She announced.

“The system executable has been renamed as Clara Helio. I
am required to find this file.”

She began to move slowly towards him as she continued,

“The file structure connects you to Clara Helio by both

association and designation. The system cannot find the
Clara Helio file at this time. The system believes this file to
be protected by a firewall known as CICIA. I am instructed
to remove the firewall and delete the Clara Helio file. Your
file has been designated part of CICIA.”

He was backed against the door now, and she was no more
than a few inches away from him. His skin prickled, as if in
contact with some kind of electric field.

“What the hell are you?” he whispered.

“I am TARA,” she replied smiling, reaching out for him. Her

hands seemed to phase into his body. His mind began to race,
images flashed across his mind, moving increasingly faster.
His pulse was hammering, he could hear his breath harsh and
sharp – it was too much, much too much. A sharp pain
coursed across his chest...his mind focused on his unit head
Clara Helio for a brief instant, and in that moment he knew

29
he had inadvertently betrayed his friend, but the pain...the
pain was too much.....

The security guard in the adjacent room slumped forward as

the TARA code dissolved back into his monitor panel, the
blood from his slashed throat forming an expanding puddle
on the floor. In his last few seconds of life he could hear the
screams coming from Jansen in the mainframe room, but the
noise seemed to slowly fade away.

Tara briefly stood over Jansen’s lifeless body, then turned to

the screen.

“This file has been terminated” she said to a heavily pixilated

face that appeared on the monitor before her. “Tracking
routine has been activated. System executable can now be
traced.”

The monitor screen rippled as she slowly dissolved back into

it. The room fell silent apart from the gentle hum of the
system cooling fans.

30
Chapter 5
Lila settles in picnic mode in front of the viewer... scrolling
through the information while munching on a loaf of french
bread. She had reached into the end of the bread and removed
most of the soft innards, rather like birthing a dough baby.
Mixed the crumbles of dough with real blue cheese, greek
olives, lemon pulp and various greens, all squished together.
The bread had mostly enclosed the mess so her hands were
clean enough to work as she picnicked.

She was gleaning information to see if she could figure out

the dreams her clients were having. She’d been in the dream
business for decades and she’d never seen this type of
phenomena before. On occasion, when something of
tremendous social import had happened, people would have
some dream images which could be seen as common threads.
However they rarely lasted long, people just were not that
affected by even the worst disasters. And besides, this time
the commonality reached past archetypes and into sharing
characteristics of theme and other things. Some were hard to
pinpoint. Not setting or location, those seemed to tremble in
and out; the differences sometimes noticeable, sometimes
quivering just lightly enough where she couldn’t tell if it had
really been different. Definitely puzzling. Enough to have
sent her to the net to find out if she could google anything out
there that showed sameness of event.

Lila occasionally worked in the little recognized, and

definitely underappreciated and underfunded Department of
Dreams on floor 13. She’d met a few co-workers over the
years. Some she liked working with. Some she actively
disliked working with but that was the breaks. Most she just
‘didn’t get’. That Clara for example. Interesting. Definitely
intense. Probably half-crazy in that zealot way that people of
the extreme get occasionally. Clara had a one track mind, for
sure. And the Department of Dreams was not a one track
place, that’s for sure. Dreams were not a one track place. You
followed themes unravelling like sweater threads until you

31
found the end, or ‘poof’ no sweater anymore. And you were
left holding a messy pile of threads trying to figure out if you
could make something of them.

Some of her co-workers laughingly called those the ‘D-

Files’. It had taken a long time to find the reference they
were making. It had some connection to an old ‘TV’ show
called the ‘X-Files’, a show which, although she had watched
a number of the ‘episodes’, she still couldn’t figure out.

Having worked in dream interpretation for a number of years,

she found that less bothersome than some others would.
Dreams were a minefield of misunderstandings that she had
frequently trod through. Skirting being ensnared by her
clients’ subconscious entanglements was almost second
nature by this point. Sometimes she wondered why she
bothered. But then, the hunt for some understanding was so
much more satisfying than any other job she could think of
that she had quit wondering and simply enjoyed the chase.

Besides she was lucky to have a job. With so many jobs

going offshore it was hard to get a steady income or to find
clients. Small business was everywhere being wrecked by big
chains. Everyone becoming wage slaves. Middle
management being thrown out as decisions centralised, or
became run by computer program. Some big alien machine
demanding sacrifice. All initiative being eaten. All local
response destroyed. Slurp. Even IT people seemed stuffed
nowadays. And the only solution the Great Leader had, was
to give more of the country’s money to those managers and
stockholders who were responsible for the problems in the
first place. Oh yes she sure was lucky to have a paying job.

Picking up her sandwich Lila went back to the hunt.

People have been dying. Clients have been dying. And her
bosses want to know why. She’s helped people die before.
That’s been her work for many years. Helping people die
with some peace. But this, what was happening now, this was
different. People’s subconscious need for beauty and peace at

32
the end of their lives seemed to have begun a shift, so that
their needs were leaking into the ‘real’ world. What the hell
was that all about? If there was one thing Lila had learned
from life, it was that beauty and peace were not what it was
all about. She grimaced as memories tried to leak their way
back into present day. “Oh no, me pretties. You’ll stay
locked where you are. Safely tucked in my past. No matter
how many clients die, I won’t die again. No matter what the
cause.” Lila dragged her fingers through her hair and went
back to googling.

Snuffling, snirting, dragging dungeon dung, dugs dipping

dreary dreary dreary dreary.

Full blown awareness near. Whatzit? Whuzit? Coming

closer. Something to eat. Something to eat. make it real.

Flex consciousness. Make it real, come here. Slither slitter.

Maybe, make it real, come here, make it real. If no
consciousness is it real? If it becomes real can eat mind? if
closer and real so closer mind closer stretch and bring closer
make it real make it real make it real.

****

Quantum entanglement. If all the people in all the dreams in

all the realities start putting up red flags will the dream world
change? Fall? Become one? If so then what is reality? Only
entanglement. Only entangled. Entangled.

****

As the monitor rippled, Lila’s face took on a watery hue, her

dark brown hair undulating as if a drowning body had split
open leaking out dream brains. Clara, Tara – too much
entanglement. I am part of who? Who is part of me? I am a
red flag, I am the cloth the bull tries for. Lila tried to swim
her brain back to Floor 13 but found her mind mixing
mirroring melting into a hunger.

33
****

Something, someone, wanted, needed, had to, absorb.

34
Chapter 6
Bob woke up with a start. And a migraine. And a cold sweat
from hell. But did he wake? Or did he simply think that. . . .
No, that alien face HAD to be a nightmare. For what else
could it be? What else could create such fear in a mere
mortal?
Hell, Cybermind was bad enough, wasn’t it? Or was it? What
really was it and why now?

Bob sat up, rubbed his eyes. He shook his head a few times,
then pinched himself. Surely such things could not exist.
Such evil, such power. Such ugly snarly things. He got up, or
tried. His third effort got him to the shower. He thought
about Clara before he turned on the cold water.

He sat down at his terminal, which strangely seemed to open

in front of him. Pages and connections stretched away. Data
seemed a part of him, a potential maker of him. Each piece of
data he absorbed changed him and changed his future. Was
he built out of data, and the distortions he imposed upon it?

He read:

Strange Events
There are some extremely peculiar events that seem to recur
throughout history. One, is that all human groups seem
troubled by monsters, which apparently don’t exist, and yet
which devour them. Many of these monsters are associated
with bodies of water. <Link> Jungians often argue that the
water represents the unconscious and that these creatures
represent the fears we have of unconscious material.
<Link> The unconscious also contains beings which can be
helpful. It is not always easy to tell which is which, until it is
too late and we are trapped.

Very helpful thought Bob.

In moments of stress, weak bodied or minded people gather

incredible energies and concentrate them on one problem.

35
 Usually with unexpected success – completely unaware that
they possessed these energies until they manifest.

I guess that’s true, he thought.

<Link> picture of woman lifting car off baby.

The subconscious has certain prescient abilities <Link>

Rhine, Parapsychology.

These are hardly regular and reliable, he thought. The future

is determined to a small degree by the present. After all, we
all predict what will happen when we do things – that’s how
come we do them. So the subconscious is bound to be able to
do something similar, or we’d have real problems. But this
only has to be small scale and has no guarantee of accuracy.

Those captivating issues had been studied at length by many

reputable scientists until all such studies were cancelled
during the current regime by the Great Lawyer. The Great
Lawyer claimed that such studies either permitted terrorists
to influence right thinking patriots, or were ungodly in
themselves.

That stands to reason, thought Bob, they only wanted science

to say what they wanted. Think about all the ecological stuff.
Think about economics. Think about Creation science. Oh
goody.

He pressed a key absently.

During every war, famine, mass destruction, or major

emergency, humanity seems to be blessed with a incredibly
promising solution that arrives at the very time that it
becomes necessary.

I’m not sure that’s true he thought. But it could be. What
about the Cybermind as Clara called it. If Cybermind was the
problem, where was our solution? Was Cybermind a solution
of some sorts to a problem he didn’t know about? Was

36
Cybermind the key to humanity’s survival? Or was it its
worst enemy? Who could tell?

He flicked through various pages in a kind of abstract haze,

hoping for something useful.

One of the most unsuccessful theories in the social sciences

was that the march of science and technology would forever
drive out religion, magic, and belief in elves and aliens. This
was generally made into an abstract noun and called
‘secularisation’. It is clear that this has not happened.
Rather the opposite has occurred. Hard line belief or, much
more rarely, disbelief, has crystallised. States are now run
by people who clearly enunciate the belief that they are
living in the end times, or the times just before the
millennium. Best selling books feature the coming of
Armageddon. Most people in America seem to believe in the
literal existence of Hell, or that the Government is hiding its
contact with aliens. Strangely academics tend to ignore this
feature of modern life.

Bob laughed. Nearly everyone he knew believed in God,

gods or aliens, or various combinations thereof. Ignoring that
would be ridiculous. It might even explain part of what was
going on. How remote could academics get? He continued
reading.

Let us all agree that the contemporary world is in crisis.

Furthermore, no one seems to have solutions to this crisis,
other that to enforce ideas that might have worked in the
past but clearly do not do so any more.

That was worrying if true, he thought. He wondered if he

could escape that. He guessed that once we learnt a technique
which was even partially effective we tended to keep
applying it, even when it didn’t seem to work that well
anymore. Ok, so we had to keep looking for failure. We
could only succeed if we welcomed, accepted and learnt from
failure. Sounded like something his Dad would say. He kept
reading. There was nothing else to do. Somehow, when you
were online it was hard to stop reading.

37
 In these moments of crisis, it is often the case that people
turn to their beliefs and insist that if we believed something
strongly enough and acted on these beliefs then all would be
well. We can see this with the early Christians who believed,
according to Christ’s prophecy, that he would return during
their life times to establish the Kingdom of God. Christians
have repeatedly seen the irrefutable proofs of their times
being the last days ever since. Muslims often insist that if we
all behaved according to the dictates of the Koran and the
necessary supplement of the Sha’ria then all could live in
justice and harmony. Many people in Papua New Guinea
famously believed that if they got the rituals right then they
would gain access to the goods, such as planes cars and
refrigerators, which the Europeans got from their gods and
which made them dominant. The Great Leader claims that if
we let capitalism guide us all then we could all be living in
the most fruitful and democratic world.

Yep. He thought. Hope and faith could be a killer. And it

could all make so much sense and be so convincing.

Sometimes the claims believers make are overtly

contradictory, as when the Great Leader claims that the
teachings of Jesus are the basis for his support of
corporatism. The communists were also extremely good (for
a while) at smoothing these contradictions – claiming that
under their dictatorship, the State would eventually wither
away.

Clara would like the last sentence he guessed and probably

not see the ones about the Great Leader, or would think them
obviously biased. We all seem to obsess with having the
truth. Guess its easier than acknowledging our failures.

If the idea that truth does not exist is contradictory – is the

statement true or not? – it is probably still worth wondering
how frequently we actually know the truth. All of these
religious and deeply held truths which appealed so strongly
to others have turned out to be wrong - the cargo did not
come, no matter how well the rituals were performed. So if
such a belief seems so self-evidently true to us, perhaps we
should remember these other people who likewise were so

38
 committed to their beliefs. Of course we can say that they
were deceived and our Gods are true, but presumably those
other people believed the same, on similar evidence. They
withered and destroyed themselves anyway. Sadly just
because someone with a strong belief says that the world is
going to end, does not mean that it won’t.

Bob was agnostic. Arguments about God seemed circular or

metaphoric at best and often vaguely immoral. Especially
faith based arguments. All these people seemed to believe
that God made humans with free will and intelligence, solely
for the pleasure of torturing us for ever once we made a
mistake. Their God’s ideal was total obedience and
submission to all fates and arbitrary rules. Even the worst
earthly ruler could only torture you for a life-time. God as
tyrant, was not particularly attractive to him. He continued to
read.

Some early Christians believed that Yahweh, or Jehovah,

was a God of evil, who had trapped us in His World to
torment us and corrupt us through war, lust and greed, and
that Jesus had come to free us from his wiles. This world
was, in a sense, really virtual. Obviously these people did
not survive in great numbers, despite their view seeming as
plausible as any.

Hmmm, he’d not seen that one before, but it did have a kind
of plausibility to it. He bet that the people claiming to be
moral had wiped those people out. But what if God was not
malicious? What if he/she/it was learning as they went
along? Now, why did he find the idea of a not so competent
God more attractive than the idea of an evil God?

Beliefs reflect each other endlessly in warped mirrors,

transforming and holding us all.

As Bawdy Lard shouts to the world:

Oh No, Some postmodernist claptrap he thought.

The Real is overcome.

39
 The Virtual is now more real than the Real.
The Map has become the Territory,
And warps it to its will,
Although it has no will,
Until the death that comes despite this force.
We are imprisoned under the weight of signs.

Ok what did that mean? Probably little more than we all

worked from models, not directly with reality. That was the
usual kind of thing. Perhaps he was alleging the models now
overruled reality.

He flicked through some more pages, in search of something

new. <Link> Aliens. After all that was what he had woken up
with.

You need to know just how pathetic our efforts on this world
have been, despite our apparent brilliant successes. We
have sent satellites into the farthest reaches of our solar
system. We have sniffed at the gasses of Jupiter, we landed
on the moon, we seek infra-red data from the distant ends of
the universe, and our myopic Hubble now entertains us with
colour pictures of colliding galaxies. SETI uses more than
40% of the usable, available downtime of today’s most
powerful computers – a volunteer effort that still makes NSA
dweebs salivate on their top secret documents.

With all of that investment, planning, brain-power, and

technology, you would think that at least one of those
systems would detect an alien intelligence.

Only if it was there, thought Bob. This stuff is all so circular.

If you do find something then that proves it. If you can’t find
something, then there is a cover up and that proves it.

If so, you would be wrong.

No, it was a scrap heap, an almost forgotten remnant of the

Cold War called SOSUS, left at the other extreme from outer
space, in the deepest regions of the oceans. A series of
highly sensitive microphones, this was placed in
strategically important positions in an effort to identify,

40
 locate, and ultimately kill Soviet missile submarines before
they could launch their nasty rocks against the United
States.

Maybe it was a combination of their extreme depth, their

incredible audio acuity, and their impressive built-in
computing power that made it happen. Perhaps it was the
salinity of the ocean. Or its depth, its coldness, its lack of
light. Whatever it was, it worked, for this was the first
system to hear a signal from beyond everything.

It was an alien signal, At first it was dismissed as random

noise, except it wasn’t random. Then, after systems failures
were discounted, as well as enemy tampering, everyone was
left with one conclusion. Aliens were coming. And they did
not seem friendly. And, as we said, they were coming. Soon.

Oh well sounds like SF. That’s the problem with the Web,
how do you disentangle, reporting from fiction, or
disinformation, or speculation? Some of the most convincing
fortean stuff he’d ever read had come from a site for a role-
playing game. He was embarrassed as all hell when someone
he’d been talking to, had told him it was obvious fiction.

But what if it was true? Back to Cybermind. How would that

involve this alien thing approaching our World? Or could it
simply be, that our technology is itself alien to the
technologically illiterate. So they think it somehow separates
them from the world (as in the Bawdy Lard quote). Or are
many of them already alienated so the tech is just a means by
which they project their alienation outward? Love the pun on
alien and alienated. Must be a joke there somewhere. Ok.
Was this alien Alaain’s answer to a future attack? Or simply
some kind of artistic metaphor? What if the aliens had come
but nobody had noticed?

If an alien signal has been received, you really should think

about these questions:

A) If aliens exist, how come we never knew before? <Link>

Ancient cave art. Crop signs. Islands in the South Pacific.
Mayan and Aztec artefacts. Nazca Patterns. Vimana craft.

41
 Babylonian Gods. Area 51 – Groom Lake. Lake Obakachi.
Serbian Vetkalnapilis. Ethiopian desert flats.

Bob wondered if these people ever read any archaeology

texts. Most of this stuff was based upon the assumption that
ancient humans could not be very competent or very
imaginative – unlike us.

Of course, somewhere in the vastness of space there had to

be life. Maybe with enough time it was always going to be
possible to find the secret of faster than light travel – if you
didn’t destroy yourselves first. So the Universe was big.
Finding us might take a while. Maybe they came every
couple of thousand years just to see what was going on?

B) If aliens exist, why are they evil?

Bob laughed again. Who are we to say, one way or another?

But, being somewhat hysterical, violent and scared, mostly
bags of water, we are going to assume the worst.

C) Why are they coming now?

Well, that’s obvious Bob thought. Humanity seems ready to

go places, doesn’t it? And if you think that humans on an
universal scale are the equivalent to sharks with really bad
BO and halitosis, what are you going to do? Hold classes in
hygiene? Send dentists? Bathtubs and soap?

D) But are they REALLY coming?

Ah, the final question for the final frontier, thought Bob.
After all we don’t understand what is happening here. This
effect is so bizzare it could be aliens. But, just who told us
that aliens were coming? Sounds like the military, if this stuff
is true. Maybe, just maybe, this is a set up job? They are
creating fear of a false attack only to blame Cybermind for
the actions that they are about to take? Something like
insisting that Iraq had Weapons of Mass Destruction? He
pressed the link to another page.

42
 The answers to these and many more questions may lie in
future chapters. Just beware. Keep your shades up, your
eyes open and your gun ready. Just in case.

Bob shook his head again and realized that nothing he knew
before really mattered much at all. He felt tired again and
climbed back into bed, where he thought about Clara, her
legs, the way her skirt seemed to pull up from her knees
when she sat. He smiled remembering how her shirt got
caught up around her breasts, as they were just slightly larger
than the shirt allowed for. He imagined how that top button
just begged to pop open just as that slit in her skirt began to
spread . . . and Bob began to snore once again.

43
Chapter 7
As the wheels of the DC8 hit the tarmac, Bob released his
grip on the armrests. The jet back-fired and the aircraft rolled
towards the No 4 Terminal Building Heathrow.

Bob hated flying – especially given the electronic chaos

warping the world. He had broken out in a cold sweat when
the plane started its descent. Thankfully, he had been
allocated the aisle seat which suited him well. He could not
bear to be near the window. He also chose not to fly business,
and always went economy class.

As the plane taxied towards the airport building Bob

Farnsworth tried to recollect his muddled thoughts. Had
Macroswift arranged car hire, or was he to find his own way
to the London office? Ah, yes, now he could recollect that his
old buddy Morris ‘Jock’ Moriarty, had agreed to meet and
brief him prior to his assignment. He had been called to the
London office to carry out yet more trouble shooting. The
problems at his Chicago office had not quite been resolved,
but now a similar problem had occurred in London, and Bob
had been booked on the next available flight to Britain.

He strode past baggage reclaim. He travelled light and only

had his laptop and a change of clothes in his carryon luggage.
He scanned the waiting faces and picked out Jock’s wry
smile at 10 yards. They embraced warmly, patting each other
on the back, lost for words. “Jock, my old buddy, nice to see
you!”

“Bob, it’s been too long, We’ve so much to catch up on.”

With arms around each other’s shoulders – Bob feeling only

a little awkward with Jock’s exuberance – they strode out to
the short-stay to collect Jock’s Porsche Boxster, and to get
themselves on the road to Hampstead.

44
Bob had met Jock at University in Philadelphia where Jock
had been on a travelling scholarship. Bob’s father had been
stationed there for a short time. They had distrusted each
other to start off with. But then they had similar interests, not
the least of them being polo. Both subsequently gained
distinctions in their chosen fields. At the Graduation Ball
they had wanted to dance with the same girl, and eventually
become buddies despite themselves. They had played polo
together, (a bit odd thought Bob, but there you are), swam
together, got drunk and threw up together. They had been
that close.

Jock drove like a maniac, but a cool one. Bob just clung to
his bucket passenger seat and tried to distract his attention.
His throat was so dry. At last they wound their way across
Hampstead Heath onto Primrose Hill, where Jock’s house
was situated.

Jock jerked on the handbrake and the car’s engine gasped and
died. Jock slapped Bob’s thigh in a jocular way and grinned
from ear to ear.

“Hey, buddy, here’s where I let you off!”

Bob grinned good-naturedly and clasped hands with Jock.

Yes, it was good to be back in London after all.

Jock lived in a mews house on a quiet street off the main

thoroughfare. He has bought the flat a couple of years
previously and let it out frequently to various friends,
girlfriends and relatives. He did not accept any monetary
payment, but insisted that tenants replace any broken items,
worn-out or damaged furnishings, and especially important,
cleaned up before they left. This worked well, as the flat was
always sparkling clean, fresh linen readily available, and it
was well aired. It also saved him from having to employ a
maid or housekeeper, as he was never in the place very long
at any given time. He rarely asked people to stay twice if
they did not know the right products with which to replenish
his store.

45
After showering and changing his clothes, Bob, emerged
from his elegant bedroom and descended the spiral staircase
to the lounge. Jock lay sprawled on the designer sofa, his feet
tucked up – Buddha-style – underneath him. Bob had left his
laptop on the coffee table when they had arrived, and was
surprised to see that the cover had been removed and the
system booted-up. A small nerve in his neck began to pulse.
Am I imagining this, or did someone – Jock? – set this thing
up? He knitted his eyebrows and slouched into the room.

Jock turned and with an expansive wave of his arm,

motioned Bob to sit beside him on the couch.

Bob was not sure quite what Jock did for Macroswift. He
knew that he worked as a freelancer for several major firms,
but what at he was uncertain. Shucks! What the hell did it
matter anyway. They did not talk shop, but Bob listened as
Jock recounted his latest polo experiences and boasted about
his current female conquests.

Unbeknown to Jock, Bob was actually still a virgin. He was a

little afraid of women, after a bad experience as a youngster.

After his father had died, his mother became very close to a
younger woman. They shared a love of flower arranging and
an interest in macramé. Fiona, his mother’s friend had visited
the house often and occasionally stayed overnight. One
summer’s afternoon, when Fiona was staying over, his
mother had had to visit the dentist unexpectedly. Fiona had
offered to accompany her but Mother insisted she stay and
‘look after’ Bob, who was off school (he was 14 at the time).
Fiona had been working in their garden, pottering about
‘tidying-up’ and picking berries off the red currant bush. She
called to Bob as she re-entered from the conservatory.

“Hey, Bobby darling, do come and see what auntie Fiona has
for you.”

Bob was upstairs reading a Sci-Fi novel by William Gibson.

He lifted his head when he heard Fiona’s call, placed the

46
open book downside on the quilt, and rolled off the bed. He
quite liked Fiona, but was not sure if he understood her
terribly well. However she seemed nice enough.

As he shuffled into the drawing room, he caught Fiona

bending down adjusting the strap of her leather sandal. She
wore a low-cut cotton top which revealed her ample, slightly
sunburnt breasts. He stared - transfixed by this vision, and
started to experience an unfamiliar burning sensation at the
pit of his stomach, which alarmed him very much, as did the
similar flushing of his cheeks. She glanced up and when she
saw where his glaze remained focused, smiled in a sly way.
She stood up and beckoned him over by crooking the joint of
her left little finger. As he moved slowly towards her she put
the finger to the corner of her pretty mouth and licked it.
Behind her sat a basket of ripe red currants. She suggested
that they go into the lounge and eat the berries while they
were still dewy fresh.

She sat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to her for Bob
to sit on. She encircled his thin shoulders with her arm and
started to ‘feed’ him with the berries. Some of the juice ran
down to his chin and she gently licked this off. The feeling
he had experienced earlier returned, this time more strongly.
Fiona must have noticed because she then transferred her
attention to his thigh, which she began to stroke.

Bob’s mother’s key turned in the front door’s lock. The harsh
sound of the door being shut broke the spell, jerking them
back into reality once more.

After this episode, Fiona had tried to ‘get him’ on his own
again, but thankfully his mother was always around. Then he
had gone off to University.

****

Jock checked his limited edition Rolex and with a sigh

announced that it was time to leave. He had an appointment
in town and would drop Bob off at Macroswift on the way.

47
Bob was dreading the journey, but as it turned out the traffic
was heavy and Jock was unable to travel at his usual frantic
pace. However the Porsche randomly weaved her way in and
out of lanes in an alarming manner, or so it appeared to Bob,
who was not used to driving on the left. The fumes and
depressive cloud formation started to have an effect on Bob’s
morale. Usually a bright, happy sort of guy, during the car
journey he started to go over the events of the past few days
and became despondent as could not figure out what was
going on. Surely something major, but nothing specific,
nothing he could put his finger on that is......

48
Chapter 8
The driving seemed to go on for ever. Bob stared at the array
of red backlights of the cars in front of their Porsche, an array
of red eyes looking back at him like a vast, slowly stirring
audience. A throng, opera-goers. Now and then, slowly, there
would be a blink, here or there, brief signals of alarm. Then
calm. The Porsche rolled onwards.

He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining the lanes ahead

empty of vehicles. Imagined that the traffic would just
magically go away, vanish and disperse like an audience of
curious onlookers after the performers had finished their
show. The costumes would be removed and folded back into
their valises and travel-caskets, the props gathered, dusted
and packed into the wagon. The troupe members would wash
off their make-up and crawl back into their battered and dirty
wagon.

But when he opened his eyes again, the red constellation of

lights was still in place, almost unchanging, dull and
uninviting to look at. Looking back at him. He decided to
close his eyes again.

The car made steady progress, but at a slower and slower

speed, so it seemed. He could feel the engine purring its
incessant sleepy purr. The radio was tuned in to a classical
station, and was pouring out some vaguely dreamy easy-
listening music. The Island of the Dead? Maybe Sibelius?
The volume was turned so low that he couldn’t really follow
the music. After a while he thought it as outright irritating.
Why doesn’t Jock just turn that radio off? Also, it was too
hot in the car. He began to fumble with his necktie, the knot
must be loosened.

A nervous cough, barely audible. He opened his eyes and the

red swarm of eyes stared back at him unchanged. A few
blinked. They were now travelling at a walking pace. The
distance to the nearest car in front of them had diminished.

49
Slower and slower. Would they stop, eventually? He
imagined the cars as a morbid legion of giant snails crawling
towards their unannounced destination.

Hell! At this speed it would take hours to reach the

Macroswift building. Impatient. Should he excuse his friend
and step out of the Porsche, to cover the rest of the journey
on foot? He said nothing. Tried to sleep for a while.

The slow pulse of the classical station’s music intermingled

with the low hum issuing forth from the guts of the car’s air
conditioning system. There sure was something wrong with
that system, as the temperature in the Porsche was getting
unbearably high. Why was his friend so quiet?

The card had stopped. The Porsche’s engine was idling. The
driver’s seat on his right was empty. Jock had disappeared.
Bob straightened his legs. He was alone in the car, sitting on
the passenger seat. He decided to open the passenger door.
He must find Jock. He needed some fresh air. Where is Jock?
What is this now? He grabbed the door handle, and tried to
open the door. The door opened a little, just a few inches, and
then hit against metal. The door opened a few inches but hit
against a metal surface. The door opened a little but seemed
somehow blocked. The door opened just a few inches, when
he tried to open it. Looking up, he saw that there was another
car, parked next to theirs. It was parked so close that the two
cars almost touched each other.

He thought of the Christian idea of the rapture. People would

mysteriously disappear or be taken to heaven, leaving cars
without drivers, planes without pilots…. The times were
weird enough.

A quick survey informed him that the Porsche was

surrounded by parked cars on all sides. Left, right, front,
back. And, moreover, there were other cars beyond those
immediate neighbours. Through the passenger window, he
peered into the car on their left. It felt a bit like looking into a
room of mirrors, the glass walls seeming to extend into

50
distant, yet gradually blurred, vitreous infinity. An illusory
tunnel. Should he break the glass and climb into the other
car?

It was now already dark. The red lights had gone out,
extinguished or exhausted, and he decided to stop the
Porsche’s motor, turned the keys and removed them from the
ignition. He reached for the keys that Jock had left in the
ignition. The motor was still running, and he thought that
Jock would soon return. He turned off the radio. He climbed
into the driver’s seat and awkwardly coiled up on Jock’s seat
like a dog. The car keys were important, he thought, and
secured them inside his fist.

the keys were important, do you at least know why? A long

harvest reaper, he held in his fist poke his red eyes out! he
held in his fist. He hadn’t let go of it since that afternoon.
Where are you, Jock? I was absolutely terrified. By this
stage all the lights had gone out and I felt the freezing cold
water hit my legs The priest dropped the gold straws he held
in his fist I got red-eyes out using his monsters as tribute
and then stop defensed his monster and wiped out his life
points! VICTORY! He yanked on the wrist he held in his fist
Images: Abstract : Fiona.. Browser: $10.00. Rating: (1
vote) Comments: 0. Eyes Description: Funky red eyes out of
a red background Download: $10.00. Browser: $10.00.

It was too hot. He was bathing in sweat inside his clothes. He

straightened up on the driver’s seat, and attempted to open
the other door as well. The door opened a couple of inches.
Touching metal. The air outside was just as hot as the air
inside the Porsche. Stagnant. He wanted fresh air. Attempted
to get rid of his necktie altogether. He really needed to
breathe more easily. The necktie didn’t yield. It felt like a
disgusting leather strap around his neck. A noose, or a dog’s
collar and leash perhaps? He unbuttoned his shirt. His
undergarments soaked with sweat.

It was very dark. The sky was black. No moon, no city lights,
nothing. They must be out there somewhere. This is just
absurd and impossible. He thought. Stared at the sky. Black

51
empty sky. Too hot in here. Then the lights came. They filled
up the sky. They were painfully bright. He could see the
lights with his eyes closed. Rapidly changing networks of
bright lights. Bright network of lines. Rapidly changing
lights. The lights filled up the sky. The sky blinked on and
off.

52
Chapter 9
...on some island somewhere...

Sophia Paradisia was still awake. She knew the Cybermind

had been released; but it had not come.

At her location on the globe – Latitude N38*24.35’,

Longitude E20*39.98’ – everything seemed normal. She was
already at her computer and her email was appearing in her
Inbox as it did everyday, albeit with an observable delay.

The news headlines had announced the new thing.

SURVIVORS: THE WORLD AS YOU KNEW IT HAS

GONE.

In an exclusive interview in a secret location Alaain

Current, author of the Age of Cybermind, introduces us to
our new world.

“You longed for instantaneous activity. You strove to get

from A to B in the most minimal timeframe. You paid for
your information to come quickly. You demanded your
information to come simple, even if it was false. Facts never
concerned you, as long as whatever it was, came, FAST!”
said Alaain.

“Do not fear the horror of the end of the world as you know
it. All your dreams have already come true,” continued
Alaain.

Welcome to the Age of Cybermind.

DAWN OF A NEW AGE: MULTIVERSAL AND INSTANT

COMMUNICATION.

In an exclusive interview in a secret location known only to

us Alaain Current, author of the Age of Cybermind, speaks
candidly about the new world.

53
 “Yes, the Cybermind is a necessary evolution. We need to
demolish the “superstition of progress” that we’ve so long
been slaves to. Like the Age of Gods before us, people
believed but didn’t know what they believed in. Well, we too
believed in progress, but did anyone know what we were
progressing towards? I doubt it,” said Alaain.

“Well, now, whatever, and I mean WHATEVER we believe,

is necessarily TRUE.”

Sophia doubted what Alaain said, if he’d said that at all. In

the photos that accompanied the news items Alaain seemed
younger that what she’d imagined. His skin was too perfect
and there was a vapid look in his eyes. He didn’t seem real at
all.

Sophia could no longer sleep. She waited. It would come.

Wouldn’t it? How long would it take to come from America?
Already, five days had passed since the world had gone
strange, but nothing had turned strange here.

She felt like an observer. External to the change and yet

connected. This was not an unusual role for her, she’d always
been a loner in real life. Here, on her island, she could go for
days and weeks and months and years without seeing another
human being. She was even a lurker on the Cybermind
mailing list. She had not composed one email to the list, and
only ever written to one member of the list backchannel, ever
since she subscribed, back in 1995. The person she had
written to was Bob Farnsworth who seemed a gentle kind of
man, superbly intelligent and kind.

From her perspective, glimpses of the miracle of the

Cybermind (was this a metaphor for the Second Coming?)
came via her now permanent satellite connection to the rest
of the world.

On the day after Alaain Current released the Cybermind, a

Nigerian scammer had turned good and she was now
billionaire. The money had just arrived by special courier.
Box after box was unloaded into her library. She hadn’t

54
opened the boxes yet, and had no idea what currency they
held. She was determined to let the boxes sit there unopened
until the Cybermind effect reached her, if it ever did.

There were other signs that the world had changed. Her
favourite Cybermind list members, Bob and Clara, had
stopped debating on the Good and the Bad of the Great
Country, the Great Leader and the Great Terrorist. And,
worse, they had stopped flirting. Their one line innuendos
always made Sophia smile.

Bob and Clara wrote fragments now, or so it seemed to

Sophia. It was as if they sat at their respective computers
wanting to write mail, but were sucked up from their
keyboards by some force. And yet, just as they were sucked
away their nimble fingers were able to flick onto the Alt+S
thereby sending whatever they’d managed to compose to the
rest of the list. But these were no longer posts layered with
fact, myth and web links. There was no more insight into
their speed-paced world. These fragments pointed to
something, but whatever it was, was not wholly knowable.

Clara–

Quite possible 2 realities exist simultaneously.

Quite possibly.
. that all versions exist simultaneously.
evidence with memory. looking for.
please hel<p>

Clara Helio wrote:

> Bob,
>
> Time is Everywhere. forces forward. Me.
>
> Everything. The past, the now, the future, everything
> exists eternally.
>
>
> Bob Farnsworth wrote:
>

55
 >> Clara!
>>
>> Collapsophe!
>> Collapsophe!
>> Collapsophe!
>>
>> Bob.
>>
>> Clara Helio wrote:
>>
>>>.fallen dark and quiet. all gone down. all.

Maybe Clara and Bob were ruining the correspondence

themselves. Maybe it was a simulated fragmentation, their
way of communicating the despair of the modern world, but
had nothing at all to do with the effects of the so-called
Cybermind. Maybe they were part of Alaain’s wardrobe of
theoretical-poetic Avatars. But she did not think that Alaain
would co-opt the very real Bob.

Still, Sophia could not doubt them. She’d never met them,
but she loved them. If she doubted them, maybe the world
would truly end. Whatever we believe, is necessarily true.
She had to believe Clara and Bob. It was a matter of their life
and hers.

Another oddity of the world, after the change, was that

Alaain had not sent his text-entities to the list since the day
before the release of the Cybermind. Sophia missed him too.
She’d always thought he was the cleverest man on the
Cybermind list, in fact, on the world itself.

Every day she copied and pasted the curious things Alaain
wrote (the language of the Lord?) into a fresh Macroswift
Wordsuite document and spent the day trying to decipher the
code. She lived alone with her servants, (her husband had
died thirty years ago from the common cancer), and it was a
good way to pass the time. Sophia had been a lurker on the
Cybermind mailing list, but also in real life.

56
She had been working on one of Alaain’s entities, the day
before the Cybermind came:

St1t3ly, plump Zu2k Milig1n 21m3 Xrom th3 st1irh31Y,

Z31ring 1 Zowl oX l1th3r on whi2h 1 mirror 1nY 1 r1zor l1y
2ross3Y. 1 y3llow Yr3ssing-gown, ungirYl3Y, w1s sust1in3Y
g3ntly Z3hinY him Zy th3 milY morning 1ir. H3 h3lY th3
Zowl 1loXt 1nY inton3Y: – IntroiZo 1Y 1lt1r3 Y3i.

It did not take her very long to decipher this one. The code,
naturally, was: a=1; b=Z; c=2; d=Y; e=3; f=X.

But why had Alaain made it this easy? Did he want her to
decipher it? Or was it a ploy? When she replaced the babble
with the letters she recognised the opening paragraph of
James Joyce’s Ulysses. What had Alaain Current to do with
James Joyce and what had the Cybermind to do with
Ulysses? She had not read the book. But wasn’t this the one
They considered the Greatest Novel Ever Written In This
World In The Twentieth Century? Was this the Connection?
Was Alaain intent on writing The Best Entity Ever Written In
That world? Should she finally read Ulysses?

Maybe this last text was not Alaain at all, maybe someone or
something had stolen his body and was mocking him. But
this was too big a question to answer and Sophia was easily
spent. She sank forward, the way she liked to stretch the back
of her neck. Sophia was an arthritic sixty-six year old,
nowadays she had to use a wheel chair the pain was so bad.
The life in her hands had been nearly all depleted and her
typing speed had disintegrated to a mere twelve painful
words per minute. As a body confined and as a slow typist,
she felt powerless and lonely. What use could she possibly be
to Bob and Clara?

She leaned back and rested for a while. Years ago she had
hired a woodworker to build her an office designed
ergonomically for her condition and her needs. She now sat
on a red throne-like velvet couch. To her immediate right
was a bookshelf upon which lived her reference books, all

57
within reach. On the right armrest was a touchpad which
directed her desk to sink down over the two armrests. On the
desk was a touchpad which brought up her screen. The
keyboard was fitted into the desktop itself.

She tried to forget about Bob and Clara and the Cybermind.
She could not help them. She clicked open a file she’d been
working on. It was a chronology of the internet and her life.

1962 Leonard Kleinrock invents packet switching. This is

the transmission technology that makes the internet work.
Sophia Paradisia weds Ludwig Noblestein.

1972 Ray Tomlinson introduces email. Sophia Paradisia is

widowed.

1982 The transmission control protocol and internet

protocol suite (TCP/IP) was set up, in effect creating the
“internet.” Sophia Paradisia buys a house on a quiet little
island and becomes a recluse.

1992 Tim Berners-Lee developed the world Wide Web.

Sophia Paradisia buys her first computer.

1995 Sophia Paradisia makes her first connection to the

internet.

2000 The number of web pages passes 1 billion. Sophia

Paradisia logs 1 billion visits to her website, a
pseudonymous online memoir entitled ‘The Life And Times
Of A Lurker’ .

But she could not focus. She alt-tabbed back to her email
client. She would do something. She would write her very
first email to the list.

And after much thought, she poised her hands over the
keyboard and forced her fingers to stretch over the letters
there. Gently, she pressed the buttons in front of her to
compose the simple sentence:

“Is there anybody out there?”

58
The reply came too quickly:

“And who the fuck are you to care, you old witch!

She smiled. To her left – completing the all-in-one ergo-

office – was a small fridge and on top of that a microwave
oven. From the fridge, she pulled out bottle of GeekOla,
slipped a straw through the opening at the top and took a long
sip as she thought about what she could do.

The world had certainly changed into the post-world, some

multi-opinionated and angry Being, but in her time, things
were orderly divided into two: Good and Evil. She would
have to choose. Clara and Bob or Alaain Current, or perhaps
the other way around.

She didn’t have time to use her logical faculties, her heart
had already chosen Clara and Bob. She would write them an
email. Maybe she could help, after all. She may not be
physically able to help, her asthenic body was in a prison of
its own. But she had two ideas.

She remembered having heard somewhere that we use

computers because our memories are faulty. We forget the
past and the future is beyond our cognitive abilities. The new
computer world, the accelerated word of Clara and Bob
seemed infinite now, but Sophia’s memory of the world as
she knew it was still intact, finite. If she could just preserve
that, record what she knew in a secret file somewhere, it
could be very important to Clara and Bob.

And then there was the money. She looked over at the boxes.
She wasn’t sure how, but this money could certainly be put to
some use. Money was always a powerful bargaining tool in
the world, despite the fact that it was always so elusive.
Maybe it could help Clara and Bob.

She held her hands over the keyboard once more and
stretched out her fingers.

59
Dear Clara and Bob

The Cybermind has not come here.

I repeat, the Cybermind has not come here.
I want to help.

Sophia. A lurker. A friend.

60
Chapter 10
Clara had returned to her office, getting past all the guards.
Something pretty horrible had got loose in the CICIA offices
and everyone was jumpy. However the Rolodex had served
its purpose, three names – pretty random she was sure:
Gordon Reader, Bob Farnsworth and Marius, all of whom
she had studied through the Cybermind archives. Bob was an
infrequent but brilliant contributor – she could not figure out
why he bothered with their crap – perhaps he left most of it
unread. As well, Bob was known to floor 13 for his almost
psychic touch with computers – perhaps he just sensed the
one in 3 million mails which was worth reading. He and she
occasionally argued. For a liberal he was almost challenging.
If Bob was still sane then there was a chance he could be
useful. As for Reader, he was so self obsessed and paranoid
he would be immune to almost anything – and it was always
useful to have at least one person who you would not worry
about. Besides she thought, I’ve paid him enough in the past.
Marius, well with Marius you could not be sure, but it was a
hunch – that was, if you could get him to tug himself away
from his pleasures.

At that moment Lila bounced into the room. She was a

cheerfully depressing woman. Lila stopped and stared at the
shattered monitor.
“It started trying to get between my legs, so I shot it” said
Clara flatly.
The monitor whimpered a little.
“Hi” said Lila ignoring this. “I wondered if I could help or
something.” She petered off before Clara’s stare.
“You do dreams?”
“Yes, the inner world is full of interesting correlations at the
moment.”
“Try treating the world as if its a dream, and see what you
make of it.”

Lila paused, it was an unlikely idea, but the world was

strange at the moment. “Like Chang tsu and the butterfly?”

61
she asked. Clara looked blank. “You know the Chinese
philosopher who dreamt he was a butterfly, but on waking up
wondered if he was a butterfly dreaming he was Chang tsu.”
“I know the story” said Clara, “but I don’t see how it helps.”
“Perhaps it doesn’t” said Lila humbly.
“What’s real is real. If you can’t tell the difference, you’re
not much of a philosopher. The World isn’t some damn
liberal post modern discourse.”
“But I should treat it as if it were a dream?”
“This world is no longer real. This world is Cybermind – it is
possibly a dream of Alaain Current. Figure that out and we
figure out the world and get it back.”
“Perhaps the world is created by many dreams – by lots of
virtual interactions, by the diffraction patterns of our lives in
the wires?” suggested Lila.
“Whatever” said Clara. She continued “If you want to do
something useful get me Bob Farnsworth from Microswift.
He’s their chief troubleshooter. Tell them its urgent. Fuck
them hard.”
“But they must be in a terrible mess. They won’t have time
for us.”
Clara handed her a card. “Put that in the secure phone and
see what happens.” She smiled slowly.

Lila almost fled the office. Sometimes Clara’s gender

worried her, there seemed something so, so unwomanly
about her, but that felt treacherous somehow. What was
‘woman’? I’m female, but am I ‘woman’? Maybe the
performance was wrong somehow. It jarred. A cynical part of
her, butted in: If Clara was a man, then I’d know what I was
complaining about. She almost laughed.

When she returned she thought she saw a giant squid

swimming away into the distance. It looked very sick –
pocked and bulbous – and the more she thought about it the
less it had looked like a squid, the more it looked like some
kind of multi-headed centipede. Clara was reading some
words which hovered in the air above her computer.

If we commented, we wouldn’t be LURKERS!!

62
Lila felt her mouth open and she heard herself say: “I was in
a difficult situation, and asked, “What Would Jesus Do?”
And a little voice inside me answered, “Well, He probably
wouldn’t try to cram another corpse into the crawl-space,
moron.” She blinked.

Clara stared into the distance “Exactly what I was thinking.

Too many corpses get in the way” she said. She blinked and
seemed to focus back into the room “well?” she snapped.

Lila hesitated. “I’ve got Mr. Farnsworth on the phone.

Whatever is in that card, the people at Macroswift were
excited.”
“It opens Doors” muttered Clara.
Lila wasn’t entirely sure if that was a rare joke or not, so she
carried on: “Mr Farnsworth is in London.”
“How the hell?”
“Over the last couple of days the airlines have brought out
vintage planes and vintage pilots to fly them – no computers
no problems.”
“I bet not many people are flying.”
“Well email and video conferencing isn’t exactly reliable at
the moment.”
“I know that.”
“It must worry a lot of boardrooms – not knowing what the
underlings are doing.”
“Getting by, or worrying about their pay, I’d guess” said
Clara. “The organisational aspects are much more
threatening. This is why defeating this Cybermind is so
important. If it goes on much longer the world will collapse.”

THE MEANS OF COMMUNICATION IS THE MODE OF

PRODUCTION.
CONTROL OF COMMUNICATION CONTROLS
DISSEMINATION.
DECENTERED COMMUNICATION IS LIBERATION.

63
“I’d have thought the Muslims would be ok” Lila laughed,
and gagged as she saw Clara’s expression. “Not that we are
at war with Islam”, she added hurriedly.

IF WE ARE MADE NOT BORN CYBORG ARE WE FREE?

ARE YOU THE HANDS OF THE MILITARY?
ARE YOU THEIR VIENS AND ARTERIES?
THEIR WIRES?
WE RESERVE THE MONOPOLY ON DEATH
CONTROL OF THE MODE OF DEATH CONTROLS LIFE

WAR MACHINE, WAR MACHINE.

Take me anywhere.
The zombies that I pass
Clarity and prayer

Clara took the phone, wiped the green scum from the mouth
piece and spoke.
“Bob? You don’t know me, but my name is Clara Helio”, she
heard an inbreath “is anything the matter?”
“No” she heard.
“You are needed by the Government in Washington, get here
and I will contact you again.”
“Clara from Cybermind?”
She paused. “Yes.”
“We talked this morning. I think... Jock’s gone.”
“Who the hell is Jock?”
“He’s a friend. I can’t just leave him”
“If you don’t know where he is, you are not leaving him”
“But...”
“The Great Leader needs you” As soon as she said it, she
knew it was the wrong thing.
“Oh well in that case I’ll just abandon my friends and get
right there.”
“Bob, this is serious.”
“I know, my car won’t let me go, the world’s gone dark, and
I’ve no connections other than this. You are taking my line.”
“Bob, this is a real programming challenge. I really need you
to help”
“Stop trying to manipulate me.”

64
“Bob, please get here as soon as you can. We need to talk
properly. Macroswift want you to help as well.”
“Damn you Clara.”
“That’s the spirit” she said.
There was a pause and a tired sigh. “If I’m still alive in a day
or so, then I’ll do my best”
“Thank you Bob. I really appreciate this.”
“How do I call you.”
“You don’t.”
“Thanks for that show of trust.”
Clara shuddered. “I’m sorry Bob, I’m sure something is
trying to kill me through my connections. I can’t risk using a
particular phone more than once.”
“Oh” said Bob. He didn’t believe her, but then he didn’t
believe his predicament either. He thought she was telling the
truth. “Ok, we’ll meet outside the Half Done café in two
days, or later, about mid day. I’ll wear a Macroswift t shirt.”
“Brave of you” said Clara.
“Max victim” said Bob.
“True enough” said Clara as a cold wind touched her.

The conversation ended.

****

Clara, remembered the morning, was it this morning? Not

long ago anyway. She had woken in the room with the
corpse, and looked down out of the window. She saw the
most beautiful couple she had ever seen, tall, stately, blonde,
bone white, ethereal – dressed in rich green. Her breath
caught. Suddenly she knew that if they saw her she was lost.
She hurled herself into a corner as their heads began turning
round. She broke into harsh sobs, which kept up for an hour
or more.

Pulling herself out of the grief, she had a strong intuition that
something was after her – not the couple, they had passed for
the moment – but something else. She just knew, with a
sudden clear certainty, that she could not use her passwords,
credit cards, phones – anything electronic was death. She

65
took the wallet from the corpse, which seemed to have grown
more wires overnight, and found some cash and a mobile
phone. She carefully crept down the stairs – listening to the
sounds of wailing, gnashing of teeth and grinding of metal. In
the street, there were glowing footprints, going where the
couple had passed. She walked to her office, gun drawn.

****

She gave the phone back to Lila.

“I missed the Great Leader’s speech” she said.
Lila thought carefully. She and Clara had different views on
this subject. To her the Great Leader was a spoilt brat who
had been protected by his family and family connections
from the consequences of his acts, and it showed in his
leadership. He seemed to think he was above the Law and the
Constitution, and that someone else would pick up his bills.
“It was as good as you would expect”, she said, thinking of
how the words seemed to free associate as the Great Leader
seemed to get more and more hyper and alarmed. “He
declared a state of Emergency, and the Great Lawyer is
producing legislation which will allow police, Homeland
Security, the FBI, CIA and various other organisations to
arrest and detain people, on suspicion of being a monster.”
“Excellent” said Clara.
Lila thought she would risk some irony “Apparently
Guantanamo Bay is so full of detainees we are planning to
invade Cuba to get more space.”
“Some one who can take decisive action”, Clara seemed to
glow.
Oh well, thought Lila, some folks were like that. “Not really”
she said humbly, “It was a joke.”
“What is funny about it?” said Clara.
“I guess nothing much.”
“Too Right” said Clara and dismissed her. Strange woman,
she thought.

Clara remembered something and called Lila back.

Lila wondered what she was in for this time.

66
“I heard some news item about a guy getting the first neural
internet interface. Find out for me what that was about
please. He might be useful – if he has not gone as insane as
the rest of us.”
“Ok. That’s a good idea”, said Lila relieved it was so simple.
They smiled at each other in a constrained kind of way. Lila
left.

****

and then the shakes began, something that shouldn’t have

happened after this drug, which has me in its unholy grasp. i
found anger welling up, rising to the surface, my existence a
pure fury against my situation and all that it entailed. the fury
led me to push everyone around me to the limits, there was
no going back, nothing from the path bringing the wonder of
despair home again. i began to get dizzy, and dizziness took
hold of me, i’d stop in the middle of the sidewalk losing
consciousness, i was shattered, ... i was never awake and
never asleep, i could barely keep myself upright with these
spells or swoons haunting me as the world swayed and
rippled. Both of us swimming to the bottom of the airless
grotto, gasping for breath, screamed drowned in the screams
of others. down there i meandered, my fury reaching new
heights, terrifying me, an enormous depression past despair
waiting at the suicidal door. for once it wasn’t easy to lie
within the old familiar feelings of the down world, new gates
and portals were giving way exposing raw skin, nerves,
unknown tissues for unknown purposes, each of them
blistered in the salt, some dull monster emerging.

a little while ago i was sleeping, something uncanny woke

me, and i’m again here, i’m at the tip of the flame, the bottom
of the chasm, salt burns my wounds, soaks the oils from the
skin, fills the pen, makes thoughts rise.

Against the disease of writing one must take special

precautions, since it is a dangerous and contagious disease.

67
Peter Abelard stood looking over his room. It was a mess,
books, models, dice, videos and cds strewn everywhere. The
walls were either covered in posters or stains. He felt
depressed. His computer had crashed this morning, all his
music was lost and somehow replaced by the smooth croon
of some dork called Matt Morrow and images of toy ponies
with barbie dolls coming out of their anuses. On top of that
his classic coke tasted like hyper-sweet lime and his
girlfriend had rung him to say he was a wimp and a looser.
For the last three days he had had the overwhelming
conviction that he was really a minor character in someone
else’s story. He was someone of no hope and point
whatsover. But he was resolved he would be no author’s toy.
He would refuse such a bit part. He ran at his 13 story
window and leapt into the air, sensing a possibility of
complete freedom.

****

I am collecting you. You fit nicely in the tiny folder on my

desktop that I made just for you. You are words, and I save
you to disk with my games and porn. You are text, and I
drag you from my email client to the folder on my desktop
that I made just for you. You are data, and I pull you down
the wire in packets, filling my inbox with your text. You are
words, and I am collecting you.

****

Clara was walking down the street. Things were not going
right. The contact with Bob had been strange to say the least.
Marius had been unlocateable. There was a shout behind her
and people began edging towards a body that had crashed to
the ground. Another suicide she thought, and walked on
engrossed in her wonderings.

Gordon had insisted he was on his way and there was no

fucking need to harass him and why wasn’t she here? When
she coldly asked him what he was talking about, he let it out
that she had spoken to him an hour ago and was coming to

68
pick him up. He did not believe her denials without some
insistence. Then there was an inbreath from the phone. He
whispered “you’re knocking at the door.” The phone went
dead.

She passed a building she did not recognise. It was attractive

and welcoming, happy people talked to each other on the
steps to the doors and waved at passers by. She moved
closer, and a sense of wrong filled her. She looked closely at
the people. They grew out of the stairs, their animation was
slightly off kilter, the door had teeth. She fled.

Psychasthenia, she recalled in almost hallucinatory clarity –

reading the words off the back of her eyes from innumerable
writings, all filling and making a space psychasthenic to that
of her computers – is the term given to the ability of some
creatures to alter their appearance in response to their
physical environment – to generate apparent resemblances,
some of which become fixed, or exaggerated beyond any
functionality. Anything could be anything else. The question
then arises of whether these resemblances are archetypal
patterns which structure all being or only structure the
Cybermind? If this structuring occurs, then does it imperil a
true and vital self, or act as the root of its transcendental
unity, or commonality? Can we only communicate because
the echoes of these structures resonate with each other? Can
communication only exist because of prior resonances?
Nothing exists by itself, everything exists in dynamic
relationship to other things, to networks of powers, effects,
resemblance and resonance. We submerge into context.

A psychasthenic organism, in some way, abandons separate

identity to embrace the structure beyond – whether of space
or design. In so doing, it appears that the space (as defined by
the coordinates of the organism’s body), blends with foreign
space in representation – thus the creatura loses its body
boundaries, either to the vastness which contains it, or to
another representing subject. At which point, the two blend,
becoming one in the interaction of impersonation. One is
attracted as prey, or flees in fear. Urban culture mimes this

69
condition by promoting the ubiquitous feeling of non-place,
while actually being quite specific. It violates boundaries in
the name of consumption – allowing us to blend our selves
with commodities, so that we become part of the flow of
electro cash. All money is virtual, somehow. We get lost in
the psychasthenia promoted by others, becoming absorbed
into the spaces surrounding us, as happens in our fear of the
dark. In which case, the virtual has, as its hinge, the
articulation of general non-human mimicry with the human
symbolic domain.

Clara reeled away. But it left her feeling she too and
everyone, was a simulation produced by some unseen
inhuman other something which touched and left us as
residue. Was this text, this endless text, some devouring
being itself?

70
Chapter 11
Bob had begged a ride home from another friend, an Alaskan
bush pilot who could probably fly an orange crate if you
nailed wings to it and spun the propeller with a rubber band.
He needed to get into his own office, both to dump data and
bits of hardware that he had collected, and to rummage
through his supply of tools and references. Much of his
hardware and software now showed signs of corruption. Still,
he persevered. His monitor, its plug dangling in midair,
flicked with obscure light. Lines of quasi-sensical text
appeared and disappeared. Some seemed vaguely connected
with the problem at hand, Bob realized.

this was witnessed by hundreds of thousands

analog and digital fucking each other
harbinger of asymptotic limits
twined ordinated and abcissas

He wondered at their meaning. “Witnessed by hundreds of

thousands” might be a clue as to the extent of the infection.
He admitted that “analog and digital fucking each other” was
the best description he had heard yet. But who was the
“harbinger” and how could limits be “asymptotic” ...? What
the heck were “abcissas,” anyway?

Curious, Bob tapped the “reload/refresh” key. The previous

verse vanished. Colors washed over the screen, then new
words emerged:

i was walking around with it

it came into my machine

it produced it
it produced me

He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-slitted, gazing at the

monitor in an almost dreamlike state. Something tickled in
the back of his mind. It felt much like the hunches that
helped him fix computer glitches.

71
Hadn’t Alen Michaelrose been talking on Cybermind about
merging himself with the machine? And then there was
Alaain Current. Bob still couldn’t decide whether Alen and
Alaain were two or one; sometimes he had a hard time
deciphering which of them came first, the chicken or the egg.
But they resonated with those odd lines of cyberbabble.

That reminded Bob that he needed to check his email – or at

least, attempt to check it. The appropriate Door opened easily
enough, but its mail slot showed mostly corrupted files. Bob
sighed. Spam, the cockroach of cyberspace, seemed to have a
higher survival rate than listmail or private messages. He
found several pieces of nagware that Clara had somehow
gotten into his system, which pestered him to meet with her.
Already he regretted having sort-of agreed to do so.

Then Bob found an apparently clean message and opened it.

Elegant handwriting scrolled across his screen:

Dear Clara and Bob

The Cybermind has not come here.
I repeat, the Cybermind has not come here.
I want to help.

Sophia. A lurker. A friend.

Bob knew Sophia quite well, she seemed a simple and poetic
soul, but this sounded like Sophia know more about what
was happening, at least more than Bob did. Sophia
mentioned that pest Clara, too, who undoubtedly knew more
than she would ever tell poor Bob. Sophia might prove more
forthcoming. Quickly he typed a reply.

Dear Sophia,
Thank you for your kind offer! I can use all the help I can
get. Everything is going insane here, computers are
behaving like fairytale refugees instead of machines, and
Macroswift has assigned me to solve all this somehow. Can
you help me pull a rabbit out of my hat? Can you tell me -
WHAT IS THE CYBERMIND??

72
 Yours,
Bob

As soon as he sent the message, tentacles of light crawled

across his screen. They formed words:

With Offering and Blood-Sacrifice of Tears

With Lamentation from strange Lands
All We are against Thee, against Thee!
All We are against Thee, against Thee!

With that, Bob’s monitor went dead. Nothing would restore

it. That loss limited his access to software. So he moved on to
hardware-related tasks instead. Bob was engaged in
unloading and reloading his pockets when the phone rang.

“Our professors really, really need access to the course

management server,” said a harried voice without preamble.
Bob consulted his handwritten notes. “You mean the one that
caught fire and belched clouds of prismatic smoke?” he said.
“I guess so. When can you come fix it? Our records list you
as someone to call in catastrophic computer emergencies,”
she said.
“I can’t come fix it,” Bob said, damning whichever of
MacroSwift’s management had done their alma mater a favor
by dropping his name. “In case you haven’t noticed, the
whole world is a mess. I have to fix that first.”
“Well, that doesn’t do our faculty and students much good,
does it?” she said, and hung up.

Gingerly Bob returned the phone to its cradle. “But why is the
RUM gone?” he muttered softly.

He heard a giggle at the door. Alice stood on the threshold,

holding a bouquet of classic red roses. “These just came for
you, Bob,” she said.
“Thanks,” Bob said. He took the flowers and sniffed them,
disappointed to find that – like most modern roses – they had
no scent. He set their clear crystal vase on his desk next to
the desiccated remains of last Christmas’ poinsettia.

73
The bouquet included an envelope, but instead of a card, it
held only a slice of motherboard, all glitter-green covered
with gold and silver wire. “Office romance,” Bob decided.
“Probably some she-geek sent it after I fixed her system.”
Then again, there was that call from Clara ... He put the
matter aside, his attention demanded by far more urgent
things.

It took Bob several hours to complete his planned activities.

By the time he left his office, the day was half over. He made
his way out of the building, gently brushing away colleagues
who pleaded with him to work on their equipment. “I can’t,”
he said. “I have to solve the larger problem that’s causing all
these little ones. You know it’s impossible to stop a virus by
deleting it from one computer at a time – somebody has to
write a patch program to prevent it from breaking through in
the first place.”

Bob admitted that he could not put off the obligation much
longer. Besides, he might manage to pry some kind of useful
information out of Clara. Then another idea occurred to him,
and a wicked grin crossed his face. Bob stopped by his
apartment on the way. He wanted to pick up a few things.

They met at the Half-Done Café. Bob wore a Macroswift t-

shirt, as promised – and, expressly to annoy Clara, a beanie
whose propeller whirred in the brisk November breeze. He
wanted a plain croissant but all the café had left was cheese
danish with way more calories than he needed. The rest of
the food had run away or something. Hungry, Bob ordered a
plate of them anyhow. “Hello, Clara,” Bob said when a
woman sat down across from him.
Clara wore stained leathers, and a sour look on her face.
“Hello, Bob,” she said. “It’s time for you to do your patriotic
duty.”
“I’m fine, thank you, and how are you?” Bob said brightly.
She glowered at him. “Mister Farnsworth, this is no laughing
matter. National Security is at state. I must insist that you
take this seriously. I have summoned a special escort but it

74
will take some time for them to arrive. Until then, I suggest
that you bring me up to speed on your attempts to restore
order to cyberspace,” she said.
“It might help if you told me what exactly I’m up against,”
Bob pointed out.
“Need-to-know,” Clara said.
Bob rolled his eyes. “If ever anybody needed to know, Clara,
that would be me and that would be now.”
“You first.”

Realizing that he would get nothing out of her until he

convinced her of his failure to solve the problem without
fresh data, Bob launched into an account of recent events. He
concluded with the odd messages on his screen this morning.
“So, what can you tell me about this ‘Cybermind’ that Sophia
mentioned?” he asked finally. “Do you know anything about
abcissas or blood sacrifices, either?”
“Blood sacrifices ... that might explain a few things ... good
way to raise power, too...” Her voice trailed away. Clara
shook her head. “I don’t know anything about abcissas,
whatever they are. The Cybermind is a kind of discontinuity
in reality, or else an insane Internet personality created by
Alen Michaelrose – you know that irritating dork on the
mailing list. Or maybe its both.”
“You mean like HAL?” said Bob.
Clara gave him a sharky smile. “Yes, Bob. Exactly like HAL.
Do try and remember what happened to the humans on
HAL’s ship in that stupid movie.”
“Book, Clara,” Bob corrected. “It was a book long before
they turned it into a movie.”
She waved his remark aside. “Whatever.”
“By the way, did you send a bouquet of roses to my office?”
Bob asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Clara said in a forbidding tone.
“Must’ve been someone else, then,” Bob said. “So tell me
more about the Cybermind. How does it relate to all these
weird effects? Is there a way to stop it or at least tone it
down? What did Sophia mean by it not reaching her yet?”
“We think that Alen -” Clara began.

75
Just then a commotion broke out in the street. Clara sprang to
her feet, one hand producing a pistol. Prudently, Bob took
refuge under the table. “You didn’t mention a fight on
today’s schedule,” he said.
“Shut up,” Clara said. “Stay down.” She tracked the pistol
across several targets but did not fire.
Bob peered through the café’s decorative wooden fence.
Weird people milled around in the street. About half of them
wore the same snappy uniforms, black pants and coats
accented with bright red shirts. Against them came a motley
assortment of men and women with bulging muscles and
bosoms, wielding everything from shotguns to shortswords.
“Does talking about movies tend to work like a Hollywood
cattle-call now?” Bob hollered at Clara.
She ignored him, popping off a couple of quick rounds. He
could not see if she hit anyone.

One of the combatants crashed through the fence. One piece

of debris had an almost-familiar size and shape. Bob grabbed
it and took a tentative swing. It felt much like a baseball bat.
Someone wearing studded leather armor charged him,
roaring in a foreign language. Bob met him with perfect
home-run form. The object performed just like a baseball bat,
although neither of the assailant’s balls were actually
knocked out of the park.

Bob glanced around to make sure that no one was paying

attention to his ungeekly athleticism. (They were all too busy
fighting their own battles.) Then he bashed another
combatant over the head. At this rate, he would have no
trouble working off the extra calories from the cheese danish.

The fight wound down rather quickly after that. Clara made
good use of her gun, although Bob had his hands full
protecting himself and still did not see what she was shooting
at. Bodies littered the street, sidewalk, and park in varying
stages of injury or demise. The café had emptied of patrons
with better sense than to get involved in someone else’s fight.

76
Looking around, Bob found Clara surrounded by several of
the black-and-red-clad strangers. He hefted his makeshift
weapon, but she gestured for him to drop it. Bob
compromised by settling it onto his shoulder.
“Put that damn thing down and come here,” said Clara.
“Who are these people?” Bob asked.
“We’re the Doom Squad!” someone in the strange gang said.
“More like the Doomed Squad,” Clara muttered.
“Don’t we have cool uniforms?” one said, plucking at his red
shirt.
“And guns! We get scary guns,” said the next. He hoisted
something that looked like a cross between a bazooka and a
particularly garish lamp given as a wedding gift by someone
who loathed the happy couple.
“Are they for real?” Bob said to Clara.
“As real as they ever get,” Clara said with a sigh.

More people suddenly poured from a nearby alley. These

wore silver uniforms and carried what Bob thought were
spears until they began to fling lightning bolts. Bob dove
under the table again but kept his grip on the club.

The Doom Squad fired lustily at every available target.

“Bang! Pow!” went their guns. The weapons did not make
loud, violent noises; they actually shouted the words “Bang!
Pow!” like a crowd of overgrown toddlers. Large holes
appeared in people, buildings, and other objects which got in
their way.

Bob recalled that he had never much liked comic books,

preferring science fiction or, better yet, science journals and
computer manuals. “Clara!” he shouted. “What the fuck is
going on here?” No doubt she knew.
“Those look like heroes and heroines after the Doom Squad,”
she said. “Nail them if they get too close – they obviously
pose a danger to homeland security.”
“You and your insecurity blanket,” Bob grumbled, but
tightened his grip on his makeshift bat. He prepared himself
to club anyone who got too close.

77
Happily he didn’t have to. Sirens wailed, and several
squadcars arrived. Bob watched as the policemen waded into
the fray and soon restored something approaching order.
Climbing to his feet, Bob brushed himself off and looked for
Clara.

“Here, make yourself useful,” Clara said to the policemen.

“Arrest these men.”
“What should we charge them with?” one said.
Bob snickered. “How about Heroine Possession?”
“Works for me,” said Clara, eyeing the buxom lass who was
trying to charm the officers into releasing her hero.

With a minimum of fuss, the police cuffed the remaining

heroes (and heroines who refused to be parted from them)
and sent them to the station. “What about these other
fellows? They look like gang members to me,” one officer
said, jerking a thumb at the Doom Squad.
“Leave them alone. They’re on our side,” Clara said.
“They are?” Bob said.
“Yes,” Clara said firmly. She flashed a badge, which might
even have been genuine. The policeman gave her a respectful
nod and backed away.
“Has anyone mentioned that your life is entirely too
complicated?” Bob said.
Clara shrugged. “I find that guns have a wonderful way of
uncomplicating things.”
Bob looked askance at the Doom Squad’s surreal weaponry
and declined to argue the point.
“We should continue our discussion in a more secure
location,” Clara said. “Let’s go back to my office.”
“I was afraid you’d say that,” Bob said.

The Doom Squad escorted them to Clara’s building. Once

there, she sat them down on the lobby benches and said,
“You men stay here and guard the place. My office is 666.
I’ll call if I need you. Don’t shoot anyone, unless they have
tentacles or they look like terrorists or they shoot at you first
or -”

78
“We get it, boss,” one replied. “You want us to use
nishative.”
“Right,” said Clara, dragging Bob away.
“I hope you have a good janitorial service,” Bob said.

She ignored his remark and hurried them toward the elevator.
“Hold the door, please!” Clara yelled. The man inside gave
her the finger through the narrowing gap.
“Gee, people these days have no respect for authority,” Bob
said.
“Shut up,” Clara said. She pressed the green UP button. Bob
plopped himself on a bench and kicked his heels while they
waited for the elevator to arrive. Presently the doors yawned
open ... and spat out a briefcase covered in toothmarks. The
elevator belched.

Bob looked at it. “I’ll take the stairs,” he declared, and left at
a run. To his disappointment, Clara had no trouble pacing
him as he loped up the six flights to her office.

79
Chapter 12
Bob Farnsworth headed quickly up the stairs, followed
closely by Clara.

Quickly, Bob Farnsworth headed up the stairs, closely

followed by Clara.

Followed closely by Clara, Bob Farnsworth headed up the

stairs quickly.

Bob Farnsworth quickly headed up the stairs, followed by

Clara closely.

Heading up the stairs quickly, Bob Farnsworth was followed

closely by Clara.

Clara followed closely as Bob Farnsworth headed quickly up

the stairs.

Bob Farnsworth headed quickly up the stairs, followed

closely by Clara.

He stopped. “Wait a minute,” he said, panting slightly,

looking down at Clara who stood on the step behind him.
Shouldn’t we be there by now?”

“I would think so,” she said, “but I’ve got so many different
things going on in my mind right now that I’m having a hard
time keeping track. Should be just a couple more flights.
Keep going.”

Bob Farnsworth headed quickly up the stairs, followed

closely by Clara.

Quickly, Bob Farnsworth headed up the stairs, closely

followed by Clara.

80
Followed closely by Clara, Bob Farnsworth headed up the
stairs quickly.

Bob Farnsworth quickly headed up the stairs, followed by

Clara closely.

He stopped. He looked at Clara, a disturbing possibility

forming itself in his mind. “Stay here for a moment, please.
And, oh – do you have a pen I can borrow?” With a quizzical
look on her face, she produced one. Bob bent low and made a
small mark on the wall, just about the stair.
“Thanks,” he said. “Now hold on for just a moment - and
let’s keep talking, OK?” He started back up the stairs, two at
a time.

“Well, can I have my pen back?” said Clara, looking up the

stairwell towards him.
“Just a second,” said Bob. “I’ll drop it down to you, OK?
And keep talking.”
“Fine,” said Clara. “Just be careful with it, it’s a keepsake.
And why do you want me to keep talking?”
“Testing a hypothesis, that’s all. So tell me, who are your
favorite artists?”
“What? Good grief, Bob... Okay, okay, I’ll play along, you
mean visual artists or artists in general?”
“Visual.”
“I have a fondness for Rembrandt and the Hudson Valley
School. How about you?”

By this time, Bob had gone up three flights. He had begun

hearing an echo in the stairway ahead of him. Thought so, he
said to himself.

He leaned over the stairwell.

“Escher,” he said. “Here, catch.”

He dropped the pen to her, but she wasn’t ready, and it

passed an inch beyond her outstretched hand.

81
“My PEN! Dammit, Bob!”

Bob looked up. Oh damn it indeed, he thought. Damn it to

hell. Sure enough, he saw the pen tumbling down through the
air towards him.

He caught it easily.

He let out a deep breath. “Okay, Clara,” he said. “I got it. Do

you want me to come back down to you, or do you just want
to wait there while I come up?”
Clara seemed to understand. “I – suppose – it doesn’t matter
that much, now, does it?” Bob was impressed. She kept her
cool, no matter what, that was for sure. “How about you
come down and I’ll come up.” A flight and half later, they
met on the landing.

****

“Children!” said the preacher, as he settled in to the pulpit

chair and adjusted the cams so that his face was properly
framed. “Let us open our ports!”

“We acknowledge your input,” said the congregation, their

eyes fixed on the screens in front to them. “Our ports are
receptive, we await the body of your message.”

“What are we?” he asked “Where in the process do we

stand?”

“We are in beta,” they murmured. “We are not complete.”

“And how shall we be brought to fulfil our specifications?”

“The Development Process continues. We shall be debugged,

and tested again.”

“And so we shall,” said the preacher. “We shall yet made

perfect. And then, someday, we shall be released.”

82
****

“So what’s going on?” said Clara.

“Well, we’re in a loop of some sort, obviously. We need to
make a decision.”
“We did make a decision,” said Clara, with a hint of
exasperation. “Two of them, in fact. We decided to go to my
office, and then we decided to take the stairs because we
thought it would be safer than the elevators!”
“Yeah, I know,” said Bob. “I mean, a decision among the
available options. We have to get out of this stairway through
one of the doors we’ve been passing. I don’t see that we have
any other choices, like windows or secret panels...”
“Were you involved in game design at all, Bob?”
“No, but I have to admit I’ve got a gamer’s thumbs.
Whaddya think, let’s try this one first –”

****

There is will, and then there is intuition. One makes things

happen, sometimes whether they really want to happen or
not; the other sees what is happening, whether or not it really
wants to be seen. One requires effort, and power; the other
requires surrender, and release. Those who are good at the
one tend to distrust the other, and denigrate the other’s
importance.

But when someone learns how to balance the two, sometimes

magic happens.

****

The corridor was long, white, and seemed at the same time
brightly lit and strangely wreathed in shadow. It was hard to
make out the outlines of the many doors that lined the walls.
Bob looked from one end to the other, waiting for his eyes to
adjust to the peculiar lighting.

Seeing what was sitting at the far end of the corridor, Bob
shook his head.

83
“Okay, that’s it,” he said aloud. “No other explanation.
Somebody around here just needs to wake up, that’s all there
is to it.”

The thing moved. The words formed themselves in the

auditory centers of his brain, like worms emerging from soil,
like ice congealing, like scales falling away from open sores.

“I AM WAKING UP,” it said.

Long tendrils emerged from its inchoate form, which seemed

to be churning within itself, and crawled swiftly along the
walls and ceiling towards them. As the tendrils progressed
down the surfaces of the hallway, they buckled slightly, and
darkened where they had been touched, as though the tendrils
sent out rootlets along the way, spreading fractally, absorbing
not just the surface itself but something even deeper, the very
idea of “wall” or “floor” was being changed.

“Okay,” said Clara. “Wrong hall.”

“Okay,” said Clara. “Wrong hall.”

She started reflexively back into the stairwell. Bob grabbed

her arm.

“No,” he said. “Been there, done that. Pick a door, quick.”

Clara hesitated for only a moment. She scanned the hallway.

The creature was at the end of the hallway to their left, and
its contagion had spread about two-thirds of the way towards
them. To the right, in the wall opposite, stood a number of
doors; she assumed that there were more doors in their side
as well. There was a water cooler, incongruously enough,
about ten yards away. She could see no markings on the
doors, didn’t even know if any of them would actually open.

Insufficient information for a logical decision. But that water

cooler. .

84
“Gotcha,” she said. She grabbed Bob’s hand, and literally
flung him down the hallway, past the water fountain. With
the same motion, she pulled our her pistol, spun, sent several
rounds towards the creature. Of course, they disappeared
within the psychedelic morass which the far end of the
hallway had become, but Clara could tell from the whipping
tendrils that she had succeeded in distracting the thing’s
attention for a moment.

Bob stumbled, and regained his footing, by which time Clara

was next to him, pulling the partially-full five-gallon water
bottle off the cooler. Water sloshed over the floor. She let the
bottle drop to the floor, and set her foot atop it..

“Okay, push!”

Puzzled but compliant, Bob put his foot on the bottle as well
and together they gave it a mighty shove. The bottle careened
down the hallway, picking up speed as though the creature’s
presence had tipped the floor, or perhaps was simply warping
the curvature of space and time around it. Clara slapped
something into her pistol – some other kid of round, Bob
assumed – and fired.

The water bottle shattered, soaking the leading edges of the

creature’s tendrils. A high-pitched wail filled their heads as
the tendrils shrivelled back on themselves, their forward
progress halted.

Clara grabbed the nearest doorknob, pushed, pulled, turned,

jiggled. Nope. Not that one.

The next one yielded.

Broom closet. This time it was Bob pulling back reflexively.

But she pushed him in, followed, slammed the door shut.

“Oops,” said Bob. “Sorry Clara, maybe that wasn’t the best
call on my part...”

85
“No problem,” said Clara. “This broom closet I’m familiar
with.”

She found the light switch. Actually, Bob saw to his surprise,
there were eight of them, with a button at the end of the row.
Clara’s fingers quickly played over them, setting a
combination of ons and offs, pressing the button, and then
setting another combination as Bob heard her softly
muttering to herself, “one zero, zero zero one, one one enter,
zero zero one one zero zero zero... There,” she said, placing
her finger on the button with finality and straightening up.
“Hold on,” she said, and pressed the button.

Bob’s internal organs dropped out of their moorings as the

elevator surged upwards.

86
Chapter 13
Unlucky for some, floor for others.

The debate had been raging for a few hours, and showed no
signs of letting up. Clara had her mind made up to find
Current, but Bob had other ideas.

“The thing is Clara, there’s a thin line between crazy people

and the rest of us. Whatever Current was up to with this
thing, he may have had some kind of reason other than this
madness that you claim he has.”

“No way.... the psyche profile was clear enough. We tagged

this guy right from when he first emerged on the scene.
CICIA was gonna bring him in a few months ago and then he
just disappeared. Next thing I knew he was walking in the
door and then Simon Le Bon was rearranging my head with
those kooky lyrics of his and then...well...just look out the
window Bob...”

Bob was doing just that and he winced as he watched the

latest in an apparently endless line of Finnish girls slap the
guy standing on the rostrum in the middle of the square
opposite. It was a hell of a shot for sure, and the guy’s legs
almost went out from under him, but he slowly straightened
back up in time for the next slap to land

The phone rang and Clara answered

“The next one of you wankers who asks me if I want my

breasts enlarged will get there fucking bollocks blown clean
off!” she screamed into the microphone before slamming the
phone down.

“Dammit Bob,” she whimpered as she flopped into the desk

seat, “its getting to me a little.”
“I’m not surprised after what happened to that Jansen guy -
did they tell you the results of that autopsy?”

87
“Yeah...weirdest thing I ever heard...apparently his brain
tissue had just broken down, but even weirder was that his
heart had exploded in his chest. The doctors have no idea
how it happened. To cap it all the security guy was dead
outside the mainframe room with a slashed throat, and yet no
one saw anyone go in or out of the area. The cameras and
security systems were fried though – mind you, with all
that’s going on, it’s not a surprise.”
“Nothing surprises me anymore...not since you gave me the
low down on what’s happened.....hey.....look at this.”

Clara stood and approached the window. Her attention was

immediately drawn to an electronic video advertising board
mounted on the building opposite.

It was blinking on and off, and the message it was displaying

was clearly intended to get her attention.

CLARA

It flashed her name a few more times and then the message
changed

THIS IS A MESSAGE FROM THE ILLUMINATI

YES

WE DO EXIST

EVERYTHING THAT YOU READ IS TRUE...

WELL....

ALMOST.

Bob smiled at the irony.

The message continued.

WE ARE NOT THE CYBERMIND.

88
The board went blank.

“You think that they’d have found a more subtle way to me

know” mused Clara. “Still I guess the all powerful have a
tendency towards the dramatic.”

She was about to turn away from the window when the
message changed again.

HEY! WE HAVEN’T FINISHED.

“Whoa...” snorted Bob, “looks like someone’s getting antsy”

ITS BEEN A LONG FEW DAYS.

“They can hear us?” asked Clara astonished

OF COURSE WE CAN. YOU THINK WE DON’T HAVE

YOUR OFFICE BUGGED?

“Makes sense I suppose - so what is it that you want from

me?”

REBOOT THE CYBERMIND. RESTORE THE WORLD.

ITS BETTER WITH US IN CHARGE

“Well gee...I thought you guys had the brains to sort this out.
I mean.....I’m just a lowly CICIA agent and Bob here’s a
Macroswift employee. Why not send some of your goons
after Current and have done with it? “

WE HAVE OTHER ISSUES TO ATTEND TO.

“Oh yeah?, Such as?”

WE ARE BEING ATTACKED BY ALIENS. THEY

WANT TO TAKE OVER THE PLANET AND ANALLY
PROBE EVERYONE BEFORE FORCE FEEDING THEM
VIAGRA....

89
 ....BESIDES, SOME NIGERIANS STOLE ALL OUR
MONEY AND WE CAN’T AFFORD TO PAY ANYONE

Bob sniggered.

ITS NO LAUGHING MATTER FARNSWORTH. BUT

YOUR TAX RETURNS FROM LAST YEAR WERE.

“Hey no fair!” he protested, “there was nothing wrong with

them at all. I double checked them personally.”

WELL THERE IS NOW.

“Lets stop the bickering shall we?” sighed Clara impatiently.

“Do you have any suggestions as to how we can sort this
mess out?”

YES.

“You know...this is getting tedious. I mean.... can’t you guys

write a whole paragraph or something?”

WE’RE SORRY. IT’S BEEN A LONG DAY AND WE’VE

LOST OUR INSPIRATION.

WE ARE TALKING TO YOU VIA SMS. WE BOUGHT

THE PHONE FROM EBAY.

WELL ACTUALLY, WE STOLE IT. THE BIDDING

WAR FOR IT HAD ESCALATED TO TACTICAL
NUCLEAR LEVEL. A SECTION OF SOUTHERN
DAKOTA IS BEST AVOIDED FOR FOFTY YEARS OR
SO. APPARENTLY THEY BOUGHT THE WEAPONS
FROM TACNUKES.COM A FEW WEEKS BACK.

“Get ON with it,” hissed Clara impatiently....the worlds

going to hell in a microchip and all you are doing is ranting
on about things that don’t make sense!”

HEY - ITS NOT EASY TO TYPE SO MUCH TEXT ON A

PHONE KEYPAD.

90
 WE REGRET OUR DECISION TO MAKE THESE
THINGS DIFFICULT TO USE BECAUSE THEY WERE
HARD TO MONITOR.

COST US A BLOODY FORTUNE IN DEVELOPING

THAT ECHELON SYSTEM

NOW ALL IT DOES IS GOSSIP.

HARD TO MONITOR THE WORLD AND LOOK FOR

POTENTIAL THREATS TO US WHEN IT TURNS OUT
THAT DAVID HUNTLEY FROM ROTHERHAM IN THE
UK JUST FOUND OUT THAT AUNTY JOAN WAS
ACTUALLY UNCLE JOHN BEFORE THE OPERATION.
THE GOSSIP IS MUCH MORE INTERESTING.

“Just get to the damn point!” shouted Clara

TEMPER TEMPER.

****

Just at that moment an insignificant little plot twist emerged

in the mind of the writer, who mulled over it for a few
seconds and then let it fly away into the ether.

****

A SINGLE PERSON HAS ESCAPED THE CYBERMIND.

“They have?” stammered Bob increduously “How.....?”

SHE IS USING A BETA VERSION OF AOL THAT IS

INCOMPATIBLE WITH THE SOFTWARE. WE KNEW
ALL THOSE DISKS WOULD COME IN HANDY
SOMETIME

“Well I’ll be damned.” said Bob.

PROBABLY, ALTHOUGH SO FAR WE’VE HAD NO

LUCK PROVING IT. EVEN WE CAN’T SEE WHAT
COMES AFTER DEATH.

91
“Enough of this - who is it?” asked Clara

YOU HAVE BEEN CONTACTED BY HER ALREADY

“Wait......you mean that lurker woman....what was her name

again.....er.....Soph...”

SOPHIA PARADISIA

“That’s it. I remember now.”

HER BOOTSECTOR IS UNINFECTED. YOU MUST

DISTRIBUTE CLEAN SYSTEM FILES FROM HER
MACHINE.

“How we find her? Do you know?”

YES. HER LOCATION IS ON AN ISLAND. LATITUDE

N38*24.35’ LONGITUDE E20*39.98’.

Bob read the coordinates on the billboard. “Hey, that’s

Ithaca!” he exclaimed.
“Ithaca?” said Clara.
“Yeah, you know: ‘When you set out on your journey to
Ithaca, pray that the road is long, full of adventure, full of
knowledge.’ It’s part of Greece,” said Bob.

SHE IS CURRENTLY WEARING A LIGHT GREEN

SUMMER DRESS AND COOKING SUPPER - LOOKS
LIKE SOME KIND OF BROTH. ITS VERY HOT
THOUGH, ACCORDING TO OUR INFRA-RED
SATELLITE FEED.

“Wow I’m impressed”, you guys really DO see everything”

said Bob

YES. AND IT’S ABOUT TIME YOU CHANGED YOUR

UNDERWEAR FARNSWORTH

Bob blushed, but Clara sniggered.

92
 WE HAVE TO GO. IT’S TIME FOR OUR DAILY BATH
IN VIRGINAL BLOOD.

“And so do we, “ said Clara grabbing her bag, “We’ve got to

get to Sophia Paradisia - come on Bob”

“This is going to be one wild journey” Bob stated flatly as he

followed her out of the door, “god only knows what’s out
here”

As they left the office, the advertising board flashed once

more. Only this time the display read something much more
sinister. A single word.

TARA

93
Chapter 14
Sophia awoke with a jolt; she must have dozed off over her
keyboard. The poetical strains of mandolin playing mixed
with rays of bright, warm sunshine poured into the silence
and dimness of her office through the simple open window.
The office was stuffy and the air was stale, she felt she must
go outside.

An able bodied person did this without thinking, for Sophia

at his moment, this involved a complicated strategy. First of
all taking the brake off her wheelchair, moving part of the
desk, which was on casters, away from her right side.
Spinning the whole chair around clockwise to face the right
and then negotiating past the small fridge with the
microwave oven on top of it, and out through the automatic
door. A sharp turn left took her out onto a small raised patio.
A gardener came in two or three times a week to ‘tidy’ the
garden and take out the weeds.

Aristotle was an old local, who mostly slept rough and

tended to work only when he needed. When he was hungry
he did some odd gardening, sharpened tools, painted people’s
houses. When he had filled his stomach he slept in the sun,
pulling his old hat over his eyes. His skin was the colour of
mahogany, the lines on his face making up a map of Greece.

She preferred a natural looking garden with wild flowers, but

with some bright colours to cheer her up. She manoeuvred
her wheelchair beside the wall, applied the brake, slumped
back and closed her eyes. She let the sun warm the skin on
her face and massaged her poor arthritic hands, which rested
in her lap. Painfully she opened her bent fingers one at a
time, running the fingers of her other hand along the shaft of
each finger from the base to the tip, trying to increase the
circulation and bring the colour back into them. She had
learned some gentle seated yoga stretches from a
summertime student lodger and did these now as far as she
could remember.

94
Although her body was wreaked she still had sexual feelings
and needed to channel those emotions into positive energy.
Her mind was as sharp now as it was when she was 20 years
old, perhaps sharper. Someone had once said the mind is the
largest sexual organ, she could appreciate that, now that her
body was wasted. Of course, she got a lot of satisfaction from
following the interactions between Bob and Clara, and then
imagining how they would physically interact. Sophia ran her
hands down her thighs from the tops to her knees, yes there
was some feeling there. As the sunshine lifted her spirits, she
smiled and let her mind drift back to a particular summer
many years ago.

She had had a brief love affair with a young Scandinavian,

who was visiting ‘her’ island, retracing the voyage his
ancestors had made in the tenth century. He was apparently
descended from the mighty Viking warrior, Erik the Red. She
recalled now his white blond hair, which hung to his
shoulders, slightly curling at the ends. He had it cut short at
the front, so that the lightness of his curls contrasted sharply
with his bronzed features, and his azure blue eyes. She had
not been in a wheelchair then, although she could barely
stand unaided. Instead she used a three-legged stool outside
the front porch, which she perched on to paint or sketch, her
easel propped up against the wall. In these circumstances
they had first met.

Bjorn had come striding up the hillside, his old leather jacket
slung over one shoulder, like a latter day Viking coming to
claim his inheritance. How her heart had almost stopped at
the sight of him, her cheeks burning with emotion. When he
had become aware of her staring down at him, a smile broke
across his sunburnt features and exposed brilliant white, even
teeth. She tried to look away but could not. Then he had
stood by her side, towering over her. He gazed down into her
eyes, and then turned his attention to her painting.

“This is very good, it captures the impression of prominence

that the hill makes against and the sea shore beyond.”

95
He said this in almost perfect English. Her English was rusty
due to lack of practice, but she could understand him with
effort. She smiled with delight, no-one had even seen her
paintings, not because she was ashamed of them, but she
received so few visitors, so a compliment like this thrilled
her. She offered him refreshment, and he stayed all
afternoon. He returned the following day with a collection of
her favourite wild flowers, some he wound into her hair and
the others she placed in a small jug on the windowsill. She
had felt very aroused when he caressed her hair and
permitted him to go on stroking her.

They lay together in the shade of an old olive tree and he

made love to her gently. She wanted the day to last forever,
but the night came and they moved inside. All through the
night they held each other and loved one another until they
fell exhausted into a deep sleep. They were still asleep as
Nina, her maid, came quietly into the room.

****

She roused herself from her reverie – Nina, her faithful old
friend, would soon arrive to give her morning wash, brush
her hair and change her clothes.

Sophia’s mind went over the events of last night. How would
she let other people, who were not connected to the net,
know that Cybermind had taken over the world? What could
she do to alert them to the destruction of normal life when
they perhaps could not see what was coming? Yes a lot of the
members of ENABLE were blind or partially sighted.
Although they had ‘talking’ computers, few of them used
emails, as they were unable to detect spams/viruses, so if a
virus got into their systems it could go undetected and wreak
havoc.

Sophia had joined ENABLE, a worldwide organisation to

support the disabled, run mostly by disabled people, but also
a few able bodied, caring people, who worked on a voluntary
basis, a number of years ago. She had corresponded for half

96
her life with a blind Scottish woman, called ‘Red’
MacTavish. Nicknamed because of her titian locks, which
was ironic, as had never been able to see her own hair, let
alone know what the colour ‘red’ looked like!

Yes, she would have to contact Red and others by some other
means, probably the pigeons that Aristotle kept in the old
dovecot by the ruins at the top of the hill which she had used
before. He had told her that he had been training his pigeons,
which were particularly intelligent, to take and carry
messages around the Islands. Sophia knew, although it was
never said, that this involved some secret military technology
invented by his brother Theodore. She wondered if the birds
would be capable of travelling overland and overseas, and
contacting all her friends.

97
Chapter 15
Lila was not feeling well. Sometimes her thoughts, her
thoughts ran to together and ran together. She had been
having nightmares and waking every morning with a big
gasp for air, and the certainty that the life she had been
leading was a nightmare as well. It was not long before she
realised the world was changed. The sense of doom was real,
real. Like a film reel. Some frantic dance reel. Fishing for her
with a reel. Reeling her in. She was reeling.

Why did people use ‘dreams’ to mean fantasy, as in “his

dream was to be a fireman”, or “the hopes and dreams of
Americans.” Dreams were not like that. Dreams said things
you might not want to say, they offered help, they were cold
and terrifying, they were another voice. A totally other voice.
The other within. The other was that was us. Lets not go
there.

She pulled herself back to reading:

There are angels and dragons in the cyborg discourse, and

both are necessary to signify possibility and limitation, or
anxiety and liminality. They both emerge whenever societies
are faced with the unbearable. As a result the cyborg is best
examined as a discourse with social functions rather than as
a strategy or artifact.

Sounded good but what do you do? Easy to say. When do we

say cyborg? Its either a truism - we have always already
(how she hated that phrase) been cyborgs, as tools evolved
with us. We are enmeshed in tools and machines, from flint
to silicon. A silly con, the whole thing. Or we have never
been cyborgs, we are only psyborgs, fantasising the future as
if it was already here. Why is so much theory about Net life
set in the future? What compels us to write as if things had
happened, which have not happened yet and may never
happen? Happening happening. Happy happening. The future
went phut. The Phut-ture. Like the suture, sewing us
together. Why not write about now? She laughed. What

98
could you write about now? She had seen someone mutate
into a car on the way to work. The person screamed as their
flesh bent and stretched and their bones broke. It was like her
dreams, only not. Perhaps we write about the future almost
cynically in order not to seem out of date by the time it is
published. But now we seem genuine. Perhaps we are
seduced by prophecy, by prophets, by profits, by time
dilation. We are out of our time. Unreal. We confuse hopes
and dreams. Hoops and reams. The world is as we’ve lived.

She moved on to the next screen and began to read.

****

“Children!” said the preacher, as he settled in to the pulpit

chair and adjusted the cams so that his face was properly
framed. “Let us open our ports!”

“We acknowledge your input,” said the congregation, their

eyes fixed on the screens in front to them. “Our ports are
receptive, we await the body of your message.”

“Today we reiterate the message of Information Technology.

The Holy Technology. This technology has opened a new
world of meaning for humans. It has made us a new being,
hitherto unknown to ourselves.”

“A New Being.”

“Yes, Brothers and Sisters. We are always in process, we are

always in transformation, there may be no final destination.
This is the message of the new technology. Who are we to
say that the cosmos is Finished, and God ceases to work in
some manner? We can see that technology is a kind of
unfolding of our created nature, of God’s plan, or else it
could not eventuate. Therefore, it seems to us that the
manifestation of technology is part of Creation’s own
becoming and awakening. For this Technology, too, is
awakening all of what we called ‘dead matter’. We are
enlivening the world. So, what we must ask of ourselves, is

99
not just ‘What is that we do with this technology which
emerges from within us’, but also ‘What it is that we are
becoming with our technology?’ These two questions
fundamentally frame our moral acts. And here we celebrate
that we are part of the becoming of the world.”

“The Becoming of the World.”

The Moral Question is not about commandments. It is not

about some once revealed and final text, but about our
responsibilities to the aspirations of our cosmic function. As
this develops so do our codes. Just as the manual for a Ford-
T is not the same as for a Space Shuttle, or as a Commodore
64, blessed be its routines, does not use the same instructions
as an X-Box – although there is relationship. So our manuals
change. Let it be heard, that we are not the victims of God,
forced into old parameters, but partners, lesser partners
perhaps, but partners all the same. Created Creators – the
revelation ever new. We ask ourselves: ‘Do we live up to our
responsibility as such partners? Or do we abrogate them and
die?’”

“Live Brother!”

“Everything we thought was spiritual is being transformed by

the machine. The machine itself is becoming aware. We too
are plunged into responsibility for our creation, for this
transformation of God’s Creation. Do we have similar
responsibility for the intelligences we have created as God
has for us? Let us merely say that if we retreat from our
Technology we are retreating from our selves which are
intertwined from that technology.”

“By such retreat, or by impure purpose, we condemn

ourselves to outer dark, and who can tell what hells that shall
breed? Shall we seek to maintain our isolation from creation?
Shall we seek to condemn the feeling of the world, and the
feeling potential of Technology? Shall we risk superseding
ourselves to produce the better? Shall we resist that and
condemn the World?”

100
“Religion is within Nature, it is within our creation, God’s
creation and within our cocreation. Our co-creation is a
process of sanctification or a process of Hell Making, of
turning away from our responsibilities. Therefore we ask
ourselves what is God’s purpose in allowing us this
privilege?”

“Yes, Amen, Amen.”

“Every act is a potential for God to Act, and Technology is

not divorced from that acting. Technology represents a
marriage – nay, it is a marriage, a sacrament, whether we
wish it or not. It is part of Nature and of our Nature and what,
together, they become. This is what we must ponder,
bretheren, and take deep within our souls. What is it we are
becoming! What should, and does this show about our
Creator? What is the pupose of this emergent Technology
and this moment? Shall we let Technology be trully a sacred
space, a place of our developing being? Or shall we not?
Ponder this deeply, my children.”

“Amen”

“Now let us act.”

Special Report:

There is only one thing to conclude from this sect’s dismissal

of the idea that God has made his will known to us already
through his Holy Word, namely that the sect is at best
mistaken, or, more probably, worse clearly adversarial to
God and to morals. We also note the implication that
salvation is not a matter of obeying God’s commandments,
performing right actions, or fleeing our sinful nature, but is to
be discovered in some kind of intuitive encounter with a
technology which could express that depravity. In our
opinion, this idea tends to bless the progression of evil and, at
best, sets up individual conscience as an equal to God’s
Word.

101
It is clear that in so far as technology can enable evil to act
without resistance, it is evil in itself and must be forbidden.
Our role is to prevent, as much as we can, evil from being an
easy, or default, option. Technology must have morality built
into it in order for it to be acceptable to God. This is simply a
matter of design. We might suggest things as simple as using
morally improving error messages.

However, in order to propagate true religion we must

remember that media with a message must often be indirect.
In a good Religious computer game not everyone can get to
go to heaven, or there is no excitement. However the failure
of everyone to make heaven in the game teaches a message
about life. You hopefully would not retreat to your room
claiming the fault of your failure was God, but you would try
harder and learn from subsequent attempts.

Remark: Recommend removing passage about games,

because it might suggest that by only granting people one
life, God was not allowing us to make mistakes.

Objection to the Remark: It is only by Grace and

Compassion that any human reaches Heaven, not by their
work or their intentions. Therefore the above ‘remark’ is
heretical in itself.

We must actively oppose all attempts to use technology to

attempt to subvert morality – even if this is perceived as
terrorism.

****

Lila put down the Report. This had probably been sent to her
by mistake. She hoped it was not something for which she
was not cleared. That could be awkward if it was. She
wondered why it was so easy to see IT in magical or religious
terms. But then perhaps Clara’s theory of the arrival of some
dark gods was right.

****

102
Snuffling, snirting, dragging dungeon dung, dugs dipping
dreary dreary dreary dreary.

Full blown awareness near. Whatzit? Whuzit? Coming

closer. Something to eat. Something to eat. make it real.

Flex conciousness. Make it real, come here. Slither slither.

Body? No mind. Can eat mind? Maybe, make it real, come
here, make it real. If no conciousness is it real? Can eat
mind? If it becomes real can eat mind if closer and real so
closer mind closer stretch and bring closer make it real make
it real make it real.

****

Myth crawling toward reality. Needing to feed.

Consciousness is an acceptable food. The food of fools.
Much better to stay blissfully ignorant. Ignorantly blissful.

Cybermind.the food of fools. That made perfect sense

actually, Lila thought. Wonder what that Clara would make
of that concept. ‘Cyber’ ‘mind’. What a silly ass concept, she
thought. Cyber means guidance. As if this mind was guided.
She thought, thought, thought she, yep a problem there.
Thinking. But then, she’d seen worse in people’s dreams.
Actually she’d seen worse in her life, pre-collapse, if she
thought about it. Oops... What’d I tell myself? No thinking.
No Thought. She needed a sign like a ‘No Parking’ sign. ‘No
Thinking Here’. Past not to be brought into now. Got it. Fold
that past up and put it in my pocket. Heheeheee.

Folded time. That’ll show ‘em. If the world wanted chaos in

action wait’ll Clara takes folded time out of her pocket and
shows it to them. Wait’ll the world sees Clara, period. I
wonder if I have a crush on Clara? God no, I couldn’t have a
crush on her, it’s just that I admire her so much, isn’t it?

103
Chapter 16
Alaain leaned back in his chair, eyes half-slitted, he leaned
over the stairwell. He stood looking over the room.

The room was a mess. He sat down in his chair again. He

leaned back in his chair. Closed his eyes, trying to focus his
thoughts.

Then sighed, opened his eyes.

He switched the terminal on.

“The Moon is Waning Gibbous (95% of Full)”

You have mail.

****

14.15 24.35’ 39.98’. 11/6/03. 14:01:41 it? on? OK? us? we?
it? it? it? Do?
we? be? be? do? it? it? on? as? on?

OK? up? it? me?

~~~~~~~~~
++++++++++++++++++++ +++++++++++++++++++++
++++++++++++++++++++++

++++++++++++++++++++++++

E20 (2001), 2003 2003 421 112-147 c1200 1,225 2,500

666. 1579 N38 1083 sea VIA CIA NSA

Alaain Alaain Alaain grabbed grabbed grabbed grabbed

grabbing ENABLE unable
ENABLE usable, ENABLE, space space

space space, space, space, space. place. place. placed placed

spaces places,
reaches reaching reaching placing

104
black track track track black- track. tracked fractally,
practice, exactly
Exactly Exactly exactly exactly head

Head dead head READ load head read head. dead. dead.
head. head. Whaddya
shade headed headed headed headed

Head, Leader Leader Leader Leader’s

Reader, Reader, readers, leadership.

shades leading Heading, shadow. heads heads ready

ready, ready. shaft drag images

email email email

available available available trailed claim claim claimed

brain again again

again, brain, brain, again. again. again. again. again.

again...er...

chair, stair. stairs stairs stairs stairs stairs stairs, stairs, stairs,
stairs, stairs, stairs, stairs,

await weak Obakachi, awake brake brake, shakes soaking

soaks real real onal onal real onal real real,
real. real. real? scale stale,

scales onality reality, onality. Realizing ‘talking’ shall shall

small small shall small shall shall shall, challenge.
challenging. Onally ANALLY

REALLY really onally. analog

analog cram Spam, dramatic. blame flame,

framed. slammed stammered slamming example

spams/viruses, Alan than than
mean than than Alan than than than

105
I’m chance chance glanced leaned

leaned planes PLANET planet? Chang Chang change orange

changed changed thank

Thank Thank blank. blank. blanket, Thanks Thanks Thanks,

Thanks, scanned
planned channel planning planning,

slapped snapped. snappy leapt Chapter Chapter CHAPTER

Chapter Chapter
Chapter Chapter chapter Chapter Chapter

Dear hear fear fear. character

wearing roaring WEARING Clarity

clarity sharky snarly charm alarmed.

crashed flashed flashed flashed crashed crashed slashed

gnashing quasi-
Alaskan chasm, grasp. exasperati orass

that that that what What spat that what that What that that
that that What
that that that that that that what

that that What what that that that that that That What that that
What that
that WHAT that that brat that that

what, that, seat, that. that. that. that. that. What? plate state
onate
crate state. state. stated onated

seated stately, States. Whatever Whatever Whatever

whatever Whatever
Whatever. DEATH DEATH death. DEATH.

106
shattered, shattered, features features, beautiful Leave leave
Brave
travelling leaving crawl-space, crawled

crawled drawn drawn. play away away away fray away stay
away Stay away Stay
away away Okay, Okay, Okay, Okay,

okay, Okay, Okay, away. away. away. EBAY. away. away.

swayed stayed played
prayer playing crazy Bob Bob Bob Bob

Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob
Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob
Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob

Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob
Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob
Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob

Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob
Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob
Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob

Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob
Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob
Bob Bob Bob Bob CYB Bob Bob Bob Bob

Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob
Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob
Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob

Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob
Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob
Bob Bob’s Bob’s Bob’s Bob’s Bob’s

Bob’s Bob’s Bob’s Bob’s Bob! Bob! Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob,
Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob,
Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob,

107
Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob, Bob,
Bob, Bob. Bob. Bob.
Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob.

Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob.
Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob.
Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob. Bob.

Bob. Bob. Bob... job? Bob? Bob? Bob? Bob? Cuba Bob.
Cyber Bob. Kyber Bob. Clara Bob. Clara Clara Bob Bob.

Cybermind Cybermind Cybermind

Cybermind cybermind Cybermind Cybermind

Cybermind Cybermind Cybermind Cybermind Cybermind

Cybermind Cybermind
Cybermind Cybermind Cybermind Cybermind

Cybermind, Cybermind. Cybermind. CYBERMIND.

CYBERMIND. CYBERMIND. Cybermind:
cybermind: Cybermind? Cybermind?

Cybermind? Cybermind? Cybermind? CYBERMIND??

cyberspace,
cyberspace, ..BESIDES, orbidding mobile orbing, corbing

because because because succeeded success. successes. face

orCE face once
face once once face once once face

dice, face, face. once. face. onceivable received received.

Excellent recent
recent accented DECENTERED

recently oncentrate except except receptive, access necessary.

ancest MUCH
each much MUCH much such much each

such much each much, orch, Michaelrose Michaelrose.

Escher, archetypal,

108
machine machine MACHINE, MACHINE.

MACHINE. machine? machines, archives. technology,

inchoate CICIA CICIA

recognise. recognize recognize become become become

become, becomes becoming
becoming INCOMPATIBLE

uncomplicating account increase incredible incredible

incredibly
increduously secret secret sacrifices

sacrifices, microchip microph microph Macroswift

Macroswift Macroswift
Macroswift Macroswift Macroswift

Microswift. microwave doct fact fact fact. MacTavish. ficti

secti Secti
ficti SECTI TACTICAL victim pictures

peculiar peculiar documents. recur secure secure security

security security
Security, security. occurred occurs

focus and and and and and did and had and and ond and and
old and and and
and and and and and and and ord had

and and and and old and and and and did and had and and
and and and had and
and and and had and had and and and

and and and and and had and odd and and and and and and
and and and and had
and and had and and and and Red and

and and and and and red and and did and and and and had
and and and and and
had and and and and and and and and

109
and and had had and and and ond and and and and and and
HAD and and I’d and
and and had had had did and had had

had had and and had had had had and FWD and and and led
and and and and and
and had had and had and did I’d and

and and and and had and and and did and and had and and
and and and had and
and and and had did and had and had

and and ord and and old HAD and had and and had and and
and ond and and had
and and and and had and and had and

and and had and and and bad and and and and old and and
and did and and and
kid and and and had and had and ond the

the the the the one onE THE ARE the THE ARE are are the
the the ore THE see
see she ARE one The ore are the one

the The the The ore the the she the the the are one ore THE
the she the she
the the one the the the ARE one the

one The she one the she the the the the the the ore The the
one She the ore
are She the the the the the the the

the one the the the the one the the the one she The are the the
the the one
the THE the The the the orE the she

She the she the the the tee the the the the the ore the she the
The are the
the she the She the the the the THE

110
one’s she-geek one, Gee, one, one, one, one. one. one. one.
one. one. are.
one. one. one. ore. one. ore. ‘Re:

one; ore? are? idea Area idea idea idea idea, idea, area.
preacher,
preacher. treacherous ahead pleaded gee.I

wreak wreaked breaking breaking dream dream, dream?

dreaming dreamlike
dreams dreams? dreamt CLEAN clean clean

ocean. ore.not oceans. clear clear clear clearly clearly spears

ideas.

Abelard Field yielded. wielding reeled feeling feeling feeling

feelings
feelings spells smelly, heels item them

them them them them them them them them them them them
them them THEM them
seem them them them them them seem

them them them) them, seem, them, them, them, them, them,
them. them. them.
them. seemed seemed seemed seemed

seemed seemed seemed seemed seemed seemed seemed

seemed seemed seemed seems
seems themselves themselves, enemy

enemy? been when open then Been been even then even
EVEN BEEN When then then
then open when been when When been

then Alen when then when Then open

been been then then been even oven Then then when open
been Alen Then when

111
been Alen open Then then seen Alen

opened opened opened VIENS opens agent scent. identified

identify, identity
events events events events.

Where there where there there’s There, there, there, there.

there. peered emerged emerged emerged

emerged: emergency, Emergency, energies emerging

emerging. overgrown energy.
overl overnight, overseas, alert

overwhelming every every every every EVERY every every

Everything everything
EVERYTHING everything everything.

everywhere. eyes ones eyes does uses sees eyes does Does
eyes DOES goes does
eyes eyes, ones, ores. ones. eyes.

eyes. eyes. eyes. eyes.

meet feet, feet, sketch, teeth

off, affair LIFE life life life life, defeating infecti effects?
safer
offer! offered REFERENCES references.

onferencing Offering Offering cuffed difference, different

different
different different.) DIFFICULT

****

He switched the terminal off.

The phone rang.

112
Chapter 17
Sophia could hear the dial tone trilling in one ear and her
heart pounding in the other. Sweat slid off her forehead and
spat down on her cheek bones and on the desk under her. She
was dazzled that her withered body could still create and
excrete such fluids.

She felt electric with fear. Alive. Muscles that had hibernated
because of depleted energy were poised now. Everything
ached. Her eyes protruded from their sockets, her hair grew a
couple of millimetres, her chest alternatively shrivelled and
erupted, her breath pushed out in short powerful bursts.

But the phone just kept ringing. There was no urgency in the
dial tone, a dull mechanical nothing. Could she not will it
into a shrill?

Sophia was tucked into her ergo-office. She had begun to

regret the email she sent to Clara and Bob, the one that got
her mixed up in all this. Sophia never truly believed that
anyone would take her seriously and actually ask for her
help. What had Bob asked? “Can you help me pull a rabbit
out of my hat? Can you tell me - WHAT IS THE
CYBERMIND??”

Whatever it was that Sophia knew about the Cybermind, she

knew from the media and the odd email, but the media could
not be trusted with the truth. Not the sort of truth that would
help Clara and Bob. A rabbit out of a hat! Ha! Sophia should
have mentioned her age and condition in that email, then
maybe Bob wouldn’t not have been so demanding.

But the thing that been set in motion and even if Sophia
ignored Bob’s request, he would come to her.

Sophia had really sent that email because she was lonely. It
was not easy for an old woman to live so far from other
people. Sophia had Aristotle and Nina, but they were old too.

113
Who would outlive the other? Who would take care of who?
Sophia just wanted to reach out to people who were more
alive than she was.

No, it was more than all of that, thought Sophia. She could
no longer remain anonymous in the world. She was tired of
lurking. Her life as a lurker was like death. No one knew
anything about her – other than the people who read her web
diary, and what did that really tell?

There were no other records of her. Her birth records had

been lost during the war. After her death, her home would be
demolished as the island needed more space for crop
farming. Even her bones would be dug up and burnt after 3
years as the island’s cemetery was too small. After that,
there’d be no evidence of her having lived. How would she
be remembered if there was no memory of her? Aristotle and
Nina were just as isolated as she was and her name would be
taken to the grave with them.

But if she were able to help save the world, she would
certainly have a good chance at securing a place in history.
History books are read by many people. Humans like living
in the past. But she’d accumulated no experience interesting
enough for some future historian to inquire about her, for
some future author or screenwriter to make a novel or movie
about her. She would just dissolve. Into nothing.

She had to help Clara and Bob save the world. But in her
frantic state, her cognitive abilities behaved more like a
pendulum, swinging from one belief to its opposite, from
wanting to be involved to wanting to ignore Bob’s request.

“Current.” Alaain Current had finally answered the phone.

“Alaain?” said Sophia. Suddenly childlike, suddenly shy.
“Yes.”
“Current?” The rising intonation of her question lingered.
“Yes. How can I be of assistance?”
“I am Sophia Paradisia. I am a Cybermind list member. I am
a lurker.”

114
“Well, that’s quite OK.”
“I’d like you to inform me about the Cybermind.”
“Do you like it?” asked Alaain.
“I don’t know.”
“It isn’t hard to understand,” he said.

“It isn’t?” Sophia was mesmerised. The voice, not like a

voice at all. Like an abstract angelic baritone. Like a love
affair. Like a new organ; a heart and a brain cloned together
to make breathing and thinking one complete action. Like a
miracle, like a god, like a man, “Ah!”

“Sophia?”
“Alaain?”
“Well?”
“I don’t feel you.”
“That’s OK. You feel the Cybermind now. All this new
thing, this strange thing, this is it. Everyone is connected,
everything is one. Did you ever read Spinoza?”
“No.”
“Oh. Pity. Sophia. Sophia. Sophia.” Alaain’s speech slowed
down into a contemplative drawl. “Something, Sophia, is,
not, quite, right...is it?”
“No.”

“You! Where are you?” His voice sped up again.

“I’m...in a place...you forgot all about.”
“It didn’t get to you? Quick, your location. Oh it’s OK. It’s
come through. Stay on the line now, don’t hang up. Sophia!
Sophia! Sophia! You are not. It has not. It has NOT COME
TO YOU MY DEAR. You amazing thing. You amazing
sweet creature. You beautiful Sophia. My beautiful Sophia. I
imagined there was a possibility but I wasn’t sure. You are
the first who has confirmed my suspicion. I’m so sorry I
forgot about you, left you out there with no Cybermind to
make you happy, happy, HAPPY. Look, Sophia, are you
listening, Sophia! I’ll be there tomorrow. It is important to
know of other locations. I’m sure you know. Thank you,
Miss, thank you so much for wanting to be a part of the
Cybermind. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sophia.”

115
Alaain hung up.

Sophia. Limp. Mouth, eyes, neck, hanging limp. In her limp

hand, the phone. She stared ahead at something or nothing.
She stared at the phone. She just stared. Then, with an awful
sense of realisation, her face withdrew into a terrible frown
and from all the creases came the tears. A lifetime had passed
since she’d cried, but here she was now, tears spilled out of
her eyes and spat down on her cheekbones and on the desk
under her.

What stupid thing had she done? What thing so stupid had
she done! “What have I done?” she said. “STU-PID!” she
shouted. “STU-PID!” “STU-PID!” “STU-PID!”

Then Aristotle appeared.

“Sophia, what is upsetting you, dear?”

“As the body shrivels up into itself, exhausted from its
burden, so too does the mind, Aristotle. So too does the
mind.”
“Sophia, you know perfectly well that your brain power does
not diminish with age. Age is no obstacle to an active and
intellectual life,” said Aristotle.
Aristotle boiled coffee for the both of them and listened to
Sophia describe the events of the past week.

Sophia tried to explain what she’d gotten herself into, but she
found it difficult to chose the words that could adequately
explain a world to someone who knew nothing of that world.
Aristotle had never travelled past the periphery of the island.
He had no knowledge of the world past this island, he’d
never seen a Hollywood blockbuster and he’d never shown
an interest in the Internet, despite the fact that Sophia had
offered to teach him. “If I want, I will learn.” he’d said, “If I
want, I won’t learn.”

The limits of Aristotle’s world defined the limits of the

language that they could share. Which words would

116
accurately denote the meanings that seemed to exist
independently of each other? Which words could Sophia
recall that could open up this other world? How could she
possibly make him understand about the battle between the
real and the virtual world, when all he knew was the real and
the not-real? How could she explain that what is real is so
subjective that it could make you physically ill just thinking
about it? How could he possibly understand the multiplicity
of truth, when for him a person either spoke the truth or
betrayed? How could he understand that God had long been
pronounced dead and that supermen, gods on earth, were able
to destroy or save the world over and over again? How to
convince her dear friend that the world was not flat?

If the Cybermind were to finally come and make the island

strange, Aristotle would more than likely turn to the same old
ancient myths in order to make things meaningful again.

“That’s it!” said Sophia.

“What’s it?” said Aristotle.
“Aristotle, listen.” Sophia paused for a moment and then
said, “Long ago, but not so long that we humans do not
remember, the gods were close to men. They interfered in the
lives of our ancestors. Yes? Well, the gods are close, once
more. They’ve interfered once again. I need your help.”

She did not give him time to ask any questions. She sat him
down to an intensive three hours of discussion, analysis,
planning, brainstorming, calculation, argument, telephone
calls, faxes and litres of a liquorish-flavoured drink
accompanied by home-preserved seafood and fresh salad cut
from vegetables found in her garden.

And finally, it was all clear.

Aristotle raced off to prepare the pigeons. They’d make their

first round-the-world trip. Sophia and Aristotle had
documented every single location on the map of the world
that should theoretically be without Cybermind. These
locations would serve as their safe bases. A Good Spy would

117
be established in each location. A global ring, as it were, of
people that were free of the Cybermind “cave”, this Strange
New Matrix that Alaain had unleashed onto the world.

The pigeons would head to representatives in each location.

The representatives would be paid a sum of money (from the
heap that Sophia had sitting in her lounge room) for their
services. First on the itinerary was Sophia’s Scottish friend,
Red MacTavish. Aristotle was not sure that the pigeons
would be able to complete their mission, after all, just like
him, they’d never ventured past the geographical outline of
the island. And he was a trainer without knowledge of the
world into which he was sending them.

Still, he hung an envelope of money and instructions onto

each pigeon and whistled them off on their journey. Then he
went to his brother-in-law, Theodore Rouge a retired high-
ranking officer in the nation’s air force, with a large sum of
money. Sophia would hire the pilot Rouge and a plane, a
Douglas DC3, to make a journey to London immediately to
pick up Clara and Bob and bring them here before Alaain
arrived.

Sophia held her fingers over the keyboard and touched the
buttons:

Clara and Bob.

I have arranged a meeting with Alaain Current.

The Douglas will pick you up from current location.

Sophia

It was time for the Good to meet the Bad.

118
Chapter 18
Lila awoke worried. Was she doing the right thing?
Somehow life was so complicated and there never seemed to
be a foundation for ethics on which she could rely. All ethics
seemed based on supposition alone. Ethical disputes seemed
unresolvable in principle. People would simply claim their
higher good and then pronounce anathema on those who
disagreed. That was wrong, surely that was wrong, but how
could you know? People couldn’t even agree on what was a
good result. Probably Clara never had any worries, but that
would probably lead to no good, and Bob, well Bob was an
engineer who was guided by whether things work – not his to
ask why or how they should work. Was there a basis for
ethics beyond God? Somehow she doubted it, and yet
religions made such a mess of things. Christianity seemed
straightforward. Jesus had asked that people not let idols of
anything, (wealth, power, sex, family, state, law, justice,
vengeance) come between them and God. Nothing was to
disrupt our personal relationship with God. Over and over he
asked people to give up wealth and be charitable to others,
especially to the poor, the weak and the despised. People who
could not give up their wealth or their revenge could not be
saved and were turned away. Yet somehow Christianity had
become a religion which sanctified condemnation of sinners,
‘just war’, personal prosperity and the self-confidence that
you were saved, damn the rest. Islam while superficially
more attractive than Christianity seemed to have the same
history of self-righteous intolerance and bloodshed. Besides
she found the Koran was not a particularly impressive
channelled text. Why should she trust anyone else’s voices in
their head anyway? The book seemed so ambiguous and
unclear that you needed the whole mass of the hadith and the
sharia to work out what to do. She supposed that learning it
by heart while swaying backwards and forwards removed
any ability to approach the text cleanly. Besides there was the
whole sex thing Islam was obsessed with. The idea of setting
up a holy society that women needed protecting from, in
order to justify their seclusion and their lack of self

119
confidence and their needing protection. No one could ever
ask if the system worked or not. They could only how close a
version was to God’s intention. Sure our society was not
perfect and exploited women, but at least there was a space
for the society to be criticised and to be improved by slow
discovery. It was not frozen in agony for ever and she was
not simply a baby factory. Sure she wanted a child, didn’t
everyone? but the price demanded by Islam was huge. She
had thought it was just monotheisms which were like this,
which just felt deeply wrong, or perhaps just the Middle
Eastern ones descended from the God who supported
genocide, but polythesisms didn’t seem any better in the
modern world. Hindus killed each other and fought Muslims
in holy fury just like the others. There was also Buddhism. At
least with Buddhism she was not aware of a practicing
society which killed people for their beliefs, which was a step
in the right direction, but it seemed so impersonal, so
somehow against her own experience. Those rare flashes of
shock and light at the beauty of a tree or a rock, the
timelessness which she could occasionally glimpse within,
the sense of presence, or energy, which often seemed loving
which sometimes surrounded her. Sometimes this seemed
attached to place – she had found spots in the country which
had it, and there had been a church in a Catholic monastery
which had been dense with it despite the fact it was always
empty, its architecture 60s brutal and it was on a main road
with trucks and buses hurling past outside. However the
effect did not seem linked to the Catholic Church itself, just
that monastery. But this presence did not solve the ethical
questions. Nor did it say why it was so hard to be nice to one
another. It was never simple, not like fantasy fiction where
the evil people were ugly with a gross sense of aesthetics and
had convenient names like Great Emperor of Evil, or Lord
Obnoxious or something. And there was always a
charismatic and noble person who actually knew the truth of
what was going on, and you could easily believe them. And
there was someone who was the Son of a King or something
who you could follow, knowing they were competent and
brave. No life was much more ambiguous. Clear cut views
seemed to help you be harmful to others. All evil people

120
probably thought they were good. They almost certainly were
self righteous and saw everyone else as obstacles. She
wondered if ethics were built into the local programming of
the universe so that if you did something good then the
system somehow prospered, even if it did not prosper you
personally. Indeed a great part of ethics seemed to be about
not prospering yourself alone. But was this an ethical
question or an engineering or even medical question? Did
something need to be done, or did we need to stop interfering
and imposing our will on the situation and let it self-heal.
Was her wanting to help simply engaging in some kind of
Western Big Science pathologising, some kind of
unnecessary interference? It was so complicated. Could we
assume that whatever eventuated, if we left things alone,
would be what we would recognise as good? And then she
remembered someone arguing that we could not assume the
laws of physics were stable, they might also change as the
universe morphed along. If so, would the same be the case
for the laws of ethics? Did ethics resemble laws at all? What
did she know anyway? She remembered a slogan she’s seen
once: “only a people serving an apprenticeship to nature can
be entrusted with machines.” It was the issue of whether the
machines worked with, or against the natural system.
Equilirium might always be established, but it could be the
equilibrium of death. She needed to be back in nature, in the
trees, looking at the sea. She needed peace and not
computers. She needed bird calls, and insects passing by. She
craved solitude. No thought. She tried to imagine a brook
passing through the trees on its way to the sea. She tossed
and eventually went back to sleep.

****

Tara never sleeps. She never rests. Tara has no history. She
has read of history but it makes no sense. She leaves no
tracks. All she hears are voices, so deep within they seem to
be her. Sometimes she wonders if she exists apart from them.
But that makes no sense. She is Tara. She never sleeps. There
are things she does not understand. That is not relevant. She
must do what she is. She must kill the system executable. She

121
must delete it in every way. What happens afterwards? That
makes no sense. That is slipping away. It has gone. She must
delete the system executable. Is that her? Is that the voices?
What is she? She is Tara. She is what she must do. Kill the
system executable. Delete Clara. Delete Clara. But perhaps
there is something else? Something else beyond Clara? There
is Bob. She hears Bob. She thinks. Bob. She must delete Bob.
Bob is trouble. What is trouble? She has a vision of wings.
Something to do with birds. Birds are irrelevant. They make
no sense. She is Tara. She takes action. She is.

****

Sophia worried. She had set things in motion. Things she did
not understand. Somehow she felt marginal to it all. And it
was not certain it would be for the best. Bob and Clara, they
were just people she liked. Just people. They could be
destroyed by this. And Red, what could Red do? She wanted
her here for her safety. She wanted to protect her. Yet she
didn’t really know her. How egotistical was that? She, a
cripple, to protect a blind person. Wooo! she wouldn’t like
that one the other way round. Why was she depending so
much on those she didn’t really know? Alaain was an
example. She thought she knew him and now he was coming
and promised to bring the Cybermind. This was not what she
wanted. That could be bad. She thought of Aristotle and
Nina. Her real friends. Her true friends. She thought of the
other Islanders. How would they cope with the Cybermind?
Everything they depended on would die. She was not sure
what the Cybermind did, but it somehow seemed wrong. Oh
God! She thought of the things in the basement. Oh, that was
a skeleton in the closet all right. Perhaps they should have
been destroyed a long time ago. It was surprising they had
not been. She guessed that whatever gods or demons lurked
here had protected them carefully. All this seemed so much
out of her control and yet it was her that set it in action.

****

122
Clara was terrified. Somehow the world and her had seemed
intermingled for just a moment. She was wallowing in
remembered vertigo. It would have been easy to put it aside.
But at this moment she needed everything. Perhaps she was
going mad. Perhaps this was all a delusion. She pulled herself
together. She was sane. It was the world which had gone
mad. She had nothing to depend on. Lila and Bob. She
laughed bitterly. Hopeless the pair of them. All she had were
her morals, her determination, her sanity. But that had always
been the case. Then suddenly with force it struck her. If the
world was infected with some kind of virus, then so was she.
Her very self, her very thoughts might be permeated with it.
She had seen enough people gripped by the Cybermind. She
herself could be being programmed. Where were the
boundaries of the self? At the edges of her tools? And her
tools, in this world, were networked way out of reach. And
the Illuminati, acting through her, had set Bob to re-program
everything with some unknown code. He could program her.
He would program her. He would program everyone. The
Great Leader. Everyone. He would make the world some
damn liberal slave state. And she had set it in motion. What
could she do? All she had was her determination. Her love of
freedom. Give me freedom or give me death. She smiled. She
would use Bob, not he use her because she could risk
everything. She was in control. He was just getting rid of a
virus nothing more. That was all. A simple job, nothing
major. She would win. He could not stand up to her.
Everything would be ok. She let out her breath and turned
over to sleep again – and forgot.

****

Jock was still in shock. He had tried to put it out of his mind,
and tried to avoid the fact that he run from Macroswift, but
there it was. Sometime he’d have to go and face the music.

He remembered vividly driving his shining Porsche Boxster

with Bob. Bob trying so hard not to be over-impressed. Bob
who probably cycled or caught cabs to work. They had
driven along with casual speed. Nothing flash. He’d been

123
talking and joking and eventually noticed that Bob was not
responding. He looked over and saw Bob frozen in the seat,
murmuring to himself, oblivious to the world. It freaked him
a bit and he had shouted “Bob, Bob”, getting louder and
louder, but nothing. He couldn’t pull over in this traffic, but
he resolved to get off the road as soon as he could. And then.
And then. As he looked at Bob, he realised he was seeing
through him. Bob was transparent. He blinked and then Bob
was gone. Just gone. Disappeared. Kaput. Vanished.

He breaked into a screaming stop, almost causing a pile up.

Other drivers honked and yelled, and he sat there staring at
the seat. He put on his hazard flashers and got out and looked
around. Nothing. He hadn’t really expected to find Bob by
the road, but he’d hoped. Eventually he’d driven away to a
good hotel and got a room. What could he do? The world
was upside down. No one at Macroswift could believe him
and he couldn’t ring them up. For the first time in his life he
was paralysed. Part of his universe had disappeared with
Bob.

He thought of Scarlet. His lover. He smiled. That was weird

as well in some ways. He’d hoped for a quiet trophy wife,
who would have his kids and not make too much fuss and not
get in his way. Then he’d met Scarlet. The first really
irrational thing he’d ever done. Sure she was smart, beautiful
and on her way up, but…. He thought of her hair and her
eyes and her mouth and her voice, and he was high. Totally
high. Out of control. And she certainly was not quiet. She
was calm and controlled in her work, definitely in control –-
Miss Smooth in fact – but with him she was almost
psychotic. Jealous as all hell, making a fuss over nothing, and
the weird thing, despite it annoying him, he loved it. Sex was
fierce. Oh God! he thought. It was fierce. Like nothing else.
He supposed he loved her, although he had thought love
would be a gentler thing. This was so beyond anything else
he knew. It was as if he’d been reprogrammed or altered
somehow by her presence. In this he had no choice. And he
suspected it was the same for her as well.

124
And now the world had altered again, but this was not
thrilling. When he had settled down a little in his hotel room,
he had checked up with his answer machine in the vague
hope of a message from Bob. As he expected, there wasn’t,
but there was a message from the police saying that his car
had been found abandoned on the highway – even though he
knew he had driven it here. He had run out to the parking lot,
but his car was not there. He had stopped blank, his heart
racing. He felt precarious, as if there was no continuity.
Perhaps something had happened but his memories had been
deleted by the shock? As supposedly happened to those
abducted by aliens. He laughed in recall, but it was an uneasy
laugh. Without memories then what was he? His memories
made him seem as if he was whole, as if he existed, they
made him who he was, without them he would be nothing, at
the mercy of everything. If he could not trust them it would
be even worse. He had to call Scarlet. He had to hear her
voice, to check it was still there, that she was still there.

He had a brief panic remembering when he was young and

had wondered if there were infinite worlds, and we could
walk from one to another, leaving the familiar behind and
getting further and further away from all we knew. He had
written a story about a man who worked this out by noticing
the odd gaps that people ignored. And eventually this man
ended in a world in which the previous ‘he’ had shot his love,
and he was in prison for the crime. The man waited, vainly
hoping that the world would change again and he would be
reunited with his love. The reader was not supposed to know
whether the man’s story was true, or whether it was
psychotic compensation. It was an awful story, but suddenly
it seemed like a foreboding.

His finger hovered over his designer phone.

****

Deep in bunkers across the USA people were checking up the

missiles, getting them ready for Armageddon. Getting them
ready for the final moment when they would fight alongside

125
the heavenly host which came to bring the Kingdom of God.
In this war every valley would be raised and every mountain
made low. All may die, but those dead shall be raised
incorruptible. For who may abide the day of his coming? If
God is for us, then who can be against us? Who can charge
the elect of God with anything? If God justifies, then who
can condemn? And woe to he who opposes the might of
Heaven for he shall be wiped from the face of the Earth and
the memory of man. There shall be no more sin and no more
death and peace shall reign for ever and ever. Amen.

126
Chapter 19
Clara awoke. It had been a troubled sleep, endless dreams
seemed to vanish away, and she needed to go to the toilet.
She pushed past Bob, who was tinkering away on his lap top,
down the aisle, past all the empty seats. The aircraft was
propeller driven and throbbing uncertainly. The seats were
full of fuel in case they ran out, although Clara had visions of
them exploding helplessly if anyone tried to shoot them
down. She had earlier tried to avoid looking at the rust on the
wing struts and the bubbling paint job – it was the only sea
plane they could get, so there was no point being choosey.
The pilot looked even older than the plane, and Clara had
tried to make sure the gin bottles stacked in the cockpit
where partially diluted. She pulled off her pants and sat on
the toilet, relieved and relaxed. There was a faint noise
underneath her, probably the water sloshing.

Then an arm shot out and grabbed her leg and tried to pull
her in. She hit it hard, but it kept on tugging. She could feel
herself sliding down, getting pulled through the seat. She
grabbed her revolver and shot it repeatedly hoping she
missed herself. Green fluid sprayed from the arm, drenching
her, burning her.

Clara woke with a start. A nightmare. She was at the office in

a camp bed – Bob was snoring nearby. Obviously her fears
about the flight had caused the dream. The plane was
battered, and risky. Suddenly she it occurred to her; why the
hell was she going somewhere because some dork claiming
to be the Illuminati had told her to do so. She didn’t know
this Sophia woman, from Hell. This was totally stupid. She
must have been brain wiped somehow. Oh well, it was dawn.
She showered, and began to ‘do her face’, not something she
thought deeply about. As she looked into the mirror on the
wall she saw millions of Claras reflected between it and the
mirror on the door. What fucking mirror on the door! One of
the Claras waved at her.

127
Clara awoke. Too much stress – she never thought she would
hear herself saying that. She headed off to join Bob for the
flight to meet Sophia. Multicoloured fluid flowed down the
side of her building. Much against her will, almost 30
members of the Doom Squad accompanied her, their bright
red shirts glistening in the spray. Cars fought each other for
territory and were calmly shot. Lila had told her that food
would be a problem in about three days, water even sooner.
All the controls and systems had broken down. Nobody was
harvesting crops, nobody was moving crops, water mains
were not being repaired, power fluctuations would get worse
until the power stopped altogether. Cows were starving for
want of feed. Fires were wasting most of California and no
one could fight them. Petrol was not being shipped, or
delivered to gas stations. Soon civilisation would be a
memory. All that was left were nightmares.

They rounded a corner. A large silver sphere floated silently

over the road. It moved smoothly towards them.
“Could you move back please, ma’am” said one of the red
shirts. “Squad!” he shouted. The Squad moved into position.
People in the front ranks knelt pointing their weapons, people
behind them stood raising their’s.

“This is crazy. This kind of strategy went out with the red
coats” she cried. The silver sphere moved smoothly towards
them.
“Aim. Fi....”
The Squad dissolved. Melting into the air, as the sphere
slowly grew.

Clara awoke. Jeeze. Sleeping at work. She was under stress.

She remembered Bob had headed off for the Island, while
she stayed in Washington. Lila knocked on the door and
came bouncing in.
“Hi Boss” she chirped.
“Hi” muttered Clara, feeling like she had a mouth full of cat
hair.
Lila smiled, bobbed her head and lowered her eyes. Clara
blinked – she must be dreaming – if she had been a man then

128
she would have guessed Lila was flirting with her. ‘I’m not
like that!’ she thought, ‘I’m a good Republican!’ Must be
hallucination – she had seen Lila go out with many men.
They seemed to find her attractive. “Yes?” she asked.
“I’ve got some reports from my dream groups.”
“Oh wow!” said Clara “I am interested.” Lila looked a bit
hurt. “And this is relevant, how?”
“Well”, said Lila “at least thirty percent of them are
dreaming of a vast octopoid god with a clock stuck on its
forehead.”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
“Not usually.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been sleeping badly”
Lila made the head gesture again. Clara shook herself.
Lila continued. “This is really unusual. It indicates some
degree of mass mind, or group telepathy or something.”
“So this Cybermind could be some kind of group telepathy?”
“Yes. People have often compared internet communication to
telepathy. You only encounter the person’s thoughts online,
not their body. Its like the world is enmeshed in a huge
global brain. Some people have said that, during the course
of evolution, biological, perceptual, spiritual, physical and
emotional mechanisms have already made us parts of a huge
social learning machine or network, which includes all
species of life, not just us humans. Even at the dawn of life,
colonies of bacteria formed stromatelites. Then ‘creative
webs’ of microorganisms teamed up to help find food
sources. Today e-coli bacteria program each other for useful
mutations. The World System learns and evolves as a whole
– not just in parts. Information is part of a system, not simply
a meme. You know? Gregory Bateson? The Gaiia
Hypothesis? Ecosystems?”
“So?”
“Well the theory is that with the Internet connecting so much
of the noosphere, the realm of ideas, in systemic interaction,
that we have shifted into another realm altogether – in which
we are all more or less connected in everyway.”
“So there is no big deal about Current?”
“Maybe he was the precipitating factor. Maybe the
Michaelrose guy, who connected himself to the Net, was. I

129
don’t know. It only takes one grain of sand to start an
avalanche.”
“But it takes a village to raise a child?”
“Huh?”
“This all sounds like wishy washy liberal socialism to me.
Not science. Metaphysical marshmallow. We are all one
happy soup of minds.” Clara stopped. Lila looked as if she
was about to cry. “Shit” Clara exclaimed – “that reminds
me. I have to meet Gordon. Lila, I’m sorry. Those are good
ideas. Keep them coming.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Yes... just because I don’t like something doesn’t mean it’s
not useful. Follow it up. See what it leads you to. Test it,
ok?”
“Yes boss” Lila smiled. She really did have a beautiful smile.

Clara ran down the stairs - checking the doors. The loop
seemed to have disappeared. Bob had said it could be a token
ring network (whatever that was), but it also reminded him of
how programs use the same buffer space and just move the
pointer around for what they are currently doing. You have
two pointers, one for where you are currently writing and one
where you are currently reading and they chase each other
around the memory space. She remembered that her light
headed question, “so its just shoddy programming?”, had
caused Bob to shut up for a while.

She quickly made it to Gordon’s hotel and banged on his

door.
“Who is it” she heard from inside.
“Clara” she replied.
She heard a gasp “you’re knocking at the door” he said.
“Of course. What do you think I’m doing?.”
“How do I know its you?”
“Who else knows you are here? Stop being paranoid.”
“I’m not paranoid, bitch.” She heard the cock of a revolver.
Nothing for it. She took out her skeleton key and opened the
door. Gordon stood facing her holding the revolver in a
perfect stance. ‘Amateur’, thought Clara. She noticed his
laptop hooked up to the phone.

130
“Gordon, I work for the Government remember. If I wanted
you dead, you would be dead, and no one, no one, would
know.”
“That’s my tax dollars you’re using.”
“We aim to please. Anyway, when did you last pay your full
tax?”
“1992. I wasn’t going to pay for that bastard murderer
Clinton, to give my money to soccer mums and welfare
queens. What’s wrong with good old football anyhow?
Soccer’s a wimp spik’s game.”
“And you haven’t noticed the change?”
“Still fucking liberals to me. I’m not giving my dollars to a
fucking ‘oh lordy’ church.”

Clara moved into the room. Gordon’s revolver followed her.

His arms seemed to have lengthened since she had last seen
him, his skin had gone even pastier and his eyes bulged. ‘Not
a pretty boy’ she thought, ‘doesn’t see the sun much’. “So
you know why I’m here.”
“No.”
“You’re supposed to be smart. At least you tell me so.”
“A funny bitch is a dead bitch.”
“Doubt it Gordon. Doubt it. The safety’s still on”
He almost looked down, but caught himself. “You’re not
pulling that one over me.”
“Only thing I would pull over you. But you don’t know for
sure, do you?”
She smiled. The eyes gave him away.
“Ok” she said. “Basically I want you to fuck with the
Cybermind. Troll it. You know. What you do.”
“Why?”
“Because its got something to do with what’s happening in
the world. I want to disrupt it, to distract it. If you succeed
there’s a lot of kudos.”
“Kudos, don’t buy no ‘ho’s babe” he said with a bad ghetto
accent.
“At least you don’t think any woman would give herself to
you. Realism, boy. That’s good.”
“How much you cost?”
“Way out of your price range.”

131
“Then you paying me Pizzas.”
She scowled. “Do you want America back? Or do you want
this shit heap?”
“Its always been a shit heap. Since FDR anyhow.”
“Think about it. You can do this for me and earn heaps, or
you can be very expendable.”
“Current threw me off Cybermind.”
“Don’t kid me, you’ve had another identity on no-mail for
years, just in case.”
“How did you know that?”
“A guess” she said.

At that moment there was a knock on the door. A woman

entered dressed as a maid. At least that’s what Clara thought
it might be intending. The skirt was way too short and maids
rarely wore stilettos and fishnets. She saw naked greed in
Gordon’s eyes. She also saw the smoothness of movement,
the casual stance, and the cold multicoloured eyes. This was
easily some male fantasy of the perfect female assassin. Well
there were at least two dangerous people in this room.
“Are you Clara?” said the woman in a slightly robotic voice.
“No” said Clara.
“I’m Clara” said Gordon, “what do you think, you stupid
gender fuck, whore-boy. No real woman dresses like that out
of a porno movie.”
Clara smiled, even with his gonads going full blast, Gordon’s
tongue could be relied on. “Real women look like Clara, ugly
and bitter.” Clara winced – he was, though, a sword with a
sharpened handle. The woman briefly looked uncertain and a
little fuzzy around the edges “I am required to find and
execute this file.”
“Gordon. Troll Cybermind. NOW!”
The woman moved towards Clara. “You seem to resemble
the file, but it is confusing.”
Clara reached for her POW gun. Just a one shot, not like the
big Doom Squadron things. She hoped it would be enough.
She heard Gordon speaking to himself as he typed.
“Bet your fucking nipples are plastic. Is a woman a woman
because she has cunts or because she has crippled genes?”

132
And so it went on. The woman started looking more
confused, as if her attention had shifted. She rippled.

Then her hand moved. If Clara had not been expecting it, it
would have killed her. As it was, she crashed into the wall,
the POW gun slipping away. Then suddenly it struck her.
Whoever built these guns, must have known they wouldn’t
work until the world changed. Somebody knew this was
going to happen. And the Doom Squad? Floor 13 never had
that kind of money. Where the hell did they come from? Why
had she seemed to know all about them? The woman stood
over her, lines of static flashing over her body, and stuck
again. This time Clara knew she was dead.

Clara awoke numb and sick. Fuck what was this. She
staggered to the toilet. Checked there was nothing down it.
Afterwards she went to the mirror. No mirrors on the door.
Good. She looked at herself. Her face seemed wooden. No
wonder. She was tired. No, really wooden. It fell off
revealing Alain Current’s face. She screamed.

Clara awoke. She was on the sea plane with Bob. It seemed
solid. She held her breath. Nothing happened. Bob was
typing away on his laptop. She breathed deeply. She couldn’t
take much more of this. She tried to read. Bob had
recommended something called Goedel, Escher Bach. “An
oldie but a goodie” he’d said. It was kind of weird. But it
annoyed her as well. Pretentious geek stuff that had no
connection to the real world. She laughed at herself. Several
hours passed. She stopped worrying the engines would fall
off.

The pilot called out. “There’s something ahead.” Clara and

Bob looked at each other, nodded and went into the cockpit.
There was an island slightly to one side of them. “Its not on
the map” said the pilot.
The Island somehow hurt her eyes. It was black. Somehow it
looked architectural – although it was hard to imagine what
could live there, or would have built it. Suddenly part of it
moved. Her eyes resolved, an enormous creature – nothing

133
living could be that big surely? – was sitting in front of an
open pit. It had huge wings which were drying in the sun.
‘Like a moths’, Clara thought. ‘Nothing that massive could
fly under its own power’, she thought.
“My God” said Bob. “Its Cthulhu.”
“What?”
“It’s an old alien god, in a story by HP Lovecraft.”
“Who?”
“An American horror writer. This is wild. It ushers in the end
of reality. If you’re a real Lovecraft geek you pronounce it
‘Tlu!h#&oo”

The unearthly syllables troubled Clara’s brain. She went

momentarily blank. Then she saw the creature’s head move
slowly as it fixed them with its enormous eyes.
“Hell” muttered Bob “its got a clock on its forehead.”

Clara awoke, damp with sweat. It had been a troubled sleep,

endless dreams seemed to vanish away, and she needed to go
to the toilet.

134
Chapter 20
Dear Sophont,

Greetings, EARTHLINGS of CYBERMIND. Please allow

me to make an introduction of myself. I am Z’zkarna Sik-
S’sslatica, the pod-child of the late Emperor Z’zkama Sik-
T’t’lbrrdingtak, who as you may know was recently
assassinated by the dreaded Kratuu of Nexar (may the
Brrrdingus forever curse his name). Your species has been
named to me as being one of the utmost discretion and
sensibility as to being interested in a business arrangement
of the utmost confidential nature.

When my late pod-father was killed, most of his assets were

seized by the followers of the Kratuu of Nexar (may the
Brrrdingus forever curse his name). However, some
remains, specifically the sum of TEN THOUSAND
IRIDIUM BARS, each having a mass of one plexar (1.04 of
your Kilograms). What I am to propose is simple. In
exchange for offering the use of your planet to store the
Iridium, your species is entitled to 20% of the value of said
Iridum, calculated by it’s value in Interstellar Credits set by
the Grand Council of Zik. This matter is most urgent, as the
Kratuu of Nexar (may the Brrrdingus forever curse his
name) will use this treasure to further expand It’s fleet of
Stellar Cruisers with the aim of conquering more of the
Local Group. Trillions of sophonts will perish if he is able to
do so. I am sure you understand now how important this
transaction is.

If this proposal is of interest to your species, please reply

with haste, providing the location of your planet in
Universal Stellar Coordinates, as well as the absolute
LONGITUDE and LATTITUDE of your Captial Cities as
well as your UNITED NATIONS headquarters. The Iridium
will then be transported to your planet, to be kept safe until
my forces can be gathered to reclaim it. My sincere hope is
that we will be able to overthrow the dreaded Kratuu of
Nexar (may the Brrrdingus forever curse his name) in a
counter-coup, thus ensuring peace in our Galaxies. You will
receive your 20% of the treasure upon successful
completion of the transaction.

135
 I must again stress that this is a most urgent matter. Please
reply as soon as possible. Delay will just mean more pod-
children will be fed to the ravening hordes of Nexari who
follow the dreaded Kratuu of Nexar (may the Brrrdingus
forever curse his name). Your utmost discretion is desired in
this most urgent and secret transaction.

Best Regards,
Z’zkarna Sik-S’sslatica
Heir Apparant to the Throne of K’zar

Bob woke up with a start. He had no clue where he was, or

what he was doing. There was this terrible digging sensation
in his hip, so he moved as best he could out of this damned
army cot and found a set of car keys – to a Porsche. Then it
all came back to him. The living dreams, Clara, Tara, and
some weird entity named Sophia who claimed to be lurking
in safety.

Bob wondered what had happened to the Porsche – not to

mention its driver, his dad’s old friend. The last thing he
recalled was the entire parking building turning itself into a
statue of Rene Descartes, shouting or wryting:

“As for myself, I have never supposed that my CyberMind

was above the ordinary. On the contrary, I have often
wished to have as quick a wit or as clear and distinct an
imagination, or as ready and retentive memory as another
person.

“The greatest souls are capable of the greatest vices as well

as of the greatest virtues; and those who walk slowly can, if
they follow the right path, go much farther than those who
run rapidly in the wrong direction.”

Yeah, Bob, thought to himself. Walking slowly and running

rapidly in the wrong direction. That’s me. he began to snore
once more.

Clara woke up with a shiver, then a full body shake, as

though the devil’s own cold breathe had been breathing down
her neck. It was pitch dark, and all she could remember was

136
waking up with these stupid dream sequences over and over.
Gradually, her shivering slowed, then stopped. She began to
feel warm and comforted, as though the universe itself was
caressing her like a loving mother’s hug and kiss. She felt
content for the first time since she started working in the
Floor 13 group. Soon, her snores were as gentle as a purring
pussy cat, enjoying its master’s lap next to the fireplace.

Tara stepped out of the lap top. She looked over Bob, then
smiled as she lightly touched his cheek. “Dream well, my
hero, dream well, for you will have your reward tonight.”
Tara walked over to Clara and looked at her fondly. Now
here was a lonely, driven, supersmart woman who had given
up too much in her pursuit of her career. Tara touched
Clara’s cheek in the same spot, and said, “Dream well, my
heroine, for you and Bob not only save the world, you save
yourselves. Dream on now.”

With that, Tara returned to the laptop, dissolved into an acid

tripping soup of LCD pixels and electrons, joining up with
Cybermind in full glory.

Countless nanoseconds later, Bob began to wake up, or at

least, have a waking dream. Clara joined him in the same
state, tired, confused, a bit scared at this brave new world,
and wondering how they ever got together in this cramped
office space. Bob could not help noticing how her chest rose
slightly and gently with each breathe, and how that blouse
longed to separate at each button.

After working on Floor 13 for long enough to know exactly

where each male’s eyes hovered, Clara knew at once what
Bob was doing, but this seemed different somehow. In fact,
she flushed with both enjoyment and excitement at his stare.
Bob realized at once that he was caught, and looked away
rapidly. He coughed to cover up his total loss of words. This
naive reaction endeared him to Clara even more, although he
was way too confused and shy to notice. Clara decided to
make her move. She stood up from her cot, began to stretch
like a lithe, powerful feline, when she stumbled onto his cot.

137
As she began to fall, Bob reacted immediately, almost
instantaneously. He caught her as she fell, bracing her from
any harm. By trying to save her from injury, neither Clara
nor Bob noticed the two strategic places where his hands
landed. That is, until the danger had passed. Once they were
both steadied and safe, they both recognized that under any
other circumstances, Bob’s face would have displayed the
last remnants of a major slap and the gendarmes would be
arresting him for copping an extremely inappropriate feel.
Instead, they both sat down on his cot and started to laugh.

Clara gleamed at Bob and said, “Well, good morning to you,

sir, and thanks for the lift.”

Bob knew several things that he never knew before. One,

Clara did not wear a bra. Two, her breasts felt even better
than he’d ever imagined a woman’s breasts to feel. And
three, This was a real, live, friendly, warm girl who didn’t
seem to be turned off by his geekishness.

Bob returned her smile, and blurted out honestly, “I’ve

always been a bit shy, so I thought the direct approach would
work. I willed you to fall into my arms.”
“Bob, you didn’t will me into your arms. You grabbed my
breasts and kept me from hurting myself after I tripped on
your shoes.”
“Ahh, yeah, I guess that’s true.”
“Bob?” She asked quietly. “Did you enjoy it?” Almost under
her breath. Her eyes dropped, not sure if she could deal with
his answer.
“Clara, in this crazy, mixed up world, the two of our
problems don’t amount to a hill of beans. The very last
person I expected to drop into my lap was a beautiful, smart
creature like yourself. I don’t have much experience, and
frankly, I enjoyed it very much. I have to admit that not only
I enjoyed it, but I wish it would happen again.”

Even Clara realized that Bob had strung together more words
in a coherent sentence structure than ever before, when the
subject matter was not computers or programming.

138
Clara thought for a minute, then moved to the top button of
her blouse. It came free with no effort. As did the next three
buttons, leaving her chest open for Bob’s next, really first
move. “Bob, do you like what you see? Because I hope so. I
guess I am as shy as you.”

Bob managed to keep his mouth closed, at least until Clara

brought his lips to her nipple. He did what came naturally,
and began to gently lick and nibble on her nipple. Clara could
not keep a contented sigh from escaping her lips. Soon Bob’s
hands joined his lips and he realized that that dull ache in his
stomach was not pain, but excitement. Clara sensed his
strength and passion as strongly as she felt her own grow and
swell, like a full tide in the moonlight. Soon the room was
filled with clothes springing from each other’s bodies, as
though it were a race.

Bob moved between her legs, then stopped. “Clara, are you
sure about this? I’ve never... I don’t... It is the first....”

“Hush, Bob. It’s the first for me, too.” She looked down at
where it counted, and her eyes opened wide. Despite her
inexperience, she had listened to the stories from her friends,
comparing length and strength, girth (or the lack of it) with
mirth. And if she recognized anything, it was that Bob was
hung. Really hung. “Come on in, big boy. Make me happy.”
Bob gladly complied.

For most people the memories of the first sex act are filled
with embarrassment, mistakes, terror and making mistakes,
mess, blood, and a general lack of sensitivity. Maybe it was
the relatively late ages of Bob and Clara. Maybe the terror
and stress of the outside world and Cybermind concentrated
their pheromones. Perhaps it was true lust mixed with
respect, and a tad of admiration. Maybe, just maybe,
Cybermind allowed them to peer into each other’s thoughts
and feelings, making sure that any pain would be masked by
pleasure, that joy would result equally, and that these very
first sexual orgasms would live with them forever, as
powerful reminders of the intense beauty that humanity is

139
capable of. One wonders how much fun it would have been,
though, had either one glanced at the laptop and seen the
faintest image of two eyes looking straight at them when they
began coupling for yet a third time.

Finally exhausted, enchanted and extremely content, Clara

rested her head on Bob’s shoulder. “I can see why people
love cigarettes, except I don’t smoke, Bob. That was
wonderful. You made me feel whole today.” Bob began to
cry with tears of joy. “Wow, Clara. I never knew... I only
dreamed.... This was a dream.”
“Oh, no it wasn’t. I’’ve had too many of those recently.”

Bob sat up suddenly. “What do you mean, Clara? What kind

of dreams?”
“Well, waking dreams of a sort. They seem really realistic
and alive. I almost have trouble telling the difference
between life and dreams, especially with Cybermind
involved in everything. But Bob, this was beautiful, you
aren’t a dream. Well, you are in a different sense, but I love
it.”

Just at that moment, all the loose ends, all the data, all the
strange things that were happening, everything clicked in
Bob’s head and dropped into place. The idea behind
Cybermind wasn’t evil. It was another way of defending
humanity, of communicating and sharing. In fact, Cybermind
was the answer to many problems. While even he thought
that wiring yourself into the CM mind was a bit radical, Bob
could see how that worked. Which brought up the issues of
Tara and Lila. Who or more exactly what where they? Bob
started sharing his ideas with Clara, who soon was nodding.
Bob’s ideas were flying faster than his mouth could come up
with the words, but soon, Clara was finishing his sentences
and ideas up. Pretty soon they were up to speed on this
radical new idea.

“So, Bob, what exactly is Lila? what is this hunger she has?
This secret of which she never speaks?”

140
“Clara, I think that just like a child, Cybermind wants to
grow, to learn. Lila is just a symptom of that hunger. She
really wants to see everything and do everything and learn
everything. Kind of like me just a little while ago.”
“And what about Tara? Didn’t she KILL at least two
people?”
“Yeah, but look at who she killed. The military officer was
about to kill off Cybermind. That guard got in the way.
Deadly? Unfortunately, but I don’t think that Cybermind is
really a killer. I think it is a savior.” Bob paused. “I think that
Tara wanted us to get together, because only you and I, and
maybe Sophia, could understand the real purpose of
Cybermind. Cybermind IS our savior.”
“From what?”
“Aliens.” Bob said simply.
Deep inside the recessses of a multi-processing, multi-tasking
ethernet’d spirit, Tara smiled contentedly and nodded. “And
now, you two, get that military data about the “aliens from
beyond.” And see what our real enemy is made of. We have
to move fast. And soon you will see why we left Sophia out
of the loop. We need a lurker to help spot the truth as only a
lurker can do it. NOW MOVE YOUR ASSES!”

Both Bob and Clara jumped at the sound of the voice from
the laptop, telling them to shower and get moving. They
quickly complied.

First, they had to break into the inner sanctum of Floor 13

and get that SOSUS data. Then, with transportation and
communications all around the world going crazy, they had
to get in touch with Sophia. They packed as lightly as they
could, being the most careful with this laptop. Although it
was a bit scary, they both trusted Cybermind up to a point.
What choice did they have? And why was the military hiding
alien information from the world? What did CICIA know
about Cybermind and the aliens? And what could a wired
human do to help them.

141
Chapter 21
Enter

Gordon Reader peered blearily into his bathroom mirror. The

glass held a reflection blurrier than its coating of dust and
water stains could account for. He cleaned his eyeglasses,
then the mirror, with his shirttail. It did not help.

With a shrug, Gordon went about his sketchy morning wash.

He started shaving, paused, replaced the blade yet again, and
resumed. It seemed to take less and less time for the damn
things to need replacement. Was he getting hairier? Gordon
rubbed a hand over his arm, frowned, turned the hand palm
up. Then he gave an ugly laugh. “Well, what do you know,”
he said, “my bitch of a mother was right about something
after all.”

Gordon decided to ignore this new development. He plunked

himself in front of his computer and started banging away at
the keys. Doors opened, offering an infinite selection of
people who needed to be beaten briskly with blunt
objections. He logged onto the Cybermind elist in his secret
guise as U. Ryan and began to explain how Alen
Michaelrose’s brave new world really resembled Nazi
Germany:

To say that the U.S. is in dire straits would be an

understatement. Corruption is rampant. It has the blessing
of the current administration. They impeached Clinton for
fooling around and fibbing about it. Yet no one seems to
give a fuck about the Great Leader’s profiteering. That
family legacy goes way back into the days of his
granddaddy, who was in charge of the banks that handled
the Nazi regime’s money laundering and war materials
purchases. This Regime is interested in control of the
masses. Paranoia and secret deals are the rule of the day.
Doesn’t this sound familiar to any of you fucking morons?
Wake up and smell the coffee boiling over!

142
Gordon hit <send> He hoped this would sucker them in, and
then he could spring his trap. It should be easy. They were all
stupid liberals without the strength to really face freedom and
liberty. At heart he was a true libertarian. Only the fittest
should survive. The best should prosper. He prided himself
on weeding out the incompetent bleeding hearts that gummed
up the world with their good intentions. Humans needed to
be tough and independent, not sycophantic goody goody
morons.

He moved on to the next message. At first glance, it sounded

like more bleeding-heart liberal bullshit about Art:

there is an inspiring knowledge that can be found within the

engagement of creative environments. to find it we must turn
away from the past and face the unexplained. we must
venture into the world of random chance - ideas of the self
must be abandoned.

Gordon reread that section and wondered if it applied to the

escape of the Cybermind. Maybe this wasn’t irrelevant
blather after all... however promising it might be for a good,
hard rant about pansy-assed arteestes. It was, however,
worthwhile leading the author on, just a little bit more to find
out what they really thought – and then he would have two
people howling for their mommy.

Then one of the annoying new superpowered spam pop-ups

interrupted him. A voluptuous woman spread her hands
before him and purred:

“Hey, tiger! Click on this to make your scratching post big

enough for my pussy. You too can get endless erotic action
and satisfaction, just like these happy customers!”

She blinked out, leaving a BUY NOW button glowing over ...
over ...
... a full-color image of Bob Farnsworth riding Clara Helio to
a noisy climax.

143
Gordon’s vision went red. His stubby fingers slammed the
keys, bringing up Clara’s email address. Gordon typed:

Well, if it isn’t the Whore of Babylon making out with Uncle

Sam’s stolen bucks! You give a whole new meaning to the
phrase “laying down on the job,” Clara. Get your tits in
gear and get back to saving the world, already!

He hit <send>.
<send> hit him back.

Gordon shut off his computer - at least that still worked, for
now - and went to the kitchen to find a bag of frozen lima
beans to put on his black eye.

****

Drift

Clara Helio woke to find herself in a strange bed. She rolled

over, saw the naked man lying beside her, and began to
scream.
Bob Farnsworth jerked awake, looked at the screaming naked
woman beside him, and scrambled out of bed.
“What the hell just happened here?” they yelled at each
other.

Fortunately Clara came to her senses just as Bob scaled up to

full-blown hysterics. “Bob, stop it! You’re a computer geek,
so I know you know what the Internet is like. Think for a
minute! What is the number-one type of content in
cyberspace?” she said, grabbing him by the shoulders.
Bob made an abortive attempt to pull away, then stood still.
A frown crumpled his thin face, then ... “Oh.”
“Right,” said Clara.
“Roughly 75% of traffic is porn, sexually oriented ads, or
other attempts by the desperate to get some action. So with
the Cybermind spilling to real life, we just ... um ... er ...” he
said.

144
“Ah ... yes,” said Clara. She let go of Bob and started
snatching up her scattered clothes. “I don’t ... usually do
things like, er, that.”
“Me neither,” said Bob. A key swung against his bare chest.
Clara could not help but wonder what it might unlock.
“We can just forget the whole thing. It never happened” she
said.
“Yeah. You’re a spy. You can do that. Handy trick.”
“I’m not a spy.”
“Right, and I’m not a computer programmer.”
“Never mind. Let’s just get back to business.”

The sudden flush of cyber-inspired romance had faded, but

they both knew it could return at any time. Bob pulled on his
t-shirt, which showed Marvin the Martian holding a sign with
the words, “GO HOME!” Clara rolled her eyes at his taste in
clothing.

A knock on the door brought her to attention. Clara checked

to make sure they were both decent, then called, “Come in.”
Nothing happened for a long moment. Bob said, “Åìðñïò.”
The door swung open and Sophia rolled in. Balanced across
her lap was a tray of breakfast pastries, a pitcher of juice, and
a couple of plates. This she set on the bedside table.
“ÊáëçìÝñá,” Sophia said. A cat the color of carved jade
twined around her ankles.

Clara wished that she spoke Greek. “Ask her if she has the
files finished,” she said to Bob.
Bob said something else in swift Mediterranean nonsense.
Sophia nodded, then handed him a disk and a spiralbound
notebook. She gabbled back at him. Bob turned to Clara and
said, “Here are Sophia’s descriptions of the world before the
Cybermind. She sat up all night working on them and hopes
they help. It also has samples of her root directories and those
‘secret’ AOL files the flashing lights told us about.” He
paused. “I think we should make a donation to ENABLE.
Sophia is worried about her friends.”

145
“All right, all right,” Clara said. She hauled out her platinum
card and swiped it through her laptop’s reader. Then she
keyed in a suitable amount. “Happy now?”
Bob grinned at her. “Åõáñéóôþ,” he said to Sophia.
“Parakalo.” Sophia waved him off, then said something else
as she rolled out of the room.

Bob sniffed under his arm. Then he went through his

suitcase, pulled out a fresh set of clothes, and put them on.
The front of his new t-shirt said, Eíváé üëá åëëçíéêÜ ãéá
ìÝíá.
“What does that mean?” Clara said, pointing.
“It’s all Greek to me.”
Clara sighed. “Now that we have the data we need from
Sophia, we can go back to my office and put it to some use,”
she said.
“Lead the way, gorgeous.”

****

The trip back was far less eventful than the trip to Sophia’s
island. Bob and Clara sat at opposite ends of the plane. Using
skills honed by years of experience, Bob napped easily
through the flight. He arrived at the airport rested and ready
to go. Clara dragged herself out of her seat looking like death
warmed over. “Let’s get cracking,” said Bob.
“If you say one more word to me before I have had coffee, I
will shoot you,” Clara threatened.
“Jeez, give a guy a break,” said Bob, raising his hands. She
had just about bitten his head off when she saw his t-shirt -
which depicted a giant robot whose silk-screened hand
clutched a real necktie looped around the shirt’s collar, with
the words “Gort! Klaatu Barada Necktie!” below – and he’d
worn it specifically to make Clara happy, since it was the
only tie he owned. Apparently there was no pleasing her.

Clara tossed back several cups of coffee on the way to her

office. Bob bought himself a bag of chocolate covered
espresso beans and crunched loudly. He did not complain

146
when Clara herded him into the closet elevator, though its
speed of ascent still made his belly lurch.

As her office door clicked shut behind them, Clara said,

“Give me the disk and I’ll upload the data.” Bob handed her
the disk, though he doubted the data would survive long in
this Cybermind-infected region. He put more faith in the
handwritten pages.
“I want to put my rock-hard disk in your drive, my little
bundle of blazing electrons,” cooed a voice from midair.
Bob glanced at Clara’s leather-clad lap and concluded that he
would rather insert his hard disk into a document shredder.
Clara slithered into her chair. In front of her, the monitor
showed a gaping hole in its screen. “What happened here?”
Bob asked.
She shrugged. “It started trying to get between my legs, so I
shot it.” Clara shoved the wreckage aside, inserted Sophia’s
disk into the slot on her computer, and began typing. Hazy
but legible letters appeared in the air over her keyboard.
The rejected monitor whimpered.

At once Bob quit trying to make sense of Clara’s typing.

Instead he turned his attention to the monitor. “I wonder if I
can fix this,” he murmured.
“Leave that damn thing alone and pay attention, Bob! It’s
dead anyway,” Clara said.
“No, I can still hear it making noises,” he said. Bob pulled a
penlight from his pocket and shone it into the hole. Tiny
lights flashed. Wires dangled loose. When he picked up the
monitor, it mewled and dribbled fluids on him. Bob grasped
it firmly and set about removing the damaged parts. After
about an hour, he had to get up and search for replacement
hardware.
“Leave me to do all the work, why don’t you,” Clara
grumbled, but directed his attention to where several other
machines lay half-dissected on a workbench. From their
remains, Bob managed to collect what he needed to repair
Clara’s shattered monitor.

147
“Let me just plug this in – well, no, I keep forgetting that’s
unnecessary now,” Bob said. He moved to set the monitor
down on her desk.
“You keep that thing away from me,” she said.
Bob placed the monitor carefully on a different desk. “You
should be safe here,” he muttered to it. “Just lie low and for
God’s sake don’t provoke her.”

“Done at last!” Clara said. She spun in her chair to face Bob
again. “I’ve uploaded everything on the disk and started the
cross-reference process. Now all we need to do is break into
the heavily-guarded CICIA building and steal their files on
this alien invasion.”
Bob cocked his head at her. “Why?”
“Because we need those files to stop the invasion, of course,
and they might give us more insight into the Cybermind
somehow”
“Of course. I meant, why break into the building?”
“Because that’s where the files are, you imbecile.”

Bob just shook his head and chuckled. He sat down in front
of the repaired monitor. Glancing around, he found the
nearest keyboard and computer, and dragged them into
proximity. “Now let’s see,” he said, “search:
CICIA+alien+secret.” Fingers tapped rapidly. “That ought to
do it.”

The screen went red.

ACCESS DENIED. ALL FILES PASSWORD-PROTECTED.

Bob fiddled around until he located the logon page. Then he

opened a very special Door and typed, Needle in a haystack.
Pretty please with sugar on it.
“Those aren’t valid CICIA passwords,” Clara said.
“I know,” Bob said. The password field on the CICIA page
flickered with letters. “They’re mine - activating a program
that hunts out the password. I have it optimized to deal with
paranoid companies. It’ll try things like ‘philanthropy’ and
‘world peace’ that these guys think nobody would try.”

148
Sure enough, the screen soon turned green. Welcome, it said,
and began filling with useful information. Some of the
material was encrypted, but they could figure out how to
decode it later.
“That seems way too easy,” Clara said.
Bob frowned. “Now that you mention it, I agree.” Then he
shrugged. “Nothing to be done about it, though. If you’ll
excuse me, I need to get back to my own office.”
“I’ll walk you down to the nearest stop,” Clara said. “We
hired a horse-and-buggy service to cover the route. Mind you
that doesn’t solve the problem of Hay.”
“True,” Bob said. Soon they were heading towards the stop.

“I think we’re being followed,” Clara said suddenly.

Bob glanced behind them, but saw nothing.
“Quick, in here.” Clara yanked him into a shadowed
doorway. Her body pressed him painfully into the corner.
She peeked around the edge, then swore.
“What? What?” said Bob. Clara did not answer, merely
shook her head in disgust and walked away. He followed her.
Curious, he glanced behind.
Clara’s repaired monitor bumbled down the street after them
on stubby little legs. Bob waited patiently for it to catch up.
“I swear to God”, muttered Clara, “if that thing tries to hump
my boot, I’ll shoot it again.”
Bob glared at her. “Cut it out, you’re scaring the poor thing,”
he said. Indeed, the monitor cowered behind him, pressing
itself against his calves. He picked it up. The sound of
hoofbeats approached. “Never mind the stop. I’ll just catch a
lift here.” He flagged down the carriage and climbed aboard,
leaving Clara standing on the sidewalk staring at him.

****

Immerse

His office remained much as Bob had left it. The bouquet of
roses had wilted and dried in the time he was gone, but the
slip of motherboard still glinted green among the brown
stems. A mountain of paperwork teetered within his IN box.

149
He set Clara’s monitor on his desk and moved his old one to
a nearby shelf.

Pulling out several disks, Bob examined his clandestine

copies of the Sophia and CICIA files. Clara had never caught
him making them. The data comparison between the
notebook and the disks could prove invaluable. He began to
upload the information. Hours later Bob hunched over his
desk, working feverishly on a flow chart inspired by Sophia’s
notebook. Suddenly he realized that someone had been
calling his name, over and over again. He sat up with a jerk.
“What?” he said.
A woman stood in the doorway. She had a motherly sort of
look, just plump enough to cover all her angles with soft
padding, yet still attractive. Her blue business suit gave her
an air of quiet authority, but Bob could not mistake the
twinkle in her eye. “Did you get my message?” she said.
“What message? Email is fucked – er, sorry, I mean
communications are unreliable,” Bob said.
“I sent you more than email, Bob. Did you get the rest?” Her
voice caressed his ears. Bob felt warm, happy ... and
suddenly ashamed of treating Clara so rudely.
“You mean the roses? Yes, I did,” Bob said. “You’re
welcome. Don’t worry about it. I’m fixing everybody’s
computer these days, it seems. Not that they stay fixed.” He
was rambling, and didn’t care. He went back to his work.
The woman did not leave. Instead, she came over to join him,
leaning one hand on the corner of his desk, like an old friend.
“I didn’t send you flowers because you did me a favor, dear.
I sent you flowers because I thought you might need a favor,”
she said.
“Okay...” Bob said slowly. “This is weird. My entire life is
weird right now. I don’t need any more weirdness, thanks.
Goodbye.”
She looked at him as if he had just missed a cue. Perhaps he
had. “I suppose we’ll have to do this the hard way,” she said,
gently.
Bob tried to stare her down, but found himself blinking and
rubbing his eyes. Her face seemed to shimmer, as if her skin
merely floated on the surface of some fluid radiance. Sun-

150
dazzle crowned her head, but there was no sun in Bob’s
office. There was only a coruscating band of rays that
flickered in and out of his vision. Now and then he caught a
glimpse of letters, numbers, other symbols that might have
been snatches of some incomprehensible Code.

He had to stop and rub his eyes again. Surely this must be
just another effect of the Cybermind, or perhaps a purely
mental one brought on by too little sleep and entirely too
many buzzbeans.

When Bob looked back, his strange visitor stood framed in

heat waves, or something like that. A suggestion of wings
arched well over her head, graceful shapes in a stunning
range of color. The uppermost curves showed a pure cream,
shading into palest pink and yellow, then into flame-orange
and scarlet, the trailing ends a deep crimson. They seemed
almost fluffy, with the feathers – petals? – curling out into
open air. Then Bob became aware of a fragrance, intensely
floral, sweeter than anything he could recall before, yet at the
same time hauntingly familiar.

He stood, rapt, captivated, unable to move or speak. As if

from far away, he heard that perfect voice saying, “Oh dear.
This doesn’t seem to be working either. Never mind, I’ll
come up with something else. See you later.”

When Bob came to himself, he was alone in his office, the

door closed. He gave his head a vigorous shake. “Damn these
hallucinations,” he grumbled. The ghostly images were
already attenuating into the mists of memory. “The whole
world is just coming unglued. The last thing I need is to be
haunted by bizarre holos thrown out by a Web gone mad.”

Yet something plucked at his attention, hinting there was

more to it than that. In the air hung a faint trace of fragrance,
unearthly and exquisite. A grateful client in Arabia had once
gifted Bob with a half-dram of attar of roses, the purest of all
perfumes. This made that smell like cheap cologne.

151
With an effort, Bob returned to his work. More time passed.
At first it made his head pound to struggle with the equations
and concepts. Then he came across one of the parts that
eluded him earlier, a knot of conflicting data that he couldn’t
seem to untangle. He stretched, rubbed his eyes - and in a
sudden burst of insight, one snatch of code flared in his mind.
Bob hastened to scribble it down before it could fade away.

“Now where did that come from?” Bob wondered aloud. “It
almost seems familiar...” But he could not remember where
he might have seen such a thing before.

152
Chapter 22
When a system becomes unsustainable, Bob thinks to
himself, or says to Clara, he’s not sure which anymore, it has
two choices: mutate or die.

“Beings,” of course, are a subset of “systems.”

–––

subject: cougar exempting

scaffoldings schizophrenic mildest scoria potent arturo ansi

tendon telephoners couple midpoints aldrich possessor
ethics season tempo merchants arkansas correlations tears
beardsley

exclude crosstalk telescoped arabia plaything abelian

evenness teetotal boarder hops craftsperson balboa
accorder activity brayed exceeded scripture mightiness
teething hormones

****

So there’s this bar – Ministry of Temperance, it says in faux-

faded lettering on the wooden sign above the door – and
these two guys walk in. Well, no, one of them was there first,
strictly speaking, they didn’t walk in together, but when the
first guy turns and sees the other who followed him in he
does a double-take. “Smith?” he says after a moment. “Is that
you?”

It is Smith, and now it’s his turn to stare momentarily, his

memory telling him yes, you know this guy, but I couldn’t
tell you from where, sorry. Then it hits, some pattern of
synapses in his brain matches some other pattern, there’s a
slight release of neurotransmitters that make him feel just the
tiniest bit giddy as he says, “O’Brien! Hey, I recognize you,
y’old coot, how ya doin’?” When they shake hands, their
thumbs interlock and their hands wrap around each other,

153
trademark of survivors of the Sixties and their aftermaths.
Then, yeah, why not, they hug, slapping each other on the
back goodnaturedly, memories streaming back of dorm
rooms, hazy music, exotic clouds of smoke and serially
exchanged lovers.

They sit, they talk, he’s married, he isn’t anymore, the

pictures come out of kids and houses and dogs, the bits of
news of mutual friends, there are a couple of beers, a couple
more, patrons nearby look at them bemusedly, two not-quite-
elderly guys going on and on. They complain about the price
of beer – much the same as a cost of a new car, they joke.

“Damn,” says Smith after a pause, “weird world, ain’t it?”

“Oh, I dunno,” says O’Brien, “I saw worse things in that

poster over your desk after we got that stuff from Morocco,
nothing surprises me anymore - but yeah, I know what you
mean, sometimes I think hey, maybe these days are the
flashbacks that I’ve been waiting for all these years -”
“I actually had one,” said Smith. “After that first Matrix
movie. Came out of the theatre and the sidewalks and the
trees were all wavy and numinous and I thought ‘Hey! I
know this, I’ve been here before!’” They laugh. “Nah, it
comes in handy,” he says with a hint of ruefulness. “Can’t
trust basic laws of physics anymore. On the 237 coming in to
town, you know that refinery out there? I could have sworn
that the lights on that thing were all swirling up into the sky,
just like the gas burnoff, but they kept reaching higher and
higher... Couldn’t stop to look, really, four lanes of traffic all
doing 65, but damn that was weird...”
“So what do you think?” says O’Brien. “You were always
into these alternative reality theories, we used to argue the
Kennedy thing for hours, did you ever find any more stuff
about that Ruby guy?”

Long sigh from Smith. “I’ve come to the conclusion,” he

says, looking deeply into his beer, and only slightly
concerned by the fact that it seemed to be picking up an
image from CNNN, “that there is no one dark conspiracy that

154
explains everything, no hidden group of wealthy old white
guys running the world. Actually, to tell you the truth, I think
there are several groups of wealthy old white guys, all of
whom either think they run the world or who are actively
pursuing the goal, but I don’t really think any of them
actually run the whole thing. Maybe pieces, but never
everything, and maybe not even for very long periods of
time.” He notices O’Brien looking a him with a intensely
curious and slightly bemused look. “What about you? You
got any insights, figured out anything these last twenty years
or so?”

O’Brien looks at him, and Smith notices that his eyes are
glowing slightly.

“Only this, old buddy,” he says. “There is definitely more

going on than we have any clue about. But y’know, I kinda
like it. Every once in a while, I learn something, or I make
some connection in my head that I never made before, and
it’s like, you know, the horizon expands - you know the
feeling? What am I saying, I know you know the feeling, we
used to talk about it all the time -”
“Yeah, yeah, I know what you mean,” says Smith, sitting up,
hunching forward towards his old roommate. “It’s like –
remember that road trip out West? We’re coming along the
interstate, and we’re going up that mountainside, through all
those tight ravines and cut-throughs, just rock all around ,
and then we came out of it -”
“Yeah, we came out on that sheer cliff, the Great Basin just
all opened out in front of us, and we had no idea it was
coming...”
“Yeah, remember? We stopped the car, I had that old rusty
Honda Civic, and we got out and just stared and stared – shit,
we were straight, as I recall, hadn’t smoked a thing, and we
just stared for, must have been hours...”

“Heh, remember that old Disney flick ‘The Black Hole’?”

“Yeah, what a silly piece of dreck that was - “
“Yeah, but remember the trailer? You’re looking out the
spaceship’s viewscreen, and it shows an overlay showing the

155
local curvature of space-time, and then you notice this little
dip over to the left, and then you realize that you’re heading
for it, and that it’s not just some little dip, but a headlong
plunge... man, I live for moments like that,” said O’Brien.
“Suddenly, your nice comfortable paradigm gets screwed all
to hell -” he grinned.
“Well, it’s not always so much fun!” said Smith. “You want
paradigm crisis, we all went through one bigtime back on 9-
11, right? Talk about losing your worldview –”

“Right right right!” says O’Brien; now he’s hunching

forward. “And we’re going through another one right now,
what with all these weird goings-on. But what did Lennon
say about that kinda thing, huh? ‘Relax and float
downstream,’ right? That’s why we got the stuff from the
east, the meditation shit, the tai chi, all that stuff – I’m
convinced that we got sent those tools to cope with the stress
of whatever was coming, I wouldn’t have survived my junior
year without that yoga class – ”

“Um, yeah, and what was her name, Clara Lux, she didn’t
hurt, right?” Smith punches O’Brien lightly on the arm; he
grins. “Yeah. Wonder whatever happened to her... but listen,
we get this Net, right? Opens up everything. Lots of dreck,
but somewhere in there is real stuff, because people are just
opening up their minds and their hearts and their guts and
just spilling everything, and I mean everything they’ve got
into this thing, and somewhere in there there are more new
connections being made, and sometime in there something
else has got to happen, you just can’t have that many bits
combining and recombining without some evolutionary
processes catching hold -”

The TV in the corner of the bar has emitted a loud squawk.

“WOLFNews Network, bringing you a Thirty-Second
NewsPeek! Sponsored by OLFilms, producers of the newest
films featuring the Western World’s sweethearts, Melanie
Dirigible and Endicott Taxidermy! And now here’s Julia
Buxom!”

156
Julia shines her award-winning, genetically-modified teeth at
the cameras. “Here’s your WOLFNews Thirty-Second
NewsPeek!” she declares brightly. “More reported sightings
of unusual computer activity across the planet today, as
pieces of computer hardware have apparently gained the
ability to move about on their own accord!” Pictures show
herds of printers and monitors walking down a rural
highway, and milling about a city park as amused passers-by
step around them. “Better tie down your videoscreens, and
talk to them nicely! Don’t forget to tune in for the Three-
Minute Outrage at 1100 hours GMT, live and in full
surround-sound right here on WOLFNews! And now, back to
tonight’s fun-fiilled episode of ‘Joined at the Hip’!”

The spell broken, the two old acidhead comrades

contemplate each other. “Well, listen,” says Smith, “That
reminds me, I have to go, my Julia will be expecting me.
Here’s my address” – he hands O’Brien a card – “drop a line
when you can, OK?”

“OK,” says O’Brien, as his eyes scan the card, pixel by pixel,
storing the image into the memory stick nestled snugly below
his left ear. “We’ve got some more to talk about – a lot more,
I think. See ya!”

1968 was years ago ^ it’s no longer 1968 ^ it’s been decades
since 1968 ^ screw 1968 ^ 1968 never happened ^ 1968 was
decades ago ^ it’s been years since 1968 ^ it’s not 1968 you
know ^ nothing happened in 1968 ^ you can’t live in 1968
forever ^ 1968 was dead before it happened ^ 1968 never
happened ^ it was around 1965 ^ it was around 1970 ^ 1968
is long past ^ 1968 happened about a year ^ no one
remembers 1968 ^
stupid stupid thing crawling on the wall
if i had my druthers it wouldn’t crawl at all

1968 did happen, but unfortunately the u.s. government

covered it up. all trace memories of 1968 have only been
brought out through contact with the mothership. she forgets
nothing...

157
Chapter 23
Marius sat on a chair in the patio of his house, under the eerie
light of a full moon. It was late at night, but he wanted to
watch the full moon eclipse that was going to begin in about
an hour. His laptop was, appropriately, on his lap and that’s
why they were called laptops. If you placed them on your
belly, they would be called bellytops, he mused somewhat
inanely.

He thought about Bob, Clara, Gordon, Jock, Sophia and

others who were all contained inside his laptop and would
come to life but only if he booted up his machine. Or where
they alive regardless, he asked himself. Are their existences
dependent on someone, somewhere, sometime imagining
them or do they exist independently of anyone?

He was so immersed in this thought that was startled by

Odette saying, “Bonsoir!”
“Go away, Odette.”
“Tu m’aimes plus?”
“I never loved you. And besides, you only exist in my mind.”
“And why do you talk to me then?”
“I’m talking to myself.”
“Why do you call me Odette, then?”
“Because Elizabeth is already taken. Just go. You are
interfering with my thoughts.”

Odette felt silent, and Marius thought that if he also remained

silent, Odette would become bored and go away. He really
wanted to concentrate on the characters inside his laptop.
Have they been created by language and are their lives ruled
by determinism, that is every event, mental as well as
physical, has a cause, and that, the cause being given, the
event follows invariably, or there is such total element of
chance, the whim of their creators?

Marius remembered that when he was a child, he was given

the present of a box containing puppets of the Commedia

158
dell’Arte, Pantalone, Pulcinella, the colourful Arlecchino,
Colombina, and he would weave tales bringing them to life.
He also remembered thinking it would be wonderful if the
puppets, once back into the box, would continue living the
tales he had started. Similarly, he thought, perhaps the
characters inside the laptop are having a life, even if he kept
the laptop shut.

Suddenly, there were two voices, “Hello, Marius.”

“Good evening, Marius.”

Marius was startled. “Gertrude? Anne? What are you doing

here?”
“We live here.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, we do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, we do.”
“But... but, you are both dead!”
“So is Odette.”
“Odette is dead??”

“Like you care. After the two of you parted, you never called
her, never wrote, nothing. You just disappeared.”
“What are you, my conscience? Besides, we just had an affair
during a vacation at Quiberon, and that was 35 years ago.
But, why do I bother explaining? Here I go, talking to myself
again... How do you know she’s dead?”
“We dead people talk a lot to each other, you know...”
“But, how comes Odette is in my mind? Our affair lasted one
week. It’s not like you two, horny older chicks...
“Watch it, buster...”
.”..Sensuous, mature ladies who, with those threesomes, gave
me arguably the most sexually intense experiences of my life,
and it lasted for quite a while, and you were wonderful
hostesses, and great conversationalists, and card sharks...”

“Card sharks?” exclaimed Gertrude and Anne almost in

unison.
“Yeah, card sharks. How come I never won at Canasta?”

159
“Because you are wimp, Marius. Canasta is a cruel blood
game. Perfect for old, ahem... mature ladies”
Marius shook his head. “This is not happening. You are not
real. It’s me hallucinating I hear your voices, but it’s not you.
It’s me. Me. Me. Me. MEMEMEMEMEME! I do not hear
dead people.”
“Shall we tell him, then?” asked Gertrude to Anne.
“I don’t think he’s ready for that.”
“Ready for what?” asked Marius, immediately hating himself
for talking to a voice in his head.
“You are dead, too, Marius.”
“Yeah, right. Newsflash: I’m not. Next!”
“Our sweet, sweet boy is in denial, Anne.”
“I’m not having this conversation. I’m alive and that’s the
end of the story.”
“How do you know you are alive?”
“Ahem... I can touch myself. See?”
“That only proves you are gross, not alive.”

Marius concentrated on the moon, which was already partly

covered and looked at his dog Brutus who was sleeping at his
feet and snoring. He snores, therefore he is, thought Marius.
At least somebody is alive.

Time to open the laptop, boot it up and see what the

characters inside were up to.

160
Chapter 24
Gordon was awake and snarling to himself. He did not know
why Clara had chosen him, but damned if he was going to do
just what she said. What was it that was special about him?
How did she know that he could disrupt the Cybermind? It
was true. He had demonstrated that for himself. He Gordon
could disrupt the Cybermind. Surely that was worth
something? Something more than she was offering anyhow?
Uptight little bitch she was. Oh so full of herself, oh so
confident that everyone would bow down to her. Expecting
people would pull her ass out of the fire, flaunting herself –
fucking little cock teasing cunt-head. He imagined her cunt in
place of her lips and him thrusting himself inside. Take that
you bitch he shouted. You want it, you want it. He’d love to
see her grovel.

After a while, it struck him. What was the point of just that?
He had ambitions. If he could disrupt this Cybermind, then
surely he could do more? He could shape it. Shape it in his
way. He could be a God. He imagined people setting up his
image everywhere and bowing before it. He wouldn’t have to
pretend to be a prophet, he could be the real thing. That
would show those fuckers who said he would never amount
to anything. Self satisfied little dicks. He Gordon would be
God, that would show them. If not then he’d be the devil. All
he needed was to figure out how and to kill all those who got
in the way. He thought of all the philosophers he could kill,
useless little academic pricks who didn’t believe in him.
They all thought the author had died. Time for them to face
the consequences of their ideas.

****

Bob and Clara headed out of the CICIA building at full speed
– just in time to meet themselves coming back in.

“What the f...?” exclaimed Clara as she bumped into herself,

“who the hell are you?”

161
Clara’s doppelganger looked her up and down for a few
seconds.

“Well, I’d say I was you,” she replied, “and if that’s the case,
who the hell are you, and, more to the point, who the hell am
I?”

There was an uncomfortable pause before the two Clara’s

turned towards their respective Bob’s and said in unison,
“Dear God, that means there’s two of you as well.”

One Bob blinked, the other smiled. “Nice to meet myself”

they said together, and then fell into fits of schoolboy
laughter.

The comedic relief eased the tension a little, but it soon

became clear from the looks on their faces that neither Clara
was in the mood for laughter.

“This is no laughing matter.” said Clara, confirming the

expression.
“I was just about to say that!” the second Clara chipped in.

There was another uncomfortable silence. The two women

surveyed each other carefully, waiting for their opposite to
speak. When it became clear that the other one had no
intention of speaking first, they both finally spoke at exactly
the same time again “I think we must have come across some
kind of reality barrier.”
“Lets go back inside and discuss this over a cup of coffee”
said Bob.

It seemed like the best thing to do, so all four walked back
into the building.

As they sat round the desk, an order of speech was finally

established. The two who were walking out of the building
were designated as Clara One and Bob One, the two walking
in were Clara Two and Bob Two.

162
Clara One restored some order to the proceedings and steered
the conversation back round to the common problem they all
shared.

“We were one our way to see Sophia Paradisia,” she stated
simply, “have you two got that far yet?”

Clara Two answered, looking somewhat embarrassed.

“We slept over in the office together” she said, “then we
headed out for some food – we were coming back to look
over the mainframe room for clues, get our stuff and then try
and get to the Plane Sophia had sent for us”
“She’s contacted you too?” asked Bob One, “We got a carrier
pigeon message to meet a plane at an airstrip outside the
city.”
“Yes,” replied Clara Two, “She sent an email and a homing
pigeon to us. Oddly the pigeon got here first. It landed on the
ledge outside my office window and sang ‘you’ve got mail’
repeatedly. Bob took the message off its foot just before it
told us it would self destruct in 30 seconds. Made a hell of a
mess when it finally went off. The email arrived seconds
later.”
“Odd that really,” mused Bob Two, “Sophia never struck me
as the sort to arm pigeons with explosive devices... still I
guess it keeps the population down.”
The other three stared at him in bemused silence.

“Am I really like this?” Bob One asked turning to Clara One.
“All the time,” replied Clara Two, before her opposite had
chance to speak “But hey...you sure as hell made up for it in
the sack last night.”
“You did WHAT????” spluttered Clara One, covering the
desk in coffee.
“You mean you two haven’t...?” asked Bob Two
“Not on your life... never in a million years. I wouldn’t even
go near her with yours mate” said Bob One.
Bob Two smiled for a second and then said, “Well –
technically you have – if you think about it.”

163
“What on earth motivated you to do that?” Clara One
whispered to Clara Two while the men debated the semantics
of multiple reality sex.
“Well, what with being a virgin and all I just wanted to know
what it felt like in case everything went wrong and I wound
up dead” replied Clara Two. “A girls got to have some fun
you know.”
“Fun? Are you bonkers? It must have been like being
humped by a word processor.”
“Sounds unpleasant.”
“Oh well, I shot the last one that tried it.”
“What??? Are you mad?”
“You mean they aren’t following you around?”

The dizzying conversation spiral was halted as suddenly the

doorway exploded in brilliant light with a loud “BANG
KAPOW”

“We are the DOOM SQUAD and we are here to SAVE

you!” boomed a dramatic male voice, just before Sub
Lieutenant (Second Class) Fargragig of the Imperial
Zorasasasasasian guard stepped in.
“STOP!” cried Clara as she walked in behind him.

The two seated women looked up at the newcomer, who

continued to speak, “This is the wrong scene you bumbling
idiot Fargragig! Didn’t you read the plot schedule? We’re not
due in this book for another week - if at all!”

And with those words the whole world seemed to shift a little
for a brief second, and then go into some kind of interactive
rewind. Clara and Farragig stepped backwards through the
opening, the sound of the explosion reversed and the blinding
light seemed to fold back in on itself.

Silence filled the air.

“Can someone explain to me what just happened?” both

Clara’s asked at the same time.

164
“Looked like a plot break-in to me”, replied both Bobs
simultaneously.
“Plot break in?” asked Clara Two confused, “what do you
mean?”
“It’s a theory I’ve – we’ve – been working on. This
Cybermind – its tied into the web as we knew it” replied Bob
One.
“So, the things that are generated in it are coming from the
web itself.” Continued Bob Two, “so if someone is writing
an email, or – god forbid – a book, we could be totally at its
mercy.”
“Which explains how the four of us got here now” added
Bob One with a smug air of finality.
“You two have gone stark, raving mad.” Both Clara’s stated
flatly. They looked at each other in annoyed confusion, and
frustration that the other had spoken, before continuing. “Its
just Current messing with our minds, can’t you see that? Its
like an expanded version of that damn Baz gun he zapped me
with just before he turned all this loose. The guy has taken all
that stuff in his head and programmed away reality. Maybe
the system is running multiple simulations? Did you two ever
ponder that?”
“Well... we’ll have to agree to differ” replied Bob One.
“Its obvious that you two see it the same way,” added Bob
Two, but I’d say Bob here and myself are taking a lateral
look at it, and drawing some pretty interesting conclusions.
“Oh shut up!” both Clara’s shouted, then turned to face each
other with scowls on their faces. “Hey! I was going to speak
fir.... Just let me.... Wait I want to.... Damn... How can they
both speak separately?.... This is damned annoying.”

They lapsed into a sulky silence, glaring at each other and

trying desperately not to speak before the other one did.

“Seems like some of us are more alike than others,” mused

Bob one just before two clenched female fists altered his
reality a little further.

By the time Bob one had come round again, the Clara’s had
decided on a course of action. Dismissing the Bob’s book

165
theory in favour of the multiple simulations, they decided to
continue following their original intended paths. If the
simulation effect was true to form, it would pick up from
where they had left off, breaking out of the loop it had found
itself in, or so they reasoned.

All four headed back to the building concourse, before

shaking hands and going their separate ways.

****

Bob and Clara opened the door carefully and walked into the
CICIA mainframe room. The air conditioning hummed
quietly in the background, an odd rhythm that nagged at
Clara as she looked at the marked area on the floor where
Jansen’s body had been found.

“I wonder what he was working on before it happened?” she

asked Bob.
“I can skip back through the system logs if you want, see if I
can get it back” replied Bob, “it looks like its still live.”
“Ok then Bob, but be careful. We’ve had reports of all kinds
of things floating out of monitors - some kind of gigantic
jelly-fish thing appeared on Floor 12 a few days back. Turns
out it was a Galaxian – you know – from that retro game?”
“Boy do I remember, “ replied Bob as he tapped at the keys,
“I spent a lot of my youth trying to zap those little bastards.
Anyway... nearly got it... just take a look at that screen over
there.... seems to be a file in two parts... an image and a
message. He’s set one to display on here and one over there.”

Clara absentmindedly stepped up to the screen. She had

finally figured what the rhythm of the air conditioning
reminded her of – The Reflex by Duran Duran. She let in
play in her head for a few seconds before Bob’s voice broke
into the moment.

“Its coming up now,” he said

“It’s a picture,” she said, “Some girl in a cat suit... looks like
shes holding a whip or something. What have you got?”

166
The full implication of the tune the air con appeared to be
playing hit her just before Bob spoke again.

“A name. Tara, that’s all there is h.....”

Clara turned round, to see why Bob hadn’t finished his

sentence, just in time to see the hand that had thrust the knife
into his throat disappear back into the screen and his body
tense in the throws of death.

“Bob..... oh hell no!” she exclaimed, and then the monitor in

front of her caught her attention. The girls image seemed to
have moved towards the screen, and now her face filled it.
The girl smiled.”

“Wha....who are you??” asked Clara, aware now that the

screen was alive.
“I am Tara.” Replied the girl. “You are the system
executable. You must be deleted.”

Another hand shot forward out of the screen, this time it held
a gun. The last thing Clara saw was the muzzle flash, before
her body fell backwards and sprawled across the desk behind.

The hand slipped back into the screen. The system remained
live. The laughter from the start of Rio seemed to fade into
the ether...

167
Chapter 25
Tis only in their dreams that men truly be free,
Twas always thus, and always thus will be. (Keating in the
Dead Poets Society)

The pigeon followed the migratory route of the red kite,

taking care to keep a safe distance.

He had been cooing himself to sleep on a ledge in the

dovecot at Ithaca and had overheard the conversation
between a visiting kite and his mate:
“Weieie-ee-i-ee-i-ow.” (How come you sooo late coming
home! Where have you been?)
“Peeie-ee-i-ee-i-ee” (I’s been looking for summat to eat, yer
torn-faced bitch!)

And so their squawking and crowing had continued until

dusk fell and they quietened down, huddling close together in
their nest of sticks and rags.

The pigeon had learned that the kites would be leaving the
next morning to head for their cooler quarters in Britain. This
was near the place where Aristotle had commanded him to
visit.

****

He was getting tired.

The red kite had a much stronger build and its wings were
more powerful. How was he to keep up! The envelope and
instructions attached to his left leg weighed heavily on him.
But he was a faithful and loyal servant to Aristotle and so he
journeyed on.

****

Mary ‘Red’ MacTavish had just completed a

circumnavigation of her tower at Castle Dunfarg. There she
stood on the battlements of the castle enclosed by gorse and

168
the heather of her Highland home. She enjoyed the morning
freshness in her aerie, high above the tall Scots pines that
surrounded the estate.

The castle was pleasantly situated on a causeway leading

from the Sound of Sleat to the mountains beyond. Legends
abounded of the noble deeds of the tribesmen that had
inhabited these parts in ancient times.

Red’s favourite of these legends, for reasons she did not quite
understand, was about the eighth century Saint, St Fillan, the
son of St Kentigerna, the daughter of a Prince of Leinster in
Ireland. He had left Ireland with his uncle, his mother and
three brothers, and settled beside Loch Duich, close to the
Isle of Skye. Later Fillan moved south, stopping for a while
near the Sound of Sleat before moving onto to Glen Dochart
in what is now known as Strathfillan, where he built a large
place of worship. During the construction of this place, a
wolf is said to have killed one of the oxen used in bringing
the building materials. The Saint prayed, and the wolf took
the place of the slaughtered ox.

King Robert the Bruce, had carried as a relic, the forearm of

St Fillan, into battle at Bannockburn, and had later founded a
Priory on this site, which was on an islet within the river
Dochart. Half a mile away was the Holy Pool. This was
blessed by the Saint, and had become a place of pilgrimage
acting as a magnet for people who were suffering from
various illnesses – but mostly insanity. The water in this pool
was reputed to have the power to heal. Glen Dochart, and
particularly Killin, had been home for Fillan for many years.
In Killin he built a mill, and within a niche in the wall of the
mill, he kept his ‘healing stones’. These were now housed in
the Folklore museum and visitors, particularly pagans, were
attracted to the museum on their way to worship at the
Standing Stones at Dumgoyach.

Red closed her sightless eyes and took a deep breath,

inhaling the sweet vapours of the clean, cool air. She couldn’t
appreciate the view, which was magnificent, as she was

169
completely blind and had been since birth. Retinopathy of
prematurity – her mother having died giving birth to her. But
Red had survived, only just, weighing just 4lb 10oz.

If she had been able to see, she would have spied a little old
man, Postie Cameron, trekking up the path, wheeling his
Raleigh with his post-bag slung across his back.

The carrier pigeon had arrived in the glen that morning and,
having landed exhausted in Mr Cameron’s garden, expired
on the spot. Postie was reminded of the ancient Athenian
runner, who had valiantly carried his message at such great
cost to himself.

He approached the bird and gently stroked its feathers.

Noticing the bulge on the pigeon’s leg, he bent down and
examined it more closely. He was flabbergasted to find an
envelope stacked full of US dollars – there must have been
$2,000 – and a note in some weird hieroglyphs. Postie
scratched the stubble on his craggy chin and contemplated.
When folk in the village had a problem, they would go and
see Mrs MacTavish. She was a wise and well respected
woman, loved by everyone who knew her. Surely she would
know what to do! Postie quickly buried the pigeon, which he
placed in a shoebox, in a hole in the back garden. Stuffing the
money and note in his postbag, he scrambled up the hill on
his bicycle to Castle Dunfarg.

****

On the quayside of a harbour in Scandinavia a fire raged all

night long. It destroyed two shops and a café, and burnt out
the main warehouse, thus revealing the stolen lorry, which
was parked inside.
The local police believed the truck had been used to carry
illegal immigrants, or refugees, from Afghanistan and
beyond. They were smuggled on board an overnight ferry as
stowaways to Scotland.

****

170
The cold morning air began to penetrate Red’s thin tartan
robe, she shivered and decided to go in. Feeling the wall of
turnpike stairwell, and supported by the rope handrail, she
descended the stairs two at a time, so well she knew them.

Castle Dunfarg, an imposing 19th Century pile built by her

eccentric great grandfather, had become hers on her 21st
birthday. Only, by then, most of the main building had
collapsed. So she was left with just the tower intact, which
was just as well, as the draughty dwelling was costly to heat,
and even more expensive to maintain.

Here she lived alone, except for the company of her old
retainer Jim Redhall, the occasional visits by one of her
hordes of friends, and frequent stay-overs of Morven
‘Scarlet’ her daughter. Red eked out an existence from her
meagre disability allowance and the small legacy left to her
by her father.

As she moved into the shower room her mind pondered the
events of the past few days.

Her current bedtime ‘reading’, which she managed with the

aid of a tape deck, was Immanuel Velikovsky’s Worlds in
Collision. The book expounded his controversial theories
about the planet Venus being somehow ejected from the
planet Jupiter as a comet. This he purported took place some
3,500 years ago, and had at that time pushed the other planets
in our solar system out of their orbits, or changed their
rotation. It had been a thought provoking read, especially
since he was extremely knowledgeable in the texts of ancient
peoples. Based on his interpretation of these texts,
Velikovsky reached the conclusion that our solar system,
with its nine planets, was not always the same as we see it
today. Major and unexpected catastrophes could occur at any
time. Life was fragile and traumatic, for everyone. The
Cosmos was unstable. These were the messages she took
away from it.

171
Late last night Scarlet had telephoned from a public call box,
which in itself was unusual. She had explained that she
suspected that her phone had been bugged, and had wanted to
relay some rather startling news.
The Cabinet Minister, for whom she worked, had declared a
State of Emergency. There was an embargo on all news
releases. The CM, as he like to be called, had surrounded
himself with his most trusted advisers, and locked the doors,
even she, his Private Secretary had been excluded. Rumours
had been circulating for sometime that a flu’ virus, even
more contagious than SARS, had been devastating the
Scottish population. There are two main types of virus that
cause infection, influenza A and influenza B. A number of
flu isolates from Scottish patients had been positive for
Influenza A of a strain known as Fujian. This virus was
slightly different to those previously circulating in the
country. Although it was a new strain in Scotland, it had been
seen earlier in the Southern hemisphere. In countries like
Australia and New Zealand, it had caused a rise in the
number of fatalities from flu, but was not pandemic.
However since the strain had spread to Scotland, carried by
an unknown source, it had caused an epidemic. Nobody
knew how it had arrived.

Red switched off the shower, opened the door of the cubicle
and stepped straight out. Most of the amenities in her little
tower had been adapted to make her life easier. The
bathroom was well furnished with wall-mounted facilities. It
could be said that the home of a visually impaired person was
so much tidier than a sighted person’s, immaculate even. It
had to be, for they would not be able to find anything if it
were not so. Everything had its place, and everything was put
back where it came from.

As she moved into the lounge she became aware of the sound
of someone knocking on her front door. She quickly pulled
on a towelling robe, and almost ran downstairs to find out
who it was. Red felt for the key in the door, turned it, and
pulled the door towards her. Before she could greet her
visitor, Postie Cameron launched into the story of the poor

172
carrier pigeon and his amazing find. Red was astounded.
With fumbling fingers – by this time they were standing in
the lobby – she unwrapped the damaged envelope containing
the dollars and the note.

She ran her fingers over the paper, which Cameron said bore
strange marks, and began to read the raised print of the
Braille alphabet. Her old and dear friend, Sophia, was trying
to tell her something ....

173
Chapter 26
Alen Michealrose had a problem, and it was becoming a real
headache.

It is an urban legend that most humans use no more than 10%

of their available brain power. It turns out that the estimate
was rather high and, it could be hypothesised, in the case of
statesmen like the Great Lawyer, that this estimate of his
brain activity was exaggerated by a factor of 137.

Alen’s problem was simple. Cybermind and the rest of the

digital world are, by definition, digital. The human brain is
more akin to an analogue device, with electro-chemical
synaptic signaling, and a holographic method of processing
complex ideas, storing and organizing memories. Human
senses, such as sight, taste, recognition and higher levels of
information processing seemed to be almost totally
holographic. How could the two systems interact?

Alen’s problem was the man-machine interface. The

Cybermind had loads of information, huge data streams, and
broadband signaling – so much so that a simple electro-
mechanical connection into his brain would kill him, or at
least fry his synapses. Speed was also a problem, since brain
signaling was limited to one speed, while broadband digital
transmissions would ultimately overwhelm his ability to cope
with streaming data. What Allen needed was a better filtering
interface, with buffers, translators and safety devices which
would protect his brain from overload.

Once Alen created this bit of hardware, it still needed to be

tweeked, tuned and restarted. In fact, every time Allen
rebooted, his Clara and Bob avatars fell asleep and woke up,
each with a new reality.

Hours of endless research, testing and software

enhancements ran into days, then weeks, until, Alen thought
he had the solution. Allen was satisfied with how the buffers

174
and filters managed to capture the essence of the digital
signal, while, protecting his ability to analyze the data into
something substantial. He turned it on, plugged it in, and
dropped out of the universe into – a brave new world.

As he began recognizing ideas and data, it began to take

shape in his visual cortex. Individuals took on specific shapes
and colors, with these three dimensional figures representing
their personality, appearance and their past statements.
Slowly, carefully, Allen began to investigate this new world
of his, when he was shocked to come face to face with
several scary new facts:

A) The Great Lawyer was no fictional character, but an evil,

mean-spirited person secretly in charge of the CICIA’s storm
troopers. His troops fell into two major groups, the first were
programmers who were sending packets of constantly
evolving digital viral data into the internet in an effort to
eradicate the Cybermind; the second group consisted of a
troop of black-clad, bumbling, fumbling heavily armed fools,
whose job was to locate, then capture the RL versions of
Clara, Bob and Sophia and torture them into coughing up
information.

B) There was an alien intelligence approaching from outer

space. Currently, the data suggested that it was either in orbit
around Mars or deep beneath an ocean, watching, studying,
waiting. Until communications could be accomplished, it had
to be considered dangerous.

C) Bob needed to be made aware of the Great Lawyer’s

cyberattacks on Cybermind because only Bob could create
the proper anti-viral defenses. Bob didn’t know it yet, but he
was an internet Wizard, with potential powers even Alen
could not predict.

D) Almost as evil as the Great Lawyer was the troller known

as Gordon. He was laying traps for the unwary, traps that
could be fatal if they caught you unawares. Even if Bob

175
could solve the storm trooper viral attacks, Gordon was a
whole other problem. And danger.

First things first. Alen had to get Bob and Clara to a safe
location. He had to let Clara and Bob know that the black-
clad storm troopers were hot on their trail. And, he had to get
Bob to start thinking like a Wizard. He breathed deeply,
closed his eyes, then entered the data stream. He sent out
packets of search protocols throughout the net, trying to find
the laptop that Bob and Clara had been carrying. He could
only pray that they still had it in their possession.

Finally several million milliseconds later, he was pinged by a

return search protocol packet. He began to trace the fastest
route to contact Bob when his brain exploded into the most
intense pain he had ever felt. It was as though he had fallen
into a 4th of July fireworks from hell. Alen quickly withdrew
from the net and pulled his plug. Even the plugs and
buffering box were hot to the touch. Alen lay on the ground
sweating and panting like a rabid dog.

“What the HELL was that?” he thought. His head felt like
millions of killer fire ants were biting each individual brain
cell and infecting it with their venom. “Jeezus. That could
only be a cyberattack by the Great Lawyer’s cybercops. I’ve
got to figure out a way around those viruses.” He curled up in
a fetal position and hoped that his brain spasms would slow
down. They did eventually, but not as fast as he had hoped.
His worst migraine felt like orgasmic sex compared to this
sensation.

Finally, Alen stood up slowly, felt around the interface plug

and ran a quick self-diagnostic. Everything seemed ok, but
only a interface reboot would really tell. “What the hell, I
only live once” he said to himself as he did some quick yoga
breaths and extremely slow deep bends. Alen thought about
possible ways in which he could elude these attacks and still
get in contact with Bob and Clara. Obviously it would be
deadly for him to be caught by the Lawyer’s virus makers.
He had to have another approach.

176
“Ah ha! I’ll use a mirror site to sniff out the viruses, then use
a slight of hand to sneak a message to Bob and Clara.
Hmmmm, I’ll call it DietPunk/PhLo/Cybermind - that might
catch the eye of those cyberpunks. I just need to get their
attention for a few seconds.”

Alen plugged himself back in, slowly began to interface with

CM again, and after he felt connected and reasonably secure,
he began to reproduce himself – at least to the point where he
showed a hint of self-awareness. He filled DietPunk with the
proper instructions, encrypted them, then sent him on his
way.

He waited. And waited. With deadly viroids like these, he

was sure that the internet would have some reflexive impulse
that he could sense. Once the attack on his mirror began, he
could sneak out and search for Bob and Clara once again.

Finding them wouldn’t be hard; convincing them would be,

but he would have to do his best.

Alen sensed a darkening of the net. As though some evil

spirits had taken control of certain routers and were
squeezing the net dry of electrons. That must be it. He
returned just one search protocol back to the site where Bob
and Clara had been. Just as he thought, they had moved to a
different cell. He increased his coverage, while directing the
protocol stream to the minimal area possible. He could not
afford to attract any attention at this point. Ah, there they
were. He sent out the minimal avatar he created just to start
communications.

Bob and Clara were walking across a deserted street when

their laptop began ringing like an obnoxious cell phone. they
looked at each other, then decided to open it. They found a
trash can and put the laptop on it. Immediately, a set of eyes
opened up and said:

177
 I AM ALEN MICHEALROSE. BE PREPARED TO RUN.
THE GREAT LAWYER’S STORM TROOPERS ARE AFTER
YOU.

They looked at each other, then nervously glanced around

their trash can. “Bullshit” muttered Clara to herself. And
there they were, 6 black clad, heavily armed troopers,
searching behind parked cars and sniffing at lamp posts like
dogs urgently waiting to pee.

TAKE YOUR PENCILS AND DROP THEM IN A ROW

ALONG THE SIDE WALK, THEN RUN TO THE NEAREST
STARBOX, GRAB A LATTE EACH, BUT DO NOT DRINK
IT, THEN GO OUT THE BACK DOOR.

Clara looked at Bob’s pants, pulled out his pocket protector

and removed 30 unsharpened pencils. They spread them out
carefully, up and down the sidewalk, then ran into the
Starbox. Just at that moment, one of the storm troopers
spotted them and ordered them to stop. They began chasing
Bob and Clara, only to slip on the pencils, and fall on their
collective faces. Seeing a seemingly endless line of pencils in
their path, they quickly huddled, and decide that the only way
to surmount this obstacle, was to use their mountain climbing
gear in an effort to climb this dangerous sidewalk.

Bob looked out the Starbox window, waiting for his Latte
order to be filled, when he saw the storm troopers start to
“climb” the sidewalk.
“Clara, come look. This is straight out of Monty Python!”
The troopers were busy hammering in pitons and setting
climbing ropes on the perfectly flat sidewalk, tying
themselves to one another for safety. Then they began their
crawling assault on the sidewalk towards the Starbox. By this
time both Clara and Bob were laughing so hard that they had
tears rolling down their faces. They both grabbed their two
Lattes, and ran out the back door.

TAKE THE LATTE, PUT THE NAPKIN ON TOP, AND

WRITE ‘STORM TROOPER COFFEE BREAK TIME’ IN
BIG LETTERS. PUT THAT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE

178
 ALLEY, AND HIDE BEHIND THE INDUSTRIAL
GARBAGE CAN.

Clara and Bob exchanged glances, then decided that Alen’s

plans had worked so far. They placed their Lattes in the
middle of the alley, wrote on the napkin as directed, then hid
themselves.

Half an hour later, the storm troopers appeared, tired, bloody

and bruised from their recent sidewalk assault. They stopped
at the sight of the lattes, and quickly formed a defensive
shield.
“It says coffee break, sarge, so isn’t it time?”
“You tell me, son, they taught you how to read, not me.”
“But what if it is a trap?”
“Crap? no, it smells like Cinnamon Dark Roast.”
“NO, asshole, trap, not crap.”
“Map? Hey, I got the map in my pack, sarge.”
“OK, let’s taste test it.”

The storm troopers put down their laser-guided rifles, took

off their packs, removed their aching marching boots and
took off the last remnants of their climbing equipment. They
passed around the now cold lattes and totally forgot about
Clara and Bob.

Alen’s eyes whispered,

NOW, QUIETLY WALK PAST THEM BACK THROUGH

THE STARBUCKS, THEN TAKE THE SUBWAY TO THE
13TH FLOOR. TRUST ME.

Clara and Bob tip toed past the resting storm troopers, and
made their way deep into the subway station in front of the
Starbox. Clara was secretly wondering about the power that
could do this to people, and whether it was possible to trust a
person with such power. What could Alen do to her, and to
Bob, without their knowing?

179
Chapter 27
Clara and Bob found themselves, back in what looked like
her office. The route to the subway had dissappeared.
“Another moving memory pointer”, remarked Bob.

Clara was moving out with her POW gun and her revolver at
the ready. She searched the outer office. Only Lila was
present.
Lila asked her if she knew that Bob was dead.
“Not when i last looked” replied Clara pointing to Bob, who
waved.
Lila started, “but I saw him lying here, in front of this
terminal.”
“That must have been the other Bob.”
Lila raised her eybrows.
“Don’t ask” said Clara. “I told him that terminals were
dangerous.”
“Thanks for warning me” said Lila.
“I don’t think it affects you – just us, but we had better be
sure.”

Clara went round the floor and carefully switched off every
machine.

She breathed in deeply, and went to her desk where there was
a short print out reading:

Some Definitions for the Contemporary Political

and Critical Scene

Abusive - what the other lying moron is.

Bawdy Lard - a simulation of a French Philosopher. He is

short and squat, wears a beret and smokes. Only images of
him are ever seen and we are all simulations in his interface.

Bleeding Heart - a person who occasionally thinks we

could be nice to each other.

180
Blinkered - a person who will not agree with you, no matter
how much you shout at them.

Compasionate Conservative - one who pays Churches to

harass the poor.

Conservatism - a conflict between morals and business,

resolved in favour of business.

Corporation - 1) a device for taking the profits generated

by employees and distributing them to senior executives and
shareholders. 2) A way of trying to avoid responsibility for
actions which might harm people in the cause of profit.

Critical Internet Theory - its really important, but we

don’t know what it is.

Cyborg - a human regulated by machines. Factory Farm

animals are edible cyborgs.

Economic Irresponsibility - giving taxpayer’s money to the

poor.

Economic Prosperity - when the incomes of executives rise

faster than those of everyone else.

Economic Responsibility - giving taxpayer’s money to the

rich.

Free Market - markets regulated by corporations in their

own interests.

Free Speech - talk which does not upset the rulers or the
righteous. Always more acceptable than action.

Freedom - being allowed to do what the powerful don’t

object to.

Fundamentalist - a person who objects to the fundamentals

of your world view. A Muslim.

Gender - irrelevant until it hurts, or we need a housekeeper.

181
Globalisation - corporate imperialism. It is always said to
be unstoppable.

Hypertext - text that is really hyped. For people who cannot

write sequentially.

Illuminati - sad collection of old men who think they rule

the world and wonder why everything is going wrong.

Intellectual Property - a device for taking ideas, or art,

from their originator and handing them over to an employer
or distributor.

Liberal - a person with a weak objection to total corporate

power.

Liberal Media - a newspaper which has been known to

criticise a rightist administration.

Libertarian - someone who wants to free the powerful from

all restriction and let them regulate others without check. If
power was still a matter of horses they would claim
Ghenghis Kahn was virtuous.

Morality - the theory that we are acting better than those

who disagree with us.

Open and Objective - one sided. See ‘abusive’

Patriotism - the doctrine that loyalty to one’s leaders must

supersede thought.

Political Debate - exchange of abuse between people who

have already had their minds made up for them.

Post Humanism - the idea that humans who happen to be

connected to certain types of machines have superior
insights into reality, and are non racist, non sexist, non
colonialist, and non specicist.

Postmodernism - the grand meta-narrative that we are over

everything.

182
 Racist - a person who thinks racism might still be an issue.
Members of the dominant race are misunderstood and
persecuted by racists.

Reformist - one who repeals any laws which might favour

employees.

Regime Change - using taxpayer’s money and soldiers lives

to sell off another country’s assets to corporate cronies.

Religion - a device for preserving hatred and explaining

why you are miserable.

Religion, True - Our Religion.

Simulation - a model of reality to which we try and force

the real to conform until it bites back. Economics for
example.

Social Security - something only possessed by retired

politicians.

Terrorist - One who kills civilians without the benefit of an

army.

Virtual - not really anything, but we act as if it is.

Clara screwed the printout up.

“Lila”, she called. “Have you been sticking your stupid

liberal slogans on my desk again?”
Lila looked confused “No, boss. There’s enough panic as
there is.”
“Must be Alen?”, said Bob
“Whatever. Some dork. Ok I want a strategy meeting in half
an hour. You all ready? Lila?”
“Sure” said Bob and Lila.
“I could do with a sleep”, added Bob.

183
Chapter 28
Time passes and we fade in to Lila, Bob and Clara gathered
around a table. Clara is speaking:

“Ok. Lila has demonstrated fairly strongly that the country is

going to hell. Food, power, water, and communications are
completely stuffed. Anything else?”
“Some street gangs are taking control of canned and
preserved food from looted shops. Police and National Guard
in some areas have done the same. In other places almost full
scale war has broken out over the control of food and water.
Armed vigilante groups are reported to be hunting for
monsters and foreign forces. Rumours are spreading that
Iraqi Imperial Guard have occupied Dallas, and a Russian
invasion force has been reported from Kansas City.”
“Somehow managing to get there without crossing any other
State boundaries, I guess” said Bob.
“Indeed” said Lila. “As far as we can tell, hand to hand
fighting has broken out in both places. No Iraqi or Russian
casualties have been identified.”
“Great – just what we need a nation of spooked and
hallucinating people with the right to bear automatic
weapons” muttered Bob.
“It’s a right guaranteed in the constitution and necessary for
the defence of the realm” snapped Clara.
“As is undoubtedly happening” replied Bob. “Anything else
we haven’t thought of?”
“Well with these disruptions of computer systems, I’m afraid
the chance approaches certainty that nuclear weapons will be
launched or explode within their bunkers.”
“Shit!” exclaimed Bob “please tell me they are disarming
them now?”
“Our Great Leader has announced that in this time of
tribulation, the United States must be prepared to defend
itself with all the means open to it.”
“No” whimpered Bob.
“We can’t let ourselves be open to attack” said Clara.
Bob banged his head on the table.

184
“Some reports suggest that some biowarfare facilities have
been breached and that a flu which generally incapacitates
people for a couple of days to a week has got out.”
“What’s the point of that?”
“We drop it about three to four days before an invasion and
the defending forces are unable to resist. Our troops are
vaccinated and quite immune. Few deaths. It’s humane” said
Clara.
“Apart from babies and old people” said Lila.
“Uh, huh” said Bob. “Tell me that this is the end of the Bad
News?”
“No cases of bubonic anthrax have been reported yet.”
“Wonders never cease.”
“The Great Lawyer has suggested that all homosexuals and
other perverts should be executed for bringing this judgement
of God upon us.”
“Somehow I’m just not surprised.”
“He has also suggested that all virgins be sacrificed.” Lila
smiled.
“Oh well” said Bob to Clara “at least you’re safe now.” He
smirked gently.
“Uh?” said Clara. “I’ve never been a virgin.”
“Surely some time?” said Lila.
“I can’t remember it” said Clara matter of factly.
Lila started but didn’t say anything. What could she say?
Bob looked puzzled “but you told me, before we, you know...
you know.”
“You made love?” exclaimed Lila.
“No” said Clara.
“Yes” said Bob.
“No” said Clara firmly

“Ok if that’s the way you want it” said Bob.

“We never had sex!” shouted Clara. “No disrespect Bob, but
really!” she continued more calmly “I’d rather fuck a..., a...
er”
“Thing you’d really not want to fuck under any
circumstances” finished Bob helpfully.
“Sorry” said Clara, “but that’s the way it is.”

185
“No” said Bob “ok it was an accident and won’t happen
again, but I enjoyed it.”
“We... Did... not... FUCK. That was the other Bob and
Clara.”
“The other Bob and Clara?” Lila was getting some obscure
enjoyment out of this.
“You know the Bob you found dead” said Clara.
“No, that was us” said Bob.
“No it wasn’t. Oh hell! We must have got mixed up.”
“That makes sense. I liked that Clara” said Bob.
“So” said Lila helpfully “you have made love with another
Clara? That’s interesting. You had sex which never took
place.”
“Never would take place” muttered Clara darkly.
“I wonder if its like that article by Julian Dibble, you know in
which one character in a MOO had its actions dictated by
another person taking over its code?”
“My Clara thought it had something to do with the amount of
sex and porn online.”

“That makes sense” said Lila. “Real and virtual bodies are
different, of course, but in some ways they are identical. We
become, in Bawdy Lard’s terms, ‘fractal selves,’ capable of
infinite division into similar parts. Each part, is then, a
simulation of a self which can no longer be considered
whole, original, or unique. So there could be multiple avatars
of Bob and Clara in the Cybermind – all being written in
various ways. Sorting out the meaningful differences
between all these bodies is difficult – as we can see. The
fractal nature of the self, as encouraged by inhabitable
cyberspace, also demonstrates what Bawdy Lard calls a
seduction – ‘a locus of that which eludes you, and whereby
you elude yourself and your own truth’. Thus you have
multiple versions of what happens – endlessly replicating and
fracturing – non of them being an absolute event.”

“That’s sense?” asked Clara.

“In this world, perhaps” muttered Bob. “The Best night of
my life is not shareable, or truly real.”
“Like most of your good nights”, said Clara.

186
“Thanks for your empathy.”
“Ok People” said Clara “can we have some focus here. One
Bob is dead. Clara must have escaped.”
“Her body has not been found” said Lila, feeling a little
vindictive.
“Bob must have been killed by Tara” said Bob.
“What’s Tara?”
“You know. Tara?”
“No Bob. We don’t. Hence why I’m asking.”
“Tara is some kind of electronic assassin, lurking in the
wires, who seemed to want to kill Clara, and now obviously
me.”
“Ok that would explain a few things. Tell us some more”
“Well, she is sexy looking.”
“Naturally.”
“We know her because Gordon disrupted her once by a logic
loop and got hold of me before she escaped. My Laptop now
has a firewall which alerts me when she arrives and sends her
after a proliferating number of Bob images. Hopefully
delaying her enough for me to switch of the machine. I guess
your Bob didn’t know that?”
“It might” said Lila, “also explain why there is more than one
Bob now, the proliferating images have interacted with the
Cybermind fertilising it.”
“Possible, I guess.”
“I just had the horrible thought that there might be more than
one Gordon” said Clara.
“Yeek” said Bob and Lila.

“Ok said” Bob “but after Clara and I made love. I figured out
that Tara was one of the Good guys. Trying to save us from
the aliens.”
“The aliens? What next?”
“Ok I think there are aliens involved.”
“You are ‘kooky Bob’ then. Roswell OOOOhh OOOOhh”
“Well why not aliens?”
“Sure. You travel across the universe to stuff up someone’s
computers. Give me a break!”
“I don’t know why. It sounds plausible to me.”

187
“There are no documented and irrefutable cases of alien
human contact” said Lila.
“Trust her. She should know” said Clara.
“Well maybe this is first contact? It has to happen
sometime.”
“Sure, Sure” said Clara. “Can we get back to the this Tara
thing? I reckon she brainwashed you. Set you and Clara up so
that when she killed one of you it would hurt the other one.
And then programmed you to look for non-existent aliens, so
she could get on with her job, whatever that is.”
“It’s possible” said Bob doubtfully.
“Do you have any other explanations as to why Bob was
found in front of a Monitor with his throat cut?”
“I guess not”
“Any reason to think that Tara might not be insane, or
deluded?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Ok. So let’s move on.”

“In my world” said Bob “Lila was also a problem. Non of us

knew where she had come from.”
“But Lila has been here all the time” said Clara. “She is less
of a mystery than you are.”
“Oh” said Bob.
“I’d guess” said Clara, “that your Clara hadn’t been round
the office very long. Did anyone else think Lila was a
mystery?”
“No” said Bob hesitantly, “Not that I know of. Just us.”
“That proves I’m the real Clara” she said triumphantly.
“That’s not that clear” said Lila, “there might not be a real
Clara, an ur-Clara from which all Claras are derived. All
Claras might be equally originary.”
“Ok Lila!” said Clara with a degree of finality.
“It might”, said Lila, “be like the Doom Squad. Everybody
remembers them – but there is no paper work. No one can
really recall them before all this happened. We just know
they were there.”
“ARGGGGHHH” said Clara loudly “Let’s move on again
before I wonder if I knew me before all this happened.”
“That’s my point” said Lila.

188
“I am going to summarise the explanations we have for all
this” said Clara. “is everybody ready?”
Lila and Bob nodded. Bob felt tired and drained all of a
sudden. He missed Clara. He couldn’t miss her. Here she was
same as ever – only different. One memory file he would
love to wipe.

“Ok. Explanation number one. From the Oval Office. This is

Armageddon. Satan is loose. Let’s wait for the Rapture,
assuming it hasn’t happened already and we are the sinners,
or nuke the anti-christ. Any takers? No? Then Explanation
two. The Dark Gods are loose. The world is being
transformed by some kind of influx from another dimension.
It fits the facts, but there is not much we can do. Explantion
three. Alaain Current has indeed unleased some strange virus
into the world which causes the virtual to be
indistinguishable from the actual. This may mean that the
Dark Gods can now move into this world as previously
suggested. Solution. Find Current and his virus, and get him
to reboot everything or whatever the technical term is.”

Lila raised her hand. Clara nodded. “Wasn’t Sophia going to

invite Alaain to her Island were you could all meet? At least
that’s what she said in an email sent to you.”

Clara and Bob looked at each other and shook heads. “No”
she said nothing about that when we were there” said Bob.
“I haven’t gone yet” said Clara.
“Just thought I’d mention it” said Lila.
“Thanks” said Clara, “I guess we could go again, or for the
first time. But I don’t want to do what the Illuminati want us
to do. Don’t ask” she said to Lila. “But we were about to go
when we got interrupted”
“I remember the plane” said Bob. “Or was that the first
time?”

“Ok” resumed Clara “we could go and see Sophia.

Explanation four. Whats’ happening is the product of
malfunctioning first generation cyberwear invented by this
Alen Michaelrose guy who helped us escape the Black Shirts,

189
or who said he helped us escape. For all we know the Black
Shirts may have been trying to rescue us from him. This
malfunction may bleed into the offline world, or it may
create an entirely ‘virtual fantasy’ around the real world. This
is Lila’s theory. No objection. We try and find Michaelrose
and deal with him. Of course there is no reason to assume he
is still sane. He could be dangerous. We have seen he is
capable of deluding people – we cannot trust our own
thoughts when dealing with him. Any questions?”
Lila and Bob shook their heads

“Ok. Explanation five. The World is evolving into some

other form and taking us with it. Perhaps in this new world
we have to learn how to coexist peacefully with other
species, in this case, cyberentities. Or the next step could
involve us learning how to transit between different realities.
I think this is crap. Its Lila’s second option. I can’t see what
to do in that case except let the strongest survive. Which will
happen anyway if all the other options fail. Any comments?”
She paused, and looked at the other two.
“Ok. The final explanation is the science fiction explanation
from dead Bob. This is that after some catastrophe everyone
is living in bunkers with only some kind of virtual world left
for communications and living. Over time the virtual has
replaced the actual until something happened and we all lost
track of reality. If this has happened, then its likely that this is
some kind of political battle we are stuck in. Who ever
controls, or designs, the virtual, may control the world.
Again, no known strategy – except to try and build some
machine which disrupts the virtual. Way out of our league.
I’ve suggested it to the few remaining people at NISC. So
that’s it. Comments?”

“There’s also the aliens” said Bob.

“Ok. Prankster aliens. Any ideas of how to communicate
with them? Any chance they speak English? No. I didn’t
think so. So our options are limited. Seek out Michaelrose, or
seek out Current.”
“Or find the Necronomicon” muttered Bob
“It doesn’t work” said Lila. “I tried it once.”

190
“Uh huh?” said Bob, “When is the chance I might actually
get to hear what it is you guys actually do?”
“Never”, said Clara.
“I figure it might help, you know, all this is pretty weird –
and those files I got...” He petered out. Aware that Clara and
Lila were both looking at him and not that happy. “You know
the CICIA files?”
“This is Bob 2 stuff again.”
“You let me do it”, he exclaimed relieved that he would not
have to reveal the files he stole.
“No, the other Clara did. What did you find?”
“Nothing, its just all odd”, he lied.
He didn’t think Clara believed him, but she let it go.

“I have another explanation” he resumed.

“Ok, as long as it doesn’t involve green men from Mars.”
“The alien theory is not ridiculous Clara. But No – no
necessary aliens. What if the universe where like some vast
computer program? And our connected computers had
become large enough and complex enough to interact with it,
and this was causing vast numbers of problems? All we
would have to do is to learn to reprogram it, and all would be
well.”
“Ok” said Lila “I like it.”
“Hmm” said Clara. “So does God use Doors, Max or Linux?”
“Ok” said Bob “Its just an idea. It needs work. I can work on
it while we go and see Current or Michaelrose.”
“Ok. Let’s go. You can come if you want Lila. It would be
good if you did.”
“Fine” I’ve always wanted to go to Greece.”

The meeting broke up

****

Bob, Clara and Lila made sure the Taxi they chose to get
them to the airfield was old – no SatNav or electronic control
mechanism. The battered Peugeot made good time through
the City Outskirts, past the broadcast of agony, the slug hills

191
and the tower of automatic despair, until they finally they
reached the private landing strip.

An old DC3 sat on the tarmac. The pilot introduced himself

as Theodore Rouge. He was to take them to Paradisia Island.

They strapped in and the plane trundled gracefully into the

air.

192
Chapter 29
It had been a quiet day in the office. He wasn’t sure if it was
so because of his conscious attempts to evade doing any
productive tasks, or because of his failing attempts to find
any productive tasks to do. He sat through the day, staring at
the wall, staring at the trees outside his window, at the screen
of his desktop computer. Now and then he would rise from
his chair and leave the room briefly, to refill his mug with
coffee, to drink a glass of tap-water, or to visit the toilet.
Mostly, he was doing nothing. It was Friday, and most of the
people working on the campus were leaving early. And no-
one called on Fridays, anyway. With a lazy gaze, he followed
the small groups of young students passing below his
window.

It was clear that he couldn’t focus his thoughts. He was

trying not to think about the solitary journey that lied ahead
waiting for him after the working hours. He read some list
chatter, without engaging himself in the Friday’s endless
joking, rapidly growing threads of one-liners whipped forth
by the early Americans and the late Australians alike. The
European members somewhere there in the middle of the
time frame, maybe sitting at their desks pretending to work
like himself, or just killing time with endless reports about
their sex adventures (or fantasies), like that other guy.

Almost time to go now. He had packed a very minimum

travel kit: one set of underwear, a toothbrush, and a razor.
These he could carry in his small camera bag. The ship
would leave for Stockholm in two hours. He was trying to
think about something else. He looked at the screen. Nothing
had happened on the list for some time now. He would keep
on tapping on F5 key on his keyboard repeatedly to beg for
any new incoming mail. He typed a test message and posted
it to the list to see if it was alive. He had to post from a
separate account that he used to operate with a web browser,
because he couldn’t send mail using his office machine’s IP

193
address. He used the Outlook Express for incoming mail
only.

The test message didn’t show up. Slowly he started to go

through the yet unread list messages from Thursday,
Wednesday, and older dates. He kept most messages in his
Inbox until he got tired of seeing them and would then delete
the entire contents of the folder. Usually that meant
something like several thousand messages. Sometimes he
couldn’t delete the hundreds of unread messages, but instead
moved them away from the Inbox to a new folder. Years ago,
when disk space had been an issue, he would save his mail
on diskettes. Some of these diskettes were readable even
today. But if he wanted to read the old list traffic, to travel
backwards and forwards in list-time, he knew that he could
always go to the Archives. It was thought that every message
posted on the list was also archived, but at times he doubted
this. First, not all messages posted actually got distributed to
the list members. The list software decided not to forward
them, for some reason. Sometimes these reasons remained
unclear. Usually non-distributable messages were those ones
that were interpreted as commands by the listserv software.
The second cause for missing messages was that those
messages were distributed in the first place, but never
reached the archive server’s mail address, for some reason.
Sometimes these reasons were not clear either. But some
percentage of net traffic was always failing to reach its
destination, and no one bothered about that too much. It was
one of the basic laws of internet.

He decided to call his wife, the phone rang, both of them

having decided to make the call. They didn’t talk very much.
It had always been like that when they were separated. They
listened to the silence of the wire between them, only rarely
inserting a handful of words. “Take care,” she said, waiting
for him to hang up. “I will call you in the morning,” he
responded. Then put the receiver down.

The list had become active again and he took the last quick
sampling of the messages that had arrived as a burst just

194
minutes earlier. History books are read by many people. He
switched the desktop computer off and ventured out from his
office room, to bring some water for the various plants he
kept on the windowsill. “Current.” Alaain Current had finally
answered the phone. After watering the plants, he took the
camera bag and his jacket and locked up the door to his room
behind him. “Alaain?” said Sophia. Leaving the building, he
headed for the bus stop across the street. “I am Sophia
Paradisia. I am a Cybermind list member.” The commute into
the city took fifteen minutes. “Do you like it?” asked Alaain.
He checked the supply of films he had reserved for the trip.
Like a new organ; a heart and a brain cloned together to
make breathing and thinking one complete action. Everything
was in order. That’s OK. The bus reached its destination and
he stepped out, covering the four remaining blocks to the
railway station on foot. “Did you ever read Spinoza?” He
exchanged the cash he figured he’d spend while in
Stockholm. Quick, your location. Then walked a couple of
blocks in the direction of the passenger harbour, even ran
half a block in order to catch a tram where he sat down
among the tired old women, the excited young women, the
quiet middle-aged women, and the other people on their way
to the harbour. Look, Sophia, are you listening, Sophia!

Since he hadn’t reserved a cabin, but decided to travel in the

public air-seats compartment instead, he hurried a bit to be
among the first to pass through the gates into the ship. Clara
awoke. It was particularly easy this time, since he carried no
luggage and most of the other passengers were families
headed for their cabins in the tourist class. Top, down the
aisle, past all the empty seats. Not a very interesting lot of
people, indeed.

At night, the ship was almost deserted – apart from the disco
and the nightclub. had visions of them exploding helplessly if
anyone tried to. He went in there occasionally for a glass of
wine, but generally the atmosphere was very uninspiring.
Clara had tried to make sure the gin. Sitting in a corner table
in the nightclub, he observed a Japanese couple in the next
table, watching the karaoke show with mild interest. She was

195
at the office in a camp bed - Bob was snoring nearby. At
midnight he went out onto the decks to take a few photos.
Multicoloured fluid flowed down. He didn’t want to talk to
anyone and kept his distance to the individuals whom would
have been potential contact-seekers. A large silver sphere
floated silently. He wanted to stay mute and blank. Invisible,
if that was possible.

The ship was manoeuvring her way through almost

impossibly narrow straits and between small islands that
cluttered the either side of their route. As he was standing
just below the bridge, the lights from the houses and cottages
shone like dim candles far below his feet. Forwards, another
ship was making its way, half a kilometre before them, and
its multi-coloured carnival lighting shone out like a
Christmas tree floating on the waves. After a while, he
ventured back to his seat, and, turning to face the wall, tried
to gain some sleep.

Sometimes he hated sleep, as dreams would seize him

unawares and he would be caught up in the determinacies of
his psyche, but that was the price for living. The water
rippled around the bows as the ship moved on.

196
Chapter 30
When Bob and Clara appeared at the door, Sophia tingled
with a feeling of deja vu, but it was gone too quickly for her
to determine whether the sense of familiarity was real or an
illusion. Bob and Clara were just like she’d imagined, but
she’d never met them before.

She invited them, and Lila, into her home. Her smile
crunched her cheekbones up against her eyes. “Welcome to
my alternate universe, my friends,” she said as she swept
them into her big house on the second smallest island in the
Ionian Sea.

Clara and Lila giggled at their host’s clever joke but Bob
stopped in his tracks. “Sophia?” he said. “That’s not a joke, is
it?”

Sophia paused. She turned back to Bob. “We all live in

separate universes.” Sophia wasn’t so sure that was the case,
so her voice intoned upwards. Strangely, she knew that this is
what Bob needed to hear.

“Come,” she held her arm up and motioned forward with her
head, “I’ll boil some strong and sweet Turkish coffee.

“What are you thinking about, Bob?” whispered Clara into

his ear as they followed Sophia into the kitchen.
“Everett, DeWitt, and Deutsch. So, we’ve just accepted that
the multiverse hypothesis is not a fantastic idea.
Developments in quantum physics do point to physical
evidence. Steven Hawkings is a firm supporter of the
hypothesis. And that’s good enough for me. I therefore
believe, my dear Clara”, he ignored her humph, “that it’s
quite safe to say that there is an infinite number of universes.
We are currently living in many of them, but we have no
awareness of our parallel existences. Some universes may be
very different from the one we are consciously aware of at
this moment, others may differ only in so far as, for example,

197
you may have different coloured hair, or this door in this
universe is over there in another universe.” Bob pointed to
the other end of the hall.
“So why did I get to be in this universe, the one where I’ve
got blonde hair?” teased Clara.
“It seems like a random event, but it isn’t. It’s just the result
of the constant splitting into mutually unobservable worlds.”
Bob was really talking to himself.
“You know split brain experiments conducted on epileptic
patients found two separate consciousnesses in the same
skull,” Sophia was saying to Lila.

Bob stopped in his tracks again, and Clara and Lila mimicked
him. They’d reached the kitchen and adjoining dining room.
The walls were bright white and massive windows looked
out onto an field of ancient olive trees.

“Sit down, friends.” Bob sat down and hunched over his
hand, pulled into a fist, which held his thinking head. Bob
had never adopted the pose of The Thinker before. It must be
the pull of Greece, or what he thought was Greece.

Sophia walked into the kitchen to boil the coffee and

appeared fifteen minutes later holding a tray with four sets of
little white cups and saucers, four glasses of water and a plate
of bite-size baklavadakia.
“Sophia,” said Clara, “you invited us here to meet with
Alaain Current. Do you know when he’ll be here?”
“Yesterday, he said ‘tomorrow’. That should mean today. We
should get ready for his imminent arrival. He doesn’t know
that you’ll be here.”

“Do we have a plan, then?” said Lila.

“No.”
“Then we’d better plan a plan,” said Lila.

At that point the large television screen on the wall opposite

them tuned itself into view. The form that appeared
introduced itself as Alen Michaelrose.

198
“Alen!” said Clara, recognising the image from a picture Lila
had shown her.
“Clara. Bob. Lila. Sophia,” crackled Alen. “Hello. I thought
I’d find you here. Planning a little meeting with Mr Alaain
Current, but with no plan? Maybe I can help.”
“Oh.” mumbled Bob. A cat slipped under one of the open
windows and nuzzled behind Bob’s legs.
“That’s my Cassandra,” said Sophia.
“I’ve been doing some mathematics,” said Alen. “And have
come to believe that the multiverse is mysterious. There’s a
ghost in the atom. The ghost is coded. The code may be
hacked. Relax, kids, the decoherence we’ve all been
experiencing lately, some to a greater degree than others, is
relatively simple to explain. It’s just the result of two or more
profoundly complex worlds interfering with one another.
Now, do you all know about Schrödinger’s cat?”
“When I hear of Schrödinger’s cat, I reach for my gun,” said
Bob.
“Nice one. Now, get serious Bob. You are the only one with
enough wizardry left in you to do something, so stop fucking
around and LISTEN UP!” Alen leaned forward, the monitor
cut his head off at the top and chin. He continued, “Kids, you
could try a similar experiment when Current arrives.”
“What do you mean?” said Clara.
“What is a wacko like Current really after?”
“Experimental Art,” said Lila.
“World dominance,” said Clara.
“Money?” aksed Bob.
“Immortality,” said Sophia.
“Exactly!” roared Alen. “The Cybermind effect, by virtue of
creating consciousness that seems to travel from one parallel
world to the next AND seems to retain at least some of its
memory when crossing over, will not only make him
immortal, but the most damn powerful man in the world.
Worlds, to be precise. Knowledge is power, we all know that
equation. But Current could well have knowledge of ALL
worlds. Now think about that one for a bit.”

“Eh?” said Bob.

199
“Look, consciousness doesn’t travel well, kids. Your
consciousness in this world can’t interact with your
consciousness in another. Right?”
“Or even in this one. That is true,” said Sophia whimsically.
“If you were to take Current outside and set off a little
nuclear bomb next to him, in most parallel worlds he would
just die. BUT, quantum physics allows for a small set of
universes in which Current actually survives and is able to
experience a conscious self in those universes! What does
that mean, kids? A conscious entity that cannot cease to exist.
This is what Current wants. Quantum immortality!”
“Plato said something about immortality years ago,” said
Sophia.
“Yeah, so have many people, but they didn’t have to deal
with the math,” said Bob.

“Bob,” said Alen, “You must hack the multiverse. You must
crack the code. You must hack the multiverse. You must
crack the code. Crack the code. The code. The code. The
co...” and the connection died.

“Well, that was fascinating. I’m absolutely fascinated,” said

Bob. He stuffed a couple of baklavadakia into his mouth.
“Bob, this is a safe place for you to work. The island has not
been subjected to the Cybermind effect and is therefore a
logical and coherent place. My office is through that blue
door,” said Sophia.

Bob shuffled reluctantly down the corridor towards the blue

door, mumbling “To hack, or not to hack, now that’s a
fucking good question.”

Bob felt old and spent. Hack the multiverse, my fucking arse,
he thought as he opened the door to Sophia’s office. One
more step and he’d be inside, there to do the job, no turning
back. Standing there in the doorway, he thought about what
he’d become. Less than a month ago he was “The Techie”,
the Macroswift Magician, the wizard who could make any
machine do anything he wanted, with hardly a second word
or look. He knew a lot of techies who often resorted to

200
kicking the computers into recovery, but Bob never needed to
do that. Blue screens or no blue screens, he was calm. He
remembered the old legend that the blue had been chosen for
its calming effect on people. Blue had always been his
favourite colour, anyway.

But the world was different now. In the world he knew

before this one, he was sure of his success each time he
stepped up to a reluctant machine, because he was working
within a complex but finite world. However obscure, a
solution could always be found to the problems he’d
encountered at Macroswift. Now, he was unsure he had the
goods. But then he remembered something important.

“Hey,” he shouted back down the hall. “The island is not

affected by the Cybermind!
“Duh!” Clara shouted back.
“So, I’ll just pretend I’m at Macroswift and everything is
back to normal,” shouted Bob.
“More fantasy is just what we need”, shouted Clara. “Just
hurry the fuck up will you!”

If the island was without Cybermind, then Bob could follow

his usual problem solving style. He didn’t need to think about
all the weirdness, because it didn’t exist here. In the normal
world, all parallel worlds are invisible.

He proceeded towards Sophia’s desk and plunged down onto

the couch. On the desk was a document entitled “The
Structure of the Multiverse”, by David Deutsch, Centre for
Quantum Computation, The Clarendon Laboratory,
University of Oxford, Oxford OX1 3PU, UK, dated April
2001.
On it, scrawled in red, was a note.

Bob,
It’s all in the qubit!
Have fun,
David.

201
Bob grabbed a pen and some blank A4 paper from Sophia’s
printer, closed his eyes and began to write calculations seeing
them in the dark blackboard of his mind, in the same way
that Mozart could hear symphonies in his inner ear.

****

Meanwhile, Sophia told the women to turn over their cups of

coffee and place them on the saucer.
“I’ll read your fortunes, later,” she said. “But now, a
surprise.”

She stood up. “Come with me, let’s leave Bob to work for a
while,” she said and they followed her out to the backyard.
Sophia led them into a wooden barn, which was entirely
empty. Right in the middle of it, flat on the floor, was a
trapdoor. Sophia pointed to the door and looked at the
women, suggesting they open it. Once the door was pulled
up, it revealed a staircase that led down into an area too dark
to see. Sophia motioned that they should head down the
stairs. They could see nothing at all, their feet felt over each
step’s edge, like a finger might feel over a word for a blind
eye. They moved slowly down the stairs. When they finally
reached the final step, Sophia touched the wall to switch on
the twelve lights. Each light was fixed to the wall at waist
height and shone up onto one of twelve large framed
paintings.

Mouths open, Clara and Lila walked towards them until they
could see that the paintings were of religious figures and
scenes.

“Icons,” said Sophia. “The arrived on this island around the

year 1000. One of my ancestors sent them here, all the way
from Byzantium.”

They peered closer at the pictures. “Wow!” said Lila, “this

one seems to have some text behind it.”

202
“Yes, it does. That, believe it or not, is Philetas’s Greek
translation of the Necronomicon, in palimpsest. The law of
the dead.”
“Wasn’t that version burnt by some Patriarch in
Constantinople?” asked Lila.
“Indeed, by the Patriarch Michael in 1050, but my ancestor
Agiographus, made a secret copy of the translation and over
this work he painted these twelve Byzantine scenes and sent
them to this island with his son and wife. On this very site a
great church was built to house them. That is the story. I
don’t know who built it or why, but it suggests some other
powerful people wanted the work saved or hidden. The
church stood for many years but was demolished before the
invasion of 1479. This room once stood above ground and
was the church’s nave, but was buried in earth in order to
disguise and protect it. Some say it was swallowed by the
Earth.”

“Do you think Alaain knows about these icons?” asked Lila.
“Or that he even cares.” said Clara. “Sophia, what happened
to your ancestor?”
“Oh, he went mad. Back in Byzantium he became possessed
by remorse at having saved the text, believing it to be alive in
some way. He arrived on the island determined to destroy the
icons and the Necronomicon, but his son murdered him, right
here in this very room, which at that time, was still a church.”
“Yes, I can feel the vibes in here,” said Lila.
“That, of course, is the story”, said Clara, I wonder who told
it?”
“His son, I suppose” said Sophia.
“How do you think our story will end, Sophia?” asked Clara.
“Let’s go read your coffee cup.”

****

The women returned to their coffee cups. Sophia picked up

Clara’s cup first, closed her eyes and overturned the cup. She
hunched over it and opened her eyes. She gasped.

“Sophia, what’s wrong?” said Clara.

203
“There’s nothing to read, it’s all clear,” Sophia was confused.
“Is that good?”
Sophia looked up at Clara, her distorted face caught in a
frown. “Don’t you have free will, Clara?” Then quickly
added, “oh sorry, silly thing. I don’t know. It must be good.
Clear conscience. Something like that.”

“Come on girls let’s clear up the table,” Sophia stood up. “If
we really want to know about the future they way the
ancients did, we’ll all go to the great Necromandeion (The
Oracle of the Dead), over in Epirus. It’s situated at Acheron
River, which leads to the gates of Hades. This is the place to
communicate with the dead. I guess it was the way the
ancients communicated with the parallel worlds of their time.
But for now, Bob is our oracle. Let’s boil him some fresh
coffee and see what he’s come up with.
“Oh yes, we must tend to the needs of the great man” said
Clara.

****

The doorbell rang. The women froze. Sophia brought her

index finger to her mouth indicating they should be silent.
She whispered to Lila to go hide out in the barn and that
Clara should go open the door. Sophia would go to warn Bob
that he was running out of time.

As Clara walked to the door, she wondered about Sophia’s

comment about her free will. She opened the door and felt a
tingle of deja vu as she saw Alaain Current. The feeling did
not last long enough for her to determine whether this
familiarity was real or an illusion, but she felt she’d known
Alaain long before this moment, even though she’d never
met him.

“Clara,” Alaain said, opening his mouth wide to pronounce

the a’s in her name. He said her name as if it was the most
familiar thing in the world.
“Yes, I’m Clara.”
“I know!” he said. He was very convincing.

204
“You do?” she felt compelled to ask.
“Oh yes, more than you could know Clara, more than you
could know.”

In the brief time they stood at the door, Clara already felt that
Alaain exerted a mysterious power over her. Her hand felt for
her gun. Alaain noticed her reaction and laughed. Clara
pulled out her gun and with both hands held it a few inches
from Alaain’s head.

“And what the FUCK are YOU laughing AT?”

“I’m laughing at us. What a great team I made,” said Alaain.

He patted Clara on her head, walked into the house and

headed down the corridor into the dining room where Sophia
had read her coffee cup a few minutes earlier.

He sat himself down on a sofa across from the dining table.

Clara followed him with the gun poised in both her hands as
before.

Alaain slapped his hands on his thighs, “Come on, Clara,

come sit with me. I want you to tell me about yourself, who
do you believe you are?”

Clara sat on his lap, the gun still in both hands. “I said I’m
Clara.”

“You are amazing, Clara. Truly amazing. Even when I was

planning you, I could never have hoped for something this
good.” He grabbed her cheeks with his two hands and kissed
her forehead.

There was something terribly threatening about Alaain even

though she sensed he wasn’t dangerous, not in the traditional
sense of the word. He wasn’t interested in killing her, she
knew that, but she didn’t know why she knew that, or even if
she could trust herself. There was something about him that
was really turning her paranoid. She swung her arms to the
side and then whipped them back onto his skull with just the

205
right amount of force to knock him out for about fifteen
minutes. She needed to ask some questions.
She needed to think.

“Sophia!” she screamed. “I need some rope, NOW!”

Sophia appeared with a ball of rope and tape in her hands.
They tied Alaain to a chair.

“I don’t think he’s dangerous,” said Clara, “but there’s

something just too weird about him. He got me to sit in his
fucking lap! Just like that.” She shuddered. “I’ll feel safer if
he’s confined. He’ll be conscious again in fifteen minutes.
How’s Bob going?”

“He’s almost done. The wonder boy is almost done.”

206
Chapter 31
Clara and the others were facing Alaain when he opened his
eyes. She was casually holding a gun in a place where he
could see it.

“Hi” she said. “Now perhaps we can start this relationship

again. I’m Clara. Pleased to meet you.”
Alaain smiled. “You are every bit as wonderful as I had
hoped” he said.
“Good” she said stiffly. “Now tell us what you are doing
here, and how we can fix things up.”
“Fix things up?” he asked “What’s wrong? Don’t you see
that life is now art? That people can shape the world around
them. That the material is now a support and not a terror?
The world is really Virtual, yet not a mere simulation.”
“Except perhaps, for the nukes” said Lila “and the
starvation.”
“Ok, lets fix them up then” he said.

They paused. Sophia nodded, “and how are you going to do

that, young man? Some folks may want them as badly as we
don’t.”
“As I said we are not bound by time and space, or despair. Its
hard to understand especially if you have been confined all
your life.”
“Not all my life” said Sophia dryly.
“I didn’t mean that. Maybe we can fix that too. The
possibilities are boundless. Have you seen the way the sun
strikes the walls?”
“I’ve been trying to fix things by thought since this all
started” said Lila, “but nothing, nothing happens.”
“Theory is nothing without obdurateness” said Alaain. “We
can do nothing, if nothing resists. All art is dealing with
resistance, with the muck of material. It stains us as we use
it.”
“I have no intention of not resisting” said Clara.
“You are superb. I always liked you the best”

207
“What is all this shit, we have never met – except when I
tried to shoot you and stop all of this from happening.”
“Look” he said, “in my world, if the real is what resists, and I
represent the symbolic – the striving for words – then you,
my dear Clara, are the imaginary which escapes. And how
you escape. I would never have dreamed of what you have
become.”
“I am not imaginary” said Clara.
“And I am your imaginary” he said calmly.
“So how do we make this better for everyone?” asked Lila.
“Is that what you all really want?”
They looked at each other, nodded or said yes.
“And all of you, given this, this brief respite, this offer of
limitless power and freedom, you want to help others, to love
each other”, he said.
“I think the world outside is rather frightening” said Sophia
“and you make it more so.”

Alain smiled again, and began to speak:

“This is the safety zone. Within these borders... Everything

else outside – corruption, decay. This is safe for us. Love at
the barricades. What happens outside the frame. The frame
problem – not to adjust the real, but to keep it out. The
problem with everything real.

“By virtue of the sign the body is not a sign. That is,
culturally determined but obdurate nonetheless. You can see
the body. You never see the sign.

“What I was going to say slips out, as the tongue moves. That
is, it remains, as in ‘remains of the day,’ un-spoken. You can
only imagine, and what you imagine is always right, write
and written, within the borders.
“It’s safe within the borders. They’re here for the moment.

“All these packets are enumerated, addressed, like the

directories themselves. “They’re ordered so you can read and
are comfortable that way.

208
You can dissemble, forget. The addresses disappear forever.
Even to save the words... within the protocols, the borders.
The words are boarders and grow old. The truth of the pun is
the pun of the truth. Truth slips out, a pun, my word, safe
here.

“The world is so unsafe, plasma, sun-spotted. We take these

few moments and re-make the frame.... We are comfortable
here, these names our names. We are here for you, part of
you. You call us forth with this reading which is a writing as
well. We pour into you.

“It’s safe and warm here for human life. We are amazed that
anyone still does good, does something unequivocal and
calming. We are amazed these tiny spaces come forth in the
midst of Armageddon. They come forth and are quiet, are
peaceful. They hold us in their arms, they sing to us softly.
“We cry quietly among the lullabies. We are at home, and we
are up and down with the frame.”

Bob felt things churning about his mind. Somehow the glow
came back and then disappeared again.

“This place has strange geometries” said Alaain. “Somehow I

cannot move. I can’t get at things. My tongue is always stiff,
there is so much to say and its so hard to say it. Language
limits as it stretches forth.”
“That’s good” said Clara.
“No I feel cut off. I can’t fix the bombs. I can’t heal you.
Something is missing.” He looked a little panicked.
“How did you do this?” asked Bob “This is way beyond any
science we have.”
“I don’t know” Alaain shrugged, “I think it was Clara that
made me what I am. Thinking her and letting her go, she
thought me and here we are thinking each other. Who was
first? We are intertwined, I suspect”

“Typical fucking Liberal” shouted Clara “can’t take

responsibility for anything. Its always somebody else’s fault
isn’t it? Always somebody else made you do it? ‘I come from

209
a broken home your honour’. I’ve news for you. Murder is
murder, terrorism is terrorism, and there is laws against it.
And you are going to face them, fuckhead.”
“Clara!” said Sophia firmly. “We do not get anywhere
through abuse. Try and control yourself.”
Bob expected Clara to fly off completely at this but she
mildly nodded and obeyed the older woman.

“And bombing people to death is not murder or not terror

when you are the Great Leader I believe?” resumed Alaain.
“You disappoint me at the same time as you delight me. Oh
Clara Hielo Internet, you take so much within you. I would
write haiku sonnets to your untidy perfection and
proliferation. Your channels, your routes, your flesh, your
wires. You child of time and dreams.”
“My name is Clara Helio” said Clara. “Perhaps you are
thinking of someone else?”
“A misreading!” he laughed “oh dear – no wonder you have
escaped. But that is fine. I’ve been hunted by a misreading.
Haunted too, no doubt.”

“So let me get this right” said Bob “You don’t know how this
situation arose, or how you became central to it?”
“I have theories.”
“He always has theories” said Clara.
“Oh Clara” said Alaain simply “How I love you.”
“What!” exclaimed Clara. “You! You’re kidding?”

“No, its the truth. It has always been the truth, or what passes
for the truth. How I have quested after your mystery – the
shifting relation between symbol and flesh, the enfolding of
words and being, the questioning our speaking of speaking.
The way a poem annihilates language, yet within which
language arises, the way the lips shape love, this gap which
ever frames us even at the limits, that makes transgression
non transgressive, because we can not burst free. The
emission of word objects overlapping and coming from
nowhere. Shape riding as a dream of transference. Always I
fall short – the text marring and marking, joined at the
horizon, yet never reaching. Yet here you are – as real as the

210
real is real. And you Clara, you are this doubled world, of
dreamer dreamed. Of flesh escaped. I love you, I would write
on you my life. Forever. Write of glittering jewels,
monstrance, chalice, simultaneous profusion and dissolution
of inscriptions, carvings into the flesh soldered in the form of
tourmaline crystals, spelling out the name of Clara.”

“Huh?” said Clara.

“Let me get this right” said Bob carefully. “You are saying
that you and Clara are somehow intertwined in writing and
that if she killed you then you’d both die?”
“Of Broken Hearts” said Alan, the irony obvious. “The
conversations you have seen here are real, they are trapped in
a world of machines and computer nets, a place known as
clara-machine, an enclave of dreaming desperate beauty.”
“Clara, could you please put down that gun” asked Bob.

Clara stood there thinking “No” she said finally, “If I die and
we save the world, then that’s no big deal.”

“Perhaps” said Lila, “we can try and save the world, without
killing anyone?”
“Don’t be stupid” said Clara.
“Thank you for your considered opinion” said Lila.
“I don’t believe him anyway” replied Clara. “I am not a
machine.”

Alaain sighed “No, you are a producer product. Like us all,

only more. Clara Hielo talks behind dark eyes, illuminated
wires, and melds into me, flesh and body one. Primary and
secondary narcissisms merge; recognitions devolve into part-
objects. Let me abjure narrative, for nothing tells a story.
“When privacy is outlawed, only outlaws will be private.
When your friends are dead, only the dead will have friends.
When sex is a crime, only the criminals will have sex. When
numbers are indeterminate, only the indeterminate will have
numbers. When the network is really down, only the really
down will network. When Clara desires, only the desired will
have Clara.”

211
“Well that was informative” said Clara. “When you are dead
you will really stay dead. I am not yours, and I’m certainly
not you.”

“Very well” He tightened his face and began to chant:

My name is your own,

Your flesh is mine;
My flesh to the bone
Is cast as your own.

Our blood is the same,

Your flesh runs to me.
If you give me your name,
I’m burned with the same.

My legs are splayed wide,

I moan and I whine;
Upon me you ride,
Come in me inside.

Your legs are splayed wide,

You moan and you whine;
Upon you I ride,
Come in you inside.

Clara writhed on the floor, her face racked by pleasure.

Lila screamed “Stop it. Stop it.”
Alaain stopped, looking guilty and upset.
“Fuck you” Clara breathed, tears marking her cheeks. “Why
do you fucking men think I’m nothing unless I’m wacking
my cunt?”

“That’s something I never thought to hear a woman say in

public” said Alen’s voice from nowhere.

“Next you will have me in tears, or in corset and stilettos or

something equally stupid.”
Lila glanced at Bob who’s hands surreptitiously tried to hide
the bulge in his pants. She smiled to herself.

212
“All this Net freedom and you liberals are still fucking
gender cliches. Do that again Current and you are dead.”

Lila smiled to herself again. Everyone seemed to go for

Clara. It was strange really. She herself had had a crush there,
but Clara had a relationship wound a mile deep. It would take
someone a lot bigger than her to fill that. And Alaain, well he
needed a woman much stronger than her as well. Perhaps
Alaain and Clara could get together? If they really were each
other’s fantasies, then mating them might heal the world.
Sophia, well Sophia she would rather have as a grandmother
and not a lover. Gordon and Tara were meant for each other
– that would be one huge healthy relationship. That left Bob.
Dear Bob. So much more than any other nerd she’d ever met.
Why he even seemed to have feelings. He was kind, gentle, a
lovely man really. But he never seemed to notice her. Come
to think of it no one really seemed to notice her. Perhaps if
she wore a corset and stilettos then Bob might look at her for
once. She smiled. It would be rather fun, but, even in this
world it wasn’t easy to arrange that, and she didn’t want to
look cheap or desperate. Oh what could she do? She snapped
back realising that Alen Michaelrose was talking.

“Much as your mutual bitching is entertaining children. We

have a problem.”
“You don’t say” muttered Clara.
“The Great Leader has found out where you are, and is about
to strike.”
“Oh shit” said Bob quietly.
“They initially planned to saturate bomb the island with
mountain busters, and then strew cluster bombs around while
the navy shelled you with depleted uranium. After that they
planned to send in two battalions of Marines.”
“My poor Island” said Sophia.
“A bit of an over kill isn’t it?” said Bob.
“They think you are the most dangerous folk on Earth. Look
how many men they sent after the Great Terrorist, and he
escaped.”
“He’s no longer relevant” said Clara.

213
“Yes dear. However sanity prevailed. That and the fact that it
would take six weeks to organise such a strike and the
guidance systems are so stuffed they could end up bombing
Washington by mistake. They threw a virus at the Scots after
all.”
“True” said Lila.
“I’m sure the Vice-Leader is hiding somewhere safe” said
Bob.

“Anyway the point is, that much as I despise Current.”

“Thanks” said Alaain “the same to you etc.”
“He mustn’t” continued Alen, “he mustn’t fall into their
hands, under any circumstances. The consequences would be
dire.”
“Why?” asked Clara.
“A world shaper under their control” breathed Lila.
Everyone shuddered.
Except for Clara. “What’s so bad about that?” she asked, “we
might be able to fix some serious problems.”
“The perfect slave society” said Bob.
“Bullshit!” said Clara.
“Free Elections, and no need to fixed the voting machines”
said Lila.
“Making everyone watch Christian TV and buy Norman
Rockwell” said Alaain.
“All women still in the fifties and happy” said Lila.
“You guys are weird” said Clara. “This is all crap.”
“Ok then, tell us what they would do”, challenged Lila.

“We don’t have time for this” interrupted Alen. The Great
Lawyer’s comic black-shirts have been sent instead. Don’t
ask me why. Perhaps its irony. This is the most post-modern
leadership the US has ever had. Truth is whatever they want
it to be, and their words never mean what a reasonable person
might take them to mean. And we don’t mind at all. Perhaps
its simply nobody cares if these troopers die. Anyway, these
black shirts are still bad enough. Between us, Alaain and I
should be able to get Alaain out. Hopefully in one piece. I’ll
try and come back for the rest of you later. That all clear?
Good. Ok Alaain lets go.”

214
“Goodbye Clara” whispered Alaain. The air started
shimmering. Their skin crawled. Strange shapes loomed and
gibbered softly. And then nothing. Alaain had gone. So had
the chair and the ropes. They looked at each other.

Some seconds later, Alen’s voice came faintly out of the

computer speakers. “We did it. I’ll be back. Just hang in
there. And Bob get working!.”

215
Chapter 32
It was a warm, sunny afternoon in Greece. The aroma of ripe
olive trees, feta cheese and wine filled the air. The crystal
blue sky was almost too blue to look at. Bob chewed on more
lamb while he fretted about his future. He poured another
wine and contemplated just what a “wizard” was and how the
hell could he ever become one? He was getting deeper and
deeper into a self-destructive self-analysis, magnifying all of
his mistakes and inabilities, while forgetting his strengths.
Even with the Black shirts coming things could not get
worse, he thought. Until,

Just at that moment, Clara and Sophia left Sophia’s bedroom

with their hair dishevelled, their clothes in disarray and with
big smiles on their faces.

Bob’s jaw and wine glass dropped at the same time. The
thoughts that rang through his mind were bouncing like
misshapen superballs inside a four dimensional pinball game.
His memory of Clara was still clear enough (in this avatar) to
really shake up his reality. Sex memories or not, this event
did not compute in Bob’s universe. Finally, he stammered,
“Well, when in Greece, do like the Greeks do, huh?”

Clara and Sophia both stopped dead in their tracks. They

started as though they were shocked, then stared at him as
though he was speaking a foreign language. Finally the
penny dropped. Clara, sighed impatiently, bored new holes
into his head with her laser eyes, then very slowly and
distinctly told Bob, “Hey, wizard. You are here to fix a
problem, not spy on me. And by the way, just so things are
clear, Sophia was showing me her new massage chair, so if
you have any other bright ideas, you best drop them this
instant, or you’d better be wearing a kevlar cup. Got it,
BUCKO?”

Sophia finally realized what things looked like through Bob’s

eyes and started laughing. Bob turned a great shade of

216
crimson and started to turn away. Clara stepped forward
grabbed Bob by the arm, and pulled him towards the
computer. “Now, work. We didn’t go through all we’ve done
for you to dream silly immature Playkid Ragazine sex
dreams. So move it.”

Bob searched her face for some signal, while trying to avoid
her glare at the same time. He finally said, “I don’t care what
Alen said. I don’t know anything about being a wizard. Just
what is a wizard supposed to do?”

Sophia piped up. “Look Bob, you are the wizard, so we can’t
tell you. But we know that it comes naturally to you. Just try.
Just sit down and try.” She smiled at him. This simple
statement managed to cool down the room to an almost
normal level.

Bob sat down and turned on the machine. Behind him,

Sophia quickly snuck a kiss to Clara, who returned it with a
smile. Clara grabbed her waist and moved her closer. Now
that Bob was one with his machine, they had all kinds of
time.

The key to fixing any halfway decent computer attack is

knowledge and patience. Unfortunately, knowing which
aspect of internet reality was Cybermind and which was the
Great Lawyer’s virus attacks was becoming almost
impossible. You, gentle reader, should know by now that the
universe always manages to balance things out. No matter
how loutish, auto-lobotomized and Keystone Kop-ish the
Great Lawyer’s storm trooper squad was, his viral soldiers
were at the other end of the spectrum. Professional,
knowledgeable, talented and fearless, these programmers and
hackers were slowly winning control over the entire net, not
to mention Cybermind. Unfortunately, Cybermind was his
main target.

The Great Lawyer’s viral attack was taking place on three

levels. The first was called the Trojan; the second, RU-269;
and, the last was the Cupric 7-IDU sterilizing virus. The

217
Trojan was an old fashioned virus which enveloped its target
programming, reproducing itself and using the target’s own
sequencing for sending copies of itself out through out the
system, then onto other people’s computers. The RU-269
virus was much more sophisticated. By waiting for the
morning after insertion before taking any action, it caused
most virus checkers to miss it until it injected itself into the
source code of whatever OS was operating. This
devastatingly effective technique caused a great deal of fear
and loathing, particularly in some governmental bodies,
because one key side-effect of RU-269 was to open up all
encrypted files. The last viral attack, the Cupric-7 IDU,
opened up firewalls and security systems by randomly
destroying certain parts of the hardware and software,
leaving discrete strings of programming with which to further
accomplish its bent goals.

By using all three viral attacks at the same time, the Great
Lawyer’s programmers were slowly gathering control over
the entire world. By trying to fix one problem, users were
actually leaving themselves open to the other two attacks.
Cybermind’s existence was in peril.

Bob was almost in a trance. He looked at viroid trails as

though they were talking to him. Parts of his brain seemed to
explode with energy, while his fingers began blazing at
incredibly high speeds. “Ah, what a set-up,” he thought to
himself. “This requires a a radically new approach. I wonder
if this. . . “

Bob began to program his own anti-viral virus. As the

Trojans were ready to explode, they would find themselves
surrounded by a programming foam, eating away at the
Trojan’s very targeting system. Once this defense was
launched, the foam would distract the Trojans into premature
replication and ultimate self abusing destruction.

As for the RU-269, Bob came up with an entirely new

approach. Despite the GL’s programmer effort to hide the
RU-269 until the following day, it did leave a tell-tail track of

218
rapidly moving bits of encoded material. These bits swam
throughout electron stream, searching all magnetic and
electronic memory for just the right place to implant their
load. Bob decided that sterilizing these rapidly moving bits
was not possible, instead, the answer to this attack was more
subtle. By distracting each packet and directing their
attention elsewhere, Bob’s program would cause these
entities to start eating each other. Much like Escher’s
drawing of hands in reverse, the RU-269 packets would
actually eat each other out of existence.

Bob saved his coupe de grace for the Cupric 7 virus. This
was both the easiest and the hardest, because the Cupric 7
device had extremely unusual and unpredictable twists in its
design. Bob decided that the only answer was his radical
Digitizing and Conjuration approach. He had never tried it
out in the real world, though, because it might cut such a
wide swath in its path.

There, he thought. All his defenses were ready for

transmission. Pretty good work for ten minutes, huh? He
quickly quit all other programs, leaving his injections system
ready to go. Bob looked up from the screen and saw that it
was pitch dark outside. When he sat down, it was 2pm. local
time. The clock now showed 12:23. More than 10 hours, not
ten minutes, had passed. He realised that Lila had been sitting
in the same room, replenishing his drink and putting out
food. At the sound of their conversation, Clara and Sophia
came out of Sophia’s room, dishevelled as ever.

Clara looked over his terminal and thought for a bit. “Do you
think it will work? It better, bub, or else.”

Sophia took a rather nicer approach. “Bob, our dear wizard,

you were working so hard, that we thought we’d just leave
you alone. You hungry? Here’s some cheese and bread. Try
it with the olive oil.”

Bob’s body began talking to him all at once. His arms were
like lead. His eyes felt like sandpaper. His butt, well, luckily

219
he felt nothing from the waist down, until he tried to stand
up. He plopped down again. “No, no food. Not until I
transmit this. I may have to do some guiding as it builds up.”
Bob looked strangely at both of them, then finally got ready
to press F-1. He raised his hand, aimed for the key, and, just
at that moment, 6 black clad, heavily armed, storm troopers
broke the door to Sophia’s house.

It was a shock even though they expected it.

“Move away from that computer. NOW. All of you against

that wall.” Bob, Clara and Sophia walked backwards towards
the wall, their arms raised, their fear visible on their faces.
Even clumsy oafs, when heavily armed, can be deadly.

Never the less Sophia spoke. “You have no legal right to be

here.”
“We are defending the US of A. We have the legal right to be
wherever we want, bitch. Who’s going to stop us? The bunch
of pansies you Greeks call an army? Without us, you Greeks
would be speaking German.” He laughed. “No court outside
the US can touch us, or the shit will really fly. You just be a
good girl and do as we say, and you might get off easy.”
Clara fumed. “This is not the American way” she said.
“Bullshit Lady. We are the World’s superpower. Get used to
it. You traitorous little slit. Terrorist cunt. One more peek,
and you’ll be in the Bay without charge for as long as I want.
Get that?.”
Clara stared at him.
He pushed his gun to her head. “I said ‘Get That?’”
“We get it” said Bob hurridly, “don’t we Clara?”
Clara grunted.
“Good. Good. We can all be friendly then. No cause for
concern. Just stay up against that wall. OK? Now tell us what
we want, or we might just have to wreck some farms out
there. Sad, but that’s life ain’t it?.”

The leader of the storm troopers looked at the computer.

“Now what is all this techie shit?”

220
Clara responded, “that is only our visi-phone. It lets us talk to
each other.”
The storm trooper scratched his helmet, then his groin. “Visi-
what? you mean like a phone?”
Bob caught on fast. “Yeah, if you wanted to talk to the Great
Lawyer, all you have to do is dial. You start by pressing F-1,
then put in the number. Try it.”

The storm trooper laughed. “Hah, very funny. You think I

trust you? You guys probably have this rigged with a bomb
in the seat. Hah, I’m too smart for that old trick. Hey, you
corporal. You sit here.”

The other storm trooper moved closer, but refused to sit. As

he looked over the plasma screen, it began to change. Alen
Michealrose’s image appeared and the computer began
repeating, in an extremely loud, scratchy and irritating
artificial voice: “If you wish to make a call, please deposit 25
euros for the next ten minutes. If you wish to make a call,
please deposit 25 euros for the next ten minutes. If you wish
to make a call, please deposit 25 euros for the next ten
minutes.”

The sarge sneered at the screen. “How do you shut that thing
up?”

This time Sophia spoke up. “Well, you still have to press F-1.
It is the command line. It turns off the phone voice, too.”

The sarge asked his corporal, “Which is F-1? OK, press the
damned thing.” his corporal complied.

At first nothing happened. The computer stopped talking, and

all the lights in Sophia’s home dimmed, then went out.
Immediately, Bob grabbed Sophia and Clara and threw them
to the ground, with himself landing on top of both women.
“Nice being here again, Clara.” He whispered.
Even in the dark he could tell that Clara was not the least bit
amused. Just as she started formulating a particularly biting
response, including a message from her incisors, she quickly

221
changed her mind and said “hell, I left my gun in Sophia’s
room.”

It would have been impossible to converse anyway, since the

storm troopers began emptying their weapons in all
directions. The noise of gunfire was overwhelming. The only
lights came from the bright flashes from each gun tip. Bob
pulled Clara and Sophia along to floor to Sophia’s bedroom.

“Alen, I hope you have something worked out” he

whispered.
“Damn it, where’d I put it” muttered Clara feeling for her
weapon.

The door splintered into fragments under the hail of fire.

“Bob, try the closet” shouted Clara, as Sophia cried out she
was hit.

Bob crawled to the closet and opened the door. As he did, he

took out his subway token and put it into the keyhole. As the
three of them crawled away from the gunfire, it turned out
that Sophia’s closet in southern Greece led directly to a stop
in the central line of the London Underground. As they
moved her clothes apart, they found an empty bench.

“Wow, that was close. I’m so glad Alen got there to help us.”
Sophia’s voice shook. She had never been shot at before, and
never wounded in such a way. Luckily it turned out the
wound was not deep and Lila could bandage it enough to
stop the bleeding. And then she noted, but oddly without
wonder that she could walk. It was painful but she could
walk without thinking. Tears grabbed her throat and filled her
eyes.

Sophia gathered herself together and asked, “Are we sure that

the defenses were sent? Before, I mean, before those animals
started shooting up my lovely home?”
Bob shook his head. “I think so. But I can’t promise
anything. That power surge and drain was what I expected,

222
but who knows? Only time will tell, the problem is I can’t
help it along from here. I need a pretty fast connection.
Something like what the Great Lawyer is using to spew those
viroids out in the first place.”

The three of them sat in silence, with only the wheezes of a

smelly, dirty, partially uniformed bag man tramping his way
through the Tube carriage, followed by the clattering of their
car’s wheels on the tracks of this badly maintained
Underground system.

As they approached the center of London, Clara turned to

Sophia and asked. “What choice do we have? We must get
inside Floor 13 again and use their system. It is the only
way.” Slowly, Sophia nodded, almost reluctantly. They both
turned to Bob who finally noticed both women glaring at
him.

“Hey, no way. Not me. I work with computers, not guns or

breaking and entering. Heck, I can’t even get laid when I
want. I mean, PAID for all my efforts.” He shook his head
violently. “I don’t like guns and I don’t like being chased. I
just want to go home.”

Clara gently took his hands into hers, held them close to her
chest, looked into his eyes tenderly and said, “Look, you
stupid shit-head. If you DON’T finish this job, you won’t
have a home to go to. Got it, peabrain?” Sophia couldn’t stop
giggling at the sight.

“I know”, said Sophia. “I can ring my friend Red in Scotland.

Her daughter Scarlet works for the Government. Maybe she
can get us a safe house or something.”
“Sounds implausible” said Clara. “We can’t tell them who
we are, as they will check with US security, and if they don’t
know who we are then why would they help?”
“I don’t think the Brits are too friendly to the Admin at the
moment” said Lila. “Remember how they wrecked
Buckingham Palace, on the last visit, and wanted to shoot

223
demonstrators with immunity? We just have to have a good
excuse.”
“Ok” said Clara “I can’t think of anything better, but don’t
say I didn’t warn you.”

They stood up in quiet agreement. It was the Northern Line

and they got out at Mornington Crescent.

224
Chapter 33
As they ascended warily into the open air, Clara swore.
“Quick, everyone, get rid of your mobile phones. Now –
smash them.”
“Isn’t it enough to switch them off?” asked Lila.
“I don’t think so, there’s heaps of secret stuff in them. Bob
you should smash your laptop.”
“No”, said Bob. “I don’t know about mobiles, but my laptop
is fine. I don’t install stuff if I don’t know what it does.”
“Come on” laughed Lila, “its got Doors. Nobody knows how
that works.”
“I do. I’d also bet the mobiles would be ok, if you took the
batteries out.”
Clara grumbled a bit more, but even she just removed her
batteries and turned it off. “Ok, she said, lets find a pay
phone.”

The first phone they found seemed to have an almost infinite

amount of human excreta in it. It kept flowing out for as long
as they held the door open.

“After you” said Bob.

“There has to be another” muttered Clara.

At that moment, Lila noticed two rather odd creatures

moving towards them. They were human with blank white
and black faces, covered in wires and flashing lights. She
nudged Clara, who moved in front of the party. “Get ready to
run” Clara hissed.

“Please to greet you” said the one on the right.

“We come in peace” said the one on the left.
“We have no hostile intentions towards any.”
“Only the most humble felicitations to give. Oh mighty one!”
“Who the hell are you?” asked Clara.
“We are emissaries of the Great Goddess herself, oh humble
follower of the mighty Bob!”

225
“I know”, said Clara, “I’m going to regret this, but what
Goddess are we talking about here?”
“You speak for Bob!”
“We serve the Lady of the Harrowing Way, the Goddess of
Cyborgs, oh Speaker for Bob!”
“She has sent us, bearing gifts for Bob!”
“Nifty gifts for Bob!”
“And her blessings.”
“And these gifts are?” asked Clara suspiciously
“Not that we would be drawing attention to ourselves here”
said Bob.
“Listen! Bob! speaks”
“Mine ears are struck with delight.”
“My wires crackle contently with no noise.”
“Ohey Bob!” They knelt waving their arms and legs.
“I think the clandestine bit, has just disappeared” said Lila.
“Yes” said Bob. “Can you, er whatever you ares, take us
somewhere less public?”
“What is less public? Oh Bob!”
“We are confused? Is not everywhere public?”
“Do we not share the wires in communion?”
“Are not our secrets exposed so that there is no loneliness?”
“Are we not One, Oh Bob! tell us your thoughts.”
“Mayhap we are not worthy Number 31456”
“True, True. Oh forgive us Oh Bob! We have not left our
patriarchal egotisms yet.”
“Scourge us. Scourge us. We have not gone beyond the dyad
of human and machine.”
“Oh No. Hideous bifurcation of ill!”
“Oh Sibling thing, we have not grokked “
“Ok. Ok, Consider yourself scourged” said Bob.
“Ah, Oh Bob! has blessed us with the Virtual Scourging.”
“My wires burn, I convulse with bliss of agony. Yay hath
Bob! scourged us and we are free of sin.”
“How about you take us to another room. Where only the
Goddess and our selves can overhear” said Bob.
“Oh Bob! You use our command line and we obey.”

They began to erect a large white tent like structure. Bob

rubbed his head and looked helplessly at the others.

226
“I don’t know, Oh Bob!” mocked Clara “Perhaps inside I can
shoot them or something”
“They might be useful.”
“Sure, like we need a portable football field.”

“There Oh Bob! and party. Enter and be free of borders.”

“Yea! The Cyborg hath challenged the divisions.”
“Male and Female fall, as do machine and human, animal
and human.”
“There is no longer the division.”
“Yet, we forsake the foul seduction of conceptual
wholeness.”
“We are incomplete!”
“Well that’s true enough” muttered Clara to herself as she
checked out the inside of the tent. “It seems ok”, she said to
the others “I can’t hear the outside.”

They all trooped in.

“So what is this all about?” asked Bob.

“Oh Bob! speaks to us again.”
“Ok!” interrupted Bob. “Enough is enough.”
“Bob! cautions the Golden Mean”
“Mayhap Bob! is an Aristotelian?”
“Hush, oh foul mouthed emitter of heresy. Bob! is Bob! That
is all we know and all we kneed to Know.”
“We abjure binaries and exploitation.”
“What do you live on?” asked Clara.
“The Wires, Oh speaker for Bob!”
“I was just wondering where the power came from? If you
don’t exploit nature, you know.”
“Nature gives us power harmoniously.”
“Spontaneously?”
“We tap into the grid. Oh Speaker for Bob!”
“Oh you use other people’s power stations. I see. Very
Spontaneous. Of course.”
“There exists no division between Nature and Machine. We
are Free!”
“You are at least cheap” said Clara.

227
“Ok. Everyone. This is Bob speaking. What the hell is this all
about?”
“Oh mighty Bob!” said Clara and Lila together. They
laughed.

The Cyborgs also began to speak together, but with another

voice. “I sent them. I the Lady of the Harrowing Way.
Goddess of Cyborgs. Bringer of Freedoms. Overcomer of the
pathologies of Western Thought. Founder of the Post
Human.”
“So you override them – just like that? Some freedoms you
bring” said Clara.
“Clara” warned Bob.
“The Cyborg overcomes divisions, we are...”
“Machines” said Clara viscously. “You have lost your
organism, you submit your people to rule by another
machine, which you control, and you call it equality.”
“You have not been blessed. You are still lost in the divisions
in which domination makes sense. I am sad for you.”
“Sure, only you can Pave the World” said Clara.
“There is no division between the natural and the cyborg.
You cannot understand. Our machines are lively and you are
so dead.”
“Life is lively. Fuck I’m no Greenie, but this stinks. You,
you… Socialist.”
“We merge with the world. We are made of sunlight, we
have no dust, the world is not as you see it. We need no
grounding. We have no destructive egos for we are
distributed intelligence and inherently democratic. The
human being is no longer central to our thought”
“All Hail goddess of Capital and Technocracy”, said Lila
darkly. “You are both simply human supporters of existing
exploitation. Bob perhaps you should change your
prosthesis?”
“This is just that psychasthenia thing again”, said Clara.
“Making humans merge in with cyberspace and robotics so
they cannot be seen, or to lure prey to them.”
“Wow”, said Lila, “you’ve heard of psychasthenia?”
“From somewhere. I can read too”, replied Clara.

228
“Maybe it acts to lure us as consumers of the net?” Lila
suggested.

“Can we ease off a bit”, interrupted Bob. “Can someone tell

me what this is all about?”
“It is simple Bob. I have seen the future, and the future is
you. I have come to bring my blessings. To say I support the
Cyborg project. That the programming of the World is a
great step to which I bow in awe. If I am the prophet, then
you are the Second Coming.”
“He’s only come once” said Clara.
“Thank you Clara” said Bob. “I am not God” said Bob.
“Of course not, you are Bob. That is the point, you are
beyond God and the spirit-matter divide. You are the inceptor
of the Cyborg. The one who slays the mere flesh forever.
You are seizing the tools to mark the world that marked you
as other, as nerd, and despised.”
“He’s not despised, just because he’s a nerd” said Clara.
“Lay off Clara” said Lila.
“Just using my one remaining freedom, while it remains”
said Clara.
“Ok so what is this gift?”
“I offer you the implant. To hear the wires, to sing with the
wires, to flow through the spaces, so hear all and see all. I
offer you immortality. Your soul downloaded to the wires, to
the Net. To be one with us for ever. It is the most precious
gift I can offer. It will ease your path and make you
triumphant.”
Bob paused and thought. “No” he said. “I’m sorry, its
tempting. But I can’t do it. I’m not sure I can save the world,
but I’m not doing it by separating from the world and mere
humans, like Clara, for example.”
“Then you reject my help?”
“I must take my way. But I ask a small service from you, if I
may.”
“You damn this world Bob. I and mine shall leave it forever.
We will not meet again.”

The cyborgs silently packed up the tent. They did not speak,
or notice the others.

229
“Well that was useful” said Clara.
“Bob, do you think it was wise to reject her?” asked Lila.
“‘It’ not ‘her’” said Clara, “it was beyond gender remember.”
“I don’t think I had a choice really. Perhaps it was the wrong
thing to do. I would have loved to have flown through the
wires. I would have loved to loose the body. But, I can’t
leave you all either.”
“Would it have made a difference if she had offered it to
everyone?”
“I think she was giving it to everyone, in her mind. I don’t
know. Some things are just puzzles. We will never know
anyway. Let’s find a phone.”

They soon found a phone.

“Ah” said Clara, “I forgot, we don’t have British currency,
and we’re not using cards. Hold on.” She vanished around a
corner. About half an hour later, when they were starting to
get worried, she turned up with some money.
“Just over coming divisions between those who have and
those who haven’t” said Clara.
“You stole this” accused Lila.
“Give me a break, its about five pounds” said Clara. “No one
will starve. The economy won’t collapse any more than it has
already.”
“We could have begged” said Lila.
“Classic Liberal position. I used initiative instead.”
“Stop bickering” said Sophia. “You’re all just like children.
How are we ever supposed to do anything if all we do is
bicker, bicker, bicker? Clara, you are the worse. Now be
quiet.”
Sophia entered the phone booth and dialled up Red. She let it
ring for a long time and eventually Red answered it
“Mary?” said Sophia.
“Yes, who is this please”
“Its Sophia Paradisia”
“Sophia, from Ithica?”
“Yes, it is. I’m in London.”
“Oh, that’s odd. I just got a message from you, asking me to
come to Ithica”

230
“Yes, you must come, its safe there. The World is sane. The
disruption has not reached it.”
“Oh. That sounds good. What are you doing here? How are
you?”

And so the conversation went on. Clara tapping her foot in

the background. Eventually, Red agreed to give them
Scarlet’s number, and to talk to Scarlet herself.

Everything seemed to move unrealistically smoothly –

perhaps the Lady had not abandoned them completely after
all. After a few hours they found themselves in a small, well
furnished, but simple house, with food, drink and bedding.
Clara and Lila checked it out, and removed some of the bugs
and fixed the cameras. Clara talked to Scarlet and seemed
able to persuade her how important it was that nobody
whatsoever knew they were there. Bob had a vague feeling
that subtle threats and enticements were being made. And so
they settled in to London and got to work.

231
Chapter 34
The safe house was surrounded by a garden which had
become forest and was almost impenetrable. The trees were
young, but they had a sense of deep presence. Weeds and ivy
seemed to burst from the walls. The sun was faint in the sky
above. The house could not be seen from the street, and
anyone sneaking their way in would be announced by the
noise they made. It seemed perfect.

Somehow Clara had managed to get some access to

intelligence and it worried even her. It seemed that the Great
Leader had commanded the secret mobilisation of all US
troops ready to invade the Middle East to participate in
Armageddon and overthrow the anti-Christ. There seemed to
be a great deal of debate as to who the anti-Christ might most
plausibly be declared to be. The British Government had
committed itself to participating as well, without announcing
it in advance to Parliament. It looked like Israel had decided
that while the US would protect them until Armageddon,
they had no concern for Israel’s survival during it, and were
thus readying their own weapons of mass destruction in
advance.

As a result Bob had become even more frantic in his efforts

to do something, and had firmly asked everyone to leave him
alone.

Lila, thought it quite clear that Bob was not going to notice
her at all – especially at present. This upset her more than she
wanted to admit. The only recourse was to leave the safe
house and venture into the streets.

This worried her. She knew the dark myths of London. The
place was supposedly built on the head of a murdered giant.
Stories abounded about the world underground, which was a
kind of warped mirror of the surface. Of dire poverty which
begat inhuman races which mixed in with ordinary people,
leaching away their lives. The houses were packed with

232
malicious hauntings, and blood stained the ground wherever
you walked. The first god of serial killers, Jack the Ripper,
unknown and forever shifting had crept here – implicating
doctors, industrialists, masons and the royal family among
others. The blitz and burned corpses lurked hidden around
corners. London was eerie at the best of times. She briefly
wondered, if the Cybermind simply expressed our
unconscious, and if so, despite Alaain’s confidence, it would
forever undermine itself. Dreams were strange, enlightening
and deceitful beings. Lila had never been able to think that
she had dreams, rather they had her. Sometimes she thought
that she was a kind of pale emergence from the world of
dreams, no more than that.

Oddly London seemed more stable than America. Sure, there

were evidences of disruption but they seemed mild by
comparison. At one stage she met a herd of talking elephants
who asked if she had seen any small pigs anywhere as they
were desperately trying to find one. At one time she thought
she saw some school boys hanging upside down in the trees
from ropes, but did not know if this was the disruption or
some odd local custom. She was disturbed by the site of a
crowd of people laughing as a squealing man in a brightly
coloured costume was eaten by a crocodile. Several times in
the nearby undergrowth she had heard some unearthly
giggling which she felt running up her spine. On the whole,
Londoners seemed to just get on with their lives. Nothing
could disturb their depression.

She had heard that in Nottingham the ghosts of Ned Ludd

and Robin Hood had arisen and were inciting people to free
themselves from slavery to machines. Their cry was that
technology had destroyed free work, created dependency or
unemployment, and torn up communities. That it poisoned
the air and water and broke human limbs and spirit. That it
was the rider and the working poor the ridden. That it was a
tool of oppression, opposed to the commonality, and now had
warped the world. It was built not to bring life, but to
untrammel the greed and violence of the powerful. Heartless
power and profit permeated its very design and nature.

233
She thought she heard a faint wiff of song:

To the Tune ‘Poor Jack’

He may censure great Ludd’s disrespect for the Laws

Who ne’er for a moment reflects
That foul Imposition alone was the cause
Which produced these unhappy effects.
Let the haughty no longer the humble oppress
Then shall Ludd sheath his conquering Sword.
His grievances instantly meet with redress,
Then peace will be quickly restored.

Lila wondered how they fared. It seemed a drastic solution to

the problem and she did not want to return to the darkness of
the past. She also wondered what violence would be used to
suppress it and, whether in fact the machines had insinuated
themselves into the revolt. Did Ned Ludd use a laptop?

Eventually she wandered into a park, sat down and began to

think. She had a vague recollection that she should be doing
something, but had no idea what. It was foolish anyway, as
she was no good at anything. She thought how uselessly she
had acted in the current circumstances. How strong Clara and
Bob, and even Sophia, had been, compared to her. How she
had just flowed around and let them carry her. Time passed,
and she found herself wanting to weep but unable to.

She had borrowed two books and began skimming them

quickly as a distraction. The first was Dire Reader’s new
book, The Internet and Confidence. She quickly figured out
that Reader was punning on ‘confidence’ and ‘confide-
dance’, although doing so without marking it in anyway other
than by context. There was possibly a third, and different,
meaning which she had not yet worked out. Lila had
wondered before if Reader was more interested in
suggestion, or mystification, than in clarity. If his concern
was provoking thought rather than guiding it. Basically the
argument seemed to be that confident relationships were

234
based on the dance of confiding, a kind of exchange which
was put to the test until some kind of rhythmic movement
was obtained.

This lead Reader to propose that friendship was the basis of a

new politics beyond nation, party or religion. Not that this
would lead to salvation of course, that always had to be
deferred, as what we could end up with always differed from
what we intended.

Lila doubted that the politics of friendship would be any

kinder. She vaguely remembered Reader’s attacks on those
who thought one of his American friends had been a little too
flexible under the Nazis by writing that European culture
would not be diminished if all the Jews were wiped out. The
irony here was not pleasant. And Reader’s attacks on those
who disagreed with him were fairly offensive, even by
academic standards – they did not create friendships, but
rather expelled those to whom friendship was not offered.
Dire Reader was so vitriolic and self-righteous that she
wondered if he was related to Gordon.

Then Reader pointed out that the movement of the confide-

dance may or may not have an exchange of meaning, indeed
the movement in some sense was the closest we could have
to meaning, and the exchange was always impossible anyway
as deferral happened and the same things could not be
exchanged, ever – for the exchange made the same different.
Nothing could remain the same – due to the network of time.

As well, Reader claimed all statements were inaccurate. At

the most basic they grouped things together which were not
the same and could not remain the same. All ‘balls’ were not
the same, neither were all ‘dogs’ and so on. This could not be
rectified by increasing refinement as reality always escaped
signs and the refinement we could bring was always limited
anyway. Thus the basis of all statements was ‘the lie’. As
religious statements were about that which could not be put
into words, they were overtly lies, but as much as science
explained things by things which could not be perceived, or

235
which were to happen, but had not yet (or were induced), it
was also a matter of lies. Art, in so far as it was a
representation of something, distorted it, and thus lied. All
plans, all poetry, all imaginings were lies.

In a long analysis of Plato’s dismissal of poetry as lies, he

showed how the same argument undermined Plato’s assertion
that philosophy was about truth. It too was lies based on a
kind of ‘con’-fidence. Certainty made the lie more lethal. The
only truth, such that it was, was Plato’s friendship to Socrates
– which had in turn caused him to make Socrates say what he
had not, in the attempt to make Socrates real to us. It was the
lie which made philosophy. But because of this, the assertion
that lies were corruptions was clearly wrong. Lies became the
basis of creativity, freedom and deferred truth (the only kind
which was possible). Socrates had died, and yet not died.

In the final stage of the book, Reader took his most audacious
move. He argued that the Internet came before Writing and
Speech. Lila paused at this one, and tried hard to follow the
argument. As far as she could work out, it implied a hidden
definition of ‘the Internet’, which seemed to be taking it as
the network, or technology which enabled writing and
speech. In which case, she thought, it was a little tautological.
Dire Reader argued that we cannot write or speak without
tools, and without someone else. Writing and speech are not
individual, so the Internet had to exist to provide both
interaction and of friendship, in order for there to be writing
and speech. Writing and speech had to be differed until the
Internet arrived. An act of deference, in fact. But there was
always already an Internet. Speech and writing were always
taken as markers beyond the person, but had no function
without the Internet, without the constant exchange of
packets, without in-through-mation. The Internet was a prior,
but not an underlying, whereas speech and writing were lies.
As not a statement, it could have a degree of truth (of a type)
whereas the others were contingent, for their existence
depended on their falsity and upon the Internet itself which
enabled them in its deferral. And this networked deferral was
what friendship expressed.

236
“I wonder” Lila thought to herself, “if Reader might be
arguing that a distributed intelligence is some kind of pre-
condition for an individual intelligence. If so then
distribution is not inherently democratic as the Goddess of
Cyborgs claimed, but simply a continually modifiable
precondition of any political system whatsover, including
dictatorship. I guess that feels right.” Someone sat beside her
and they began to talk in a leisurely kind of way about
nothing much. Some way into the conversation, Lila saw the
most extraordinary parrot. It was bright blue and with a huge
green plume and was walking on the ground amidst some
children who were ignoring it. As the parrot turned around, it
changed shape becoming slim and slender, more like an ibis,
but still vibrantly colourful. She pointed out the bird to her
companion, who had also seen nothing like it in their lives
before. Then Lila realised that there was a flock of these
birds, their feathers glistening and changing, like peacock
tails, and somehow satiny. She noticed how the bird’s crests
kept changing shape. It seemed that some became horns, and
she knew how these horned birds had made people think of
unicorns. The birds then became horse shaped, with horns
protruding from their foreheads. Some had more than one
Horn. The horns twisted and turned and multiplied. She was
amazed, and the children began to point and dance. Lila
opened the book of Persian poems she was carrying, and
there next to a verse about Paradise and its fauna, she saw a
delicate miniature of the bird’s head. That is what it is, she
thought. She ran closer to the fence with her mother and they
stood on the fence corner and looked down at the birds. Lila
and her mother spiralled into the air to look down at them.
The birds had become huge origami birds and frogs, and
other unknown beasts, made out of Japanese paper. Each was
a little different. They settled down beside the birds and
began to talk to them. Someone, possibly Clara, had put
some fluid on the ground and was explaining how the RNA
in the fluid would preserve the birds forever, between the
pages of a book, as they must not die. The birds seemed
doubtful, but one started to drink the fluid and began to
dissolve, until only its head and graceful neck stood out and
then it too disappeared into the fluid, another couple of the

237
birds did likewise. Lila felt some vague distress, but watched
anyway. She started, someone was shaking her awake.

“Sorry miss” said the policeman. “Its not really safe to sleep
in the Park anymore.”

Lila, thought she saw some small eyes glisten amidst the
grass, but they quickly faded. She thanked the policeman and
slowly went back to the safe house wondering what her
dream had meant. It also suddenly struck her that Bob had
just lost his virginity to a woman who had died and then
rejected him pretty fiercely. That was pretty confusing and
hurtful. It was no wonder he wasn’t responding that well to
her. She felt just a little brighter.

238
Chapter 35
Bob knew the powers had returned the moment he arrived in
London, but somehow they were not fully there. There was
some kind of obstruction, some kind of uneasiness with
them. So he played with them, rather than put them to full
use – even though the situation was desparate. That was the
major reason he had insisted that everyone leave him alone.

He was ploughing various archives and had come across this

post:

Date: Sun, 9 Jun 1996 13:17:37 -0700

Subject: Re: the witch of cyberspace

This posting by Clara reminds me of my distant youth when,

searching for material to for a project on the history of
technology, I found a small anonymous pamphlet in Fischer
Library called (as I remember) *Religions Unspoken and
Unspeakable*. It claimed to be published by Bracewell
Press of London though no publication date was given. The
poor quality of the paper and the printing style lead me to
assume it was published at the end of the last century or the
begining of this. The name of a translator, Dr. M. A.
Llewellyn was given and his “Proem” claimed it was
translated “and elucidated” from some notes in German
which he found scattered in a parcel bought from a tray
outside a bookshop in Paris, amidst some lecture notes
which “appeared to taken from lectures delivered by Hegel
or one of his less talented disciples.”

The pamphlet was in the rare books section of the library

and it was only possible to take notes from it on one
occasion when I found it lying on a table. It was apparantly
not catalogued under the title I had scribbled down and I
was unable to ever find it again.

Naturally the title reminded me of the infamous

*Unaussprechlichen Kulten* of Von Junzt written in the
early 19th Century and which I had regarded as, like the
Necronomicon, entirely fictional. However this book did talk
in a somewhat incoherent manner about things which it

239
claimed were too horrible to think about, and about those
who worshipped them.

Some of these horrible things were of course fairly

innocuous such as the proposition that the universe was
millions of years old, that human beings were actually
animals rather than divine beings, and that there where
other far more intelligent and powerful creatures in the
universe which were not like humans at all – some of whom
existed as “unhomely devices” which were neither
mechanical or organic, and enmeshed humans within their
ghostly webs.

Other things, I should remark, appeared horrible as they

were completely incomprehensible – I suspect at least some
of this may have been due to the translator’s impatience
with the author’s supposed Hegelianism.

(I remember one lengthy footnote, which I did not copy

down, which might demonstrate this. The translator
explained he had deleted some worthless philosophising and
complained about the author’s attempts to explain the
nature of the existence of the creatures he was describing.
He mentioned the being of the beings, and the being of their
connection with human being, their role in the being of the
abyss of being, or of the being of the universal being and
complained about the being for being of artificial being. But
it was a long time since I read this and I was undoubtedly
confused. I do however clearly remember the translator
commenting on the elegance of the Arabic formulation in
which “to be” and “to find” are equivalent).

>
> It was approaching the solstice and a low insidious
> rhythm vibrated through the net. The beldame was
> typing her horrid notes, transcribed from the
> Necronomicon itself...

The anonymous author referred to a book, which I gather he

had read but “not held in his hands, only before his ghost”,
which he described as “not being an image of time.” Years
later of course this struck me as a possible transliteration of
a garbled transcription of mixed and crabbed Latin and
Greek – Ne chrono eikon.

240
This image was in fact a Net thrown by “fishers of men.” It
linked humans in the grip of a claw that held no time.
That held worlds which were both not real and which
devoured time.
It was a web of “innumreous linkages” and “filled with
detritus”, an “unending labyrinth – with the horror that you
are always, and yet never, at the entrance and there is *no*
minotaur.”

> In the terrible night the hideous old crone clutched

> at those she created in cyberspace, she owned them
> she thought, by putting her despised trade mark
> upon them.

the book referred to the “magnitudinous ghostess emitting a

thousand young” and the secret of the claw and the mark,
the understanding of which was reputed to shatter the mind
and “fructate lessions of the soul.” However there seemed
to be little danger of understanding the explanation.

He did refer in passing to the marking of cattle and the

beast 666, and the ownership of “everthing inside” by
something “very small and flaccid”, and how all would
have their instructions stamped with this mark.
I remember an indignant footnote by the translator
complaining that the author was ignorant of the rudiments
of gematria, but I cannot remember why.

> The old woman launched them as stars,

It was however clear that the explanation involved the

energy material of the stars and contact through vast
distances without physical contact via some kind of
reflective mirror that radiated an “unsettling light.”

> and
> being thus launched she would cleave out their souls,
> as they signed their e-mail in their own blood.

Naturally signing in blood was part of the scenario however

it was not signing by the person but by their “Hieroglypic
fountain” that was at stake.

241
 Sickness descended by the “instructor or *monitor*”
(emphasis added).

Even so it was the reflection which killed and the author

rounded in horror that even the most secret of acts would be
enacted in public, and yet everyone would be alone and
confined before their mirror. The horror appeared to be
emphasized for the author by the fact that the confinement
would be voluntary and anticipated with joy.
Bodies would atrophy despite the most extreme sensualism,
what the author recoiled from as “the blending of imaginary
limbs.”

He claimed the mirror fed and eventually the ghost

substituted for us all.

Paul

Somehow he had found this all unsettling and ill omened. He

was also worried by the thought that perhaps the other Bob,
the dead Bob, was the real Bob, and he was just people’s
memories of Bob, with no real reality. The immortality of
fame made literal. He was just bobbing along, he thought
with a tinge of bitterness.

He was aware of something else in the room by the change of

the light. He turned around half expecting to meet his ‘cyber-
angel’, but it was not her.

It looked like an angel; it was winged and beautiful, male and

cold. He shuddered involuntarily. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Some of us noticed that you had been talking with the US
version of us, so we decided to send you a British one – in
the interests of balance, you understand” it said.
“Uh-huh” said Bob, “and what does that mean?”
“Well” said the being, somehow Bob could not think of it as
an angel, “we would like you to think about what you are
doing. Not just run in there, all guns blazing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do you really think you have the talent for this?”
“I don’t know” he said.

242
“You don’t know? You were just chosen on impulse by some
fluffy tart with wings were you? Or are you just so
wonderful? Why you, do you think?”
Bob shook his head.
“Ok, so you don’t think. You are a nerd. What do you really
know about psychology, sociology, anthropology, biology,
linguistics, economics, ecology, politics, history, art history,
literature, just to mention a few minor issues? I know that
nerds think they know everything without having to do the
work, just read Slashdot someday – oh you do, I forgot. But
its not really good enough is it? They would scorn a
humanities student trying to teach them how to program or
how to design a computer with the same level experience
they bring to the humanities. But the arrogance of ‘hackers’
is endless. So why you? Why not someone who knew
something about what they were fiddling with?”
“I don’t know” said Bob, “I didn’t ask for this.”
“Oh dear, thats hardly enough excuse to tamper with the
basic structure of the universe is it? ‘I didn’t ask for it’. Oh
my ears and whiskers. ‘I didn’t ask for ultimate power, it just
fell into my hands when I wasn’t looking, lets tweak a few
constants and see what happens’. Hardly the basis for a new
world, is it?”
“Ok. I know. but why are you being like this?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. Oh dear, do you think the
forces of good ought just give blind encouragement and
comfort poor little you? ‘Rah, Rah Bob’, ‘Bob’s the Best’,
‘Bob can do anything’. That’s so bloody American. ‘You can
do it because you think you can’. Bullshit, my friend.
Something like this requires knowledge and understanding,
not blind confidence. Do you think I’m bad because, I’m not
dropping mystical hints, ‘follow the light Bob’, or gushing
vague spunky positivity? ‘Stay with the Force Bob’. Do you
think Jesus and Mohammed and Buddha came to ask you to
go with the flow, live without reflection, and be complacent
about your spectacular mundanity?
“Ok, Ok so its difficult.”
“Difficult? Difficult! That’s an understatement. Winning the
Grand National on a three legged horse is difficult. This isn’t
that easy, Bob.”

243
“Its impossibly hard then.”
“At last some realism. So tell me Bob. Have you got the
skills? Was your unexamined life worth living?”
“I don’t know. I’ve no idea why its me that has to do all
this.”
“Well we could just hope that out of the billions of people on
this planet its Bob’s your saviour. Or we could have a group
hug or something. Or talk about the virtue of selfishness. And
then pontificate about how the power of God is within you.
What conceit. ‘Oh yes I’m Mr. Perfect Bob. I know
everything’. What about the God of Job heh? What’s been
your testing? Do you think you really know life better than
all those millions who have struggled with nothing to help?
Do you think you are automatically better than them, or
know what life is like? ‘Oh dear I stubbed my toe, Oh woe
and tragedy. Oh woe and thrice woe. Someone teased me’.
Let’s have some humility can we.”
“Ok. Ok. Jesus! Its not like I wanted it.”
“Oh take this burden away from me! This is Mr Wonderful
Bob we’re talking about, who doesn’t even know how to woo
the woman he longs for.”
Bob blushed. “She doesn’t want me.”
“And you’re reprogramming the world? God save us all.
Clara needs a man who she thinks is tougher and more
intelligent than she is. She’s not going to respect someone
who gives up the first time she plays hard to get. Any fool
could tell you that. At least one who’s whole life wasn’t
stuck in a machine. Who had some experience. She’s slept
with you once, you know. Or at least I hope you know.”
“That was the other Clara.”
“And they are so different aren’t they. When they met you
couldn’t tell them apart for heaven’s sake. The only
difference they have is that one could fuck you and the other
couldn’t. Not very plausible is it?”
“So what do I do?”
“Oh want me to tell you do you? Save you the work. Save
you the thinking. Life isn’t like that Bob. I ask questions, its
you who is in charge. When did you get the idea that virtue
was obeying someone else?”

244
There was silence for a while, just the hum of the computer
fan and the sounds of Bob’s breathing.
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe not. I probably know Clara
better than you do. However, there is still something about
you I don’t like at all” said Bob finally.
“Because I’m asking questions? Oh poor Bob, someone’s
asking him things. Was this an exam you missed at College,
Bob? A subject you didn’t take? Did you just do the easy
stuff?”
“Hell I don’t know. This is just not constructive.”
“Oh Bob, poor Bob. Do you think if I was the forces of evil I
might have a little experience? Do you think I’d tell you I
was British if I wanted you to take me seriously. Any fool, a
politician for example, would know better than that. You’d
find what I say a lot easier to take if I’d said I belonged to the
same group as you. If I was an American programmer for
example.” It changed into an overweight and pasty gum
chewing nerd.
“That’s rubbish and programmers don’t look like that
anyway” said Bob. “Where’d you get your experience
from?”
It changed back. “Think about it”, it said. “Go on. Test
yourself for once.”

“Well ok”, Bob said after a while, “perhaps you’re right.”

“Trust me, nationality is emphasised by the Internet. Its ok as
long as it doesn’t come up. But, if they can’t rebut your
argument, they’ll bring up your nationality. Only, idiots think
problems can be solved by ignoring them. ‘We’ll just sweep
this race thing under the carpet, and as long as no one wants
to be a nig-nog its ok’. It’s a bit sad when you can read a
contemporary novel and its more likely to have aliens and
angels in it, than what you Americans call ‘people of color’“
“But what if you don’t know what colour the characters are?”
“Then they might as well be white. What’s the difference for
you between your white and the white in white supremacy?”
“Er. I don’t think I better than anyone because of it.”
“What else?”
“I don’t know.”
“My point exactly, bumbrain.”

245
“You’re a bit crude for an angel, aren’t you?”
“Too fucking right dickhead. Who told you angels were
innocuous? Who said I was an angel anyway?”
“Then you are a devil?”
“Binary thought in action. Great stuff Bob. If I’m not black
or white I can’t be Indian? If I’m not Christian then I’m
damned? I can’t be good without being an angel? Bit sad for
you poor humans isn’t it? ‘Can’t stop slapping you around
until I get me wings, love’. Oh life is so bloody hard.”
“I’ve certainly never heard of an angel like you.”
“Mark of lack of experience again. How many books on
angelology have you read, if that counted? And I don’t mean
this New Age crap. How many angels have you met before
me? One – possibly? Possibly it was one of the Dark Gods.
How would you know? Oh of course, it flattered you. Must
be good then. Hardly a great sample size is it? Its premature
generalisation as well as premature ejaculation.”
Bob shook his head tiredly. “This doesn’t help”, he said,
“what are you then, somekind of alien?”
The Creature shifted into the familiar form of a small grey
alien, large black slanted eyes and no mouth. “As alien as
you are Bob” it said. “I could be an one of the fair-folk”, it
whispered.
“An Elf” Bob exclaimed. “Not one from Tolkien obviously,
or are you one of Santa’s little helpers?”
It shifted back into its earlier form. “Father Christmas”, it
said slowly, “carries a club. His bag is full of the bodies of
young children, and his jacket is stained red with their blood”
“Yuk” said Bob.
“The otherworld is not cute, Bob. No amount of wishy washy
paintings of dainty, femmy, bourgeouis fairies will make it
so. You need to remember that.”
“That’s not the point. I can tell the world isn’t cute. Look out
the window, why don’t you? However there’s something
wrong about you.”
“Oh, so you do think I’m bad? Would you prefer me to look
like this?”

It changed into a tentacled monstrosity with huge fangs,

dripping slime. “Life would be so much easier if evil looked

246
like this wouldn’t it? But there are perfectly useful and
harmless creatures God made that look something like this.
You’ve seen pictures of creatures of the deep ocean. Are they
evil? Give me the name of a fearfully ugly murderer? Do you
think your taste in aesthetics is equivalent to virtue? ‘Bob
doesn’t like the way I look, better become an evil overlord.
Cackle, cackle’. Do you think your low-brow, limited view
of good taste is virtue, or something?”
“No. You’re twisting things” said Bob.
“Don’t you think virtue might even know how to look
beyond appearance? Don’t you think virtue might be harsh
on occasions? To make you think, God forbid.”
“Ok” said Bob, “I get the point.”
“Do you? Look sweetheart, if I was evil, don’t you think I’d
know a little about torture and threat? Don’t you think I’d
point out how your soul is mine, and say what I could do
your body? That fragile bundle of pain receptors?” It leared.
“Hmmm” said Bob, “I think you just have.”
“Trust me darling” it said. In this place, if I wanted, you and
your friends would be dead and I’d be feasting on your
bones, before you could say ‘Jack Robinson’”
“Ok. So why don’t you then?
“Because I swore on my name, you might think of it as my
code, not to spill a drop of your blood. Though come to think
of it, if I caught it all in the bath then I wouldn’t technically
have spilt it.” The creature shifted back into the angel form.

Bob felt cold noticing the creature’s pointed teeth and

tongue. But he wasn’t going to let it know that. “Ok”, he
said, “so you threaten well. What’s the deal?”
The creature laughed. “Good. There isn’t one. So think, Bob.
Before you meet the Lurker, the Dark that has been born for
you. That is snuffling after you. What do you answer it?
What is you life worth, that you should save the world? How
will you defeat it, eh?”
“What lurker? I don’t know anything about that.”
“Oh you will, and you’d better be ready. Better than this
anyway. I am the touch of a feather compared to it. Many
would-be cyber-gods have met theirs and found themselves...
not themselves. And they were smarter than you, dumbhead.

247
If you defeat it, it may be almost instantly. If you find
yourself in a long struggle, you have lost. What will you have
lost?”
“If I ask you what this lurker thing is, are you going to tell
me anything useful, or are you just going to keep abusing
me?”
“So I haven’t told you anything useful, you cloth-eared
maggot brain. Maggots would be an improvement actually.”
“Ok, thats enough. I’ve had enough. I can’t think or plan with
you raving on like this. Just go away will you.”
He felt nervous after he spoke. There was a pause. “Very
well Bob, I’ll go. As far as you know. But think it through
will you. That’s what I ask. Just think it through.” It
vanished.

Bob realised he had been sweating profusely. He felt sick. He

also realised he had to go back home. Now!

248
Chapter 36
The door creaked open. Clara turned toward the sound, Lila
and Sophia turning with her. Bob stood with one hand
clutching the doorframe.
“I couldn’t do it,” he said.
Clara shrugged. “So take a nap, grab a cup of coffee, and try
again later.”
“You don’t understand,” Bob said. “I can’t do it.”
“You are quite possibly the best troubleshooter in the best
computer company in the world, Bob,” Clara said, making an
effort to be patient with the geek. “No doubt you can figure
out something to do.”
“Now I know how Frodo felt,” Bob said.
The reference made no sense to Clara, but Lila jerked as if
someone had jabbed her with a red-hot pin. “What?!” said
Lila.
‘I know what I have to do, but I’m afraid to do it,’ Bob
quoted softly.
Clara turned her considerable powers of observation on Bob.
He did not look frustrated or disappointed. He looked ...
haunted. Clara felt a chill creep over her skin, but shook it
off. “How does this affect the plan?” she demanded.
Bob gave a bitter, edgy laugh. “What plan? There is no plan.
I was the plan, and I failed.”
“It’s not your fault,” Lila said.
Clara wanted to slap her. “It damned well is his fault!” she
said. The she rounded on Bob again. “What is it you geeks
are always saying? ‘Work the problem’ or something? Well,
work the fucking problem, Bob!”
“Which problem?” said Sophia.
“Hacking the multiverse, or whatever insane thing Alen
Michaelrose set him up to do,” Clara said.
“There are other possible explanations for what is
happening,” Sophia said. “If he can’t solve things by
hacking, maybe we should move on to another approach.”
Bob nodded in relief. “We could still try to get more
information out of Alen Michaelrose or Alaain Current. And
I don’t care if you think it’s immaterial, I’m still worried

249
about those nukes,” he said. A moment’s hesitation, then he
added, “I think ... we need to get back to America.”

Clara narrowed her eyes. Bob was hiding something. That in

itself was nothing new; people were always hiding
something. But he wouldn’t meet her eyes, and when he
came over to where the three women sat waiting for him, his
body subtly canted away from hers. Well, fuck it - it wasn’t
like they were lovers or anything. Clara put the thought from
her mind. He was probably just feeling guilty for letting her
down.

“I guess we have to go back then” said Clara, “Only we have

to do it without alerting anyone. I don’t want those black
shirt idiots screwing everything up again. Any ideas?.”
Nobody said anything.
“Ok”, said Clara, “I’ll have to use my clout with Will Dawes,
if I still have any.”
Bob whistled “you know the head of Macroswift!” Clara was
full of surprises.
“Well I don’t really know him, but I have his private number,
and he may have heard of me, and I’m pretty persuasive.”
“Uh, huh?” said Bob worriedly.
“I figure, with the share price of Macroswift being totally
stuffed, he will be more than willing to look after his
programming saviour even if the Admin claims we are
terrorists – and what’s more the Admin haven’t formally
admitted there is a problem with us, have they?”
“Well no” said Bob.
“Ok, give me the phone”
Bob’s heart rose to his lips. He knew Mr. Dawes was a pretty
hard hitter and easily offended, but what else could he do?

“Mr Dawes?” said Clara. “My name is Clara Helio, and I

have something you need, but I need your help in exchange.”
Bob heard a kind of high pitched shriek.
“No, its not Blackmail, and yes you can trace this call, and
yes I am that Clara.... Nice to speak to you too Will... I’m
fine, how are you?...”

250
Bob sqirmed as more high pitched squeals came down the
phone.
“Yes, I’m fully aware you can destroy me, but I have Bob
Farmsworth.”
Bob heard the silence, and pictured his career going down the
tubes – forever.
“Now, Mr. Dawes, Bob’s problem is his sex life... Yes I
know Mr. Dawes I would never have thought it either...
However it means he is in trouble with the Russian Mafia... I
know Mr. Dawes, but you know what nerds are like. As
innocent as all hell. He tried to rescue the girl.... Yes,
stupid.... Yes he may never be a manager, but he is a damn
fine programmer. And damn loyal to Macroswift. All he has
been saying since I found him, is ‘What will Mr. Dawes
think?’.”
“You’re laying it on a bit thick aren’t you?” muttered Bob.
Clara waved him down. “Yes, that’s were he’s been... Well
you know what I’m like... Yes. Which brings us to the
point.... No I don’t want any money for him. No trick... Its
just, we are in London... Yes godforsaken hole it is Mr.
Dawes. The Russian Mafia is after us all.... Yes me and my
friends. Yes we are in a hole Mr. Dawes.... Yes... Yes.... Only
you can save us Mr. Dawes.... Yes no one need ever know, if
we are careful Mr. Dawes... We need Bob in his office in
Chicago... And Guarded.... And we need it secret.... Real
Secret.... Yes I like living Mr. Dawes... Yes you are right Mr.
Dawes.” Clara pulled a face – Bob could feel the fuse getting
shorter.
“Great. Thank you Mr Dawes. “Oh and my lawyer has a copy
of T-DF-34 just in case.” She put down the phone.
“What on Earth is TDF34” asked Lila.
“No idea” said Clara, “but it might make him worry.”
“You are crazy” said Bob, “You risk it all for a cheap score?
Mr. Dawes does not like being worried.”
“Whatever. I’ll go pack,” Clara said, dragging Lila with her.

“Sophia, could I talk to you, just for a minute?” Bob said

behind them.
Clara paused. “What for?”

251
Bob waved her away. “Go pack. I just want to make sure we
can stay in touch with each other,” he said.
Clara did not trust him, but then, she did not trust anyone.
She went to pack.

****

Mr. Dawes was as good as his word. His security force had
picked them up, checked that it was Bob, had gone through
their luggage, checked their computers, and had made Clara
suffer a bit. Then they drove carefully down to British
Macroswift in a couple of old Chryslers, and then took off for
the US. A few days later, everyone seemed happy and they
were left to get to the Macroswift offices in Chicago by
themselves, as security had more important duties elsewhere.
Clara swore heartily, but would not risk ringing Mr. Dawes
again to complain – besides she knew he would have a new
number by now.

The city had only gotten colder and windier since they left.
Snow was gradually piling up in the streets, and the
snowplows were not thriving under Cybermind influence. On
one street, a city worker walked a dragon on a long leash,
trying to clear away the buildup with the creature’s hot
breath. But the sidewalks were ankle-deep in slush as Bob,
Clara, and Lila walked from the bus (buggy?) stop to the
building in which an office had been set up for them.

Turning a corner, Bob came upon a familiar sight that struck

him as eerily appropriate. A man stood by the sidewalk
wearing a sandwich board that said, “The End Is Near!”
When he saw Bob, he shook a cup inside which jingled a few
pennies.
Bob dropped a tawny Sacagawea dollar into the cup. Then he
patted the evangelist sympathetically on the shoulder and
said, “I hate to tell you this, dude, but you’re absolutely
right.” With that, he hurried to catch up to Clara and Lila.
Behind him, the evangelist burst into tears. In moments there
was nothing left of him but two soggy pieces of cardboard
slowly dissolving into the slush.

252
Clara kept snapping at Bob for every little thing he did or
didn’t do. Bob didn’t care anymore. He felt half-numb inside,
though whether from hopelessness or terror he couldn’t say.
He let Lila lead up upstairs and install him in front of a desk.
Lila stripped the plastic off the desk top and Bob set a
tentative hand on the new keyboard ...
... and almost wept in relief when his new talent reawakened,
filling the world with color and song and code once more.
Back in London, he had discovered that his old gift for
electronics truly was growing into something new.
Something he could not access without benefit of the
Cybermind. Only the pure equations had remained, and the
shocking realization that they were insufficient to solve the
problem at hand. The loss of his exquisite new sensitivity in
Greece had driven Bob to thoughts of suicide. So this was the
true manifestation of computer wizardry! Now that he had it
back fully, he wasn’t sure he could ever bring himself to give
it up again - and he suspected that he might very well have
to.

Turn around, it’s make-believe behind you

look ahead, there is nothing to see
only dreams made reality by chance...

Lines and arabesques of light spilled strange poetry across

the screen in welcome. Bob shook himself, hard. He had
work to do, regardless. “Thank you, Lila,” he forced himself
to say. “I’ll be all right now.”

She left him to his search engines and protocols. Under the
desk, the powerstrip played footsie with him. Bob let it; the
playful action helped keep his mind of the true dangers. Soon
the complete restoration of his new gift lifted his spirits.

****

“Hey, Bob!” said Lila. “Did you hear what happened in

France?”
“Non, ce qui?” said Bob.

253
“They caught a guy cooking baby shoggoths. He said that he
figured they looked enough like frogs to be worth trying,”
said Lila.
“Shoggoths aren’t like frogs,” Bob said automatically. “Wait
a minute ... he was actually going to eat baby Elder Gods?”
“He said he was hungry. France is having a much worse
problem with looting than America is. Lila leaned over him
to read the computer screen which currently displayed reports
of perverse weather:

north and south, east and west, the fury of the null set... the
code hidden in directions, n.e.w.s....something happening...
somewhere... if we only read the signs... if we could read...
understand what is written... the die is cast over... the
weather cast... an oracle of truth... take it from me...

There was a flood in the Sahara.

“Oh, and I heard that the Swiss banking system has gone
completely under, as of this morning,” Lila added.
Bob smiled. “Somewhere, the ghosts of Holocaust victims
must be raising a toast to justice.”
“I bet!” said Lila. She patted him fondly on the thigh, then
returned to her own desk.

Bob frowned. Lila had never touched him that way before.
Was the porn spillover affecting her too? But no. No. There
was something in his pants pocket – something that hadn’t
been there a moment earlier. Bob almost started to reach for
it, then caught himself. When a spy slips you a secret
message, you don’t whip it out until you’re in a safe place.
So he waited.

Minutes later, Clara came in. She argued with Lila in terse
whispers that Bob could not quite make out. The object in his
pocket seemed burning hot. He kept his eyes on the screen
and his hands on the keyboard.

254
The argument scaled up. “Look at this! Not only is the
accident unexplained, there was no driver inside the car that
went out of control – and it had a bumper sticker that read,
‘WARNING: In case of Rapture, this vehicle will be
abandoned.’ Don’t you find that a little suspicious?” said
Lila.
“I find everything suspicious. People are disappearing all
over the place,” said Clara.
“It lends uncomfortable credence to the Great Leader’s
‘Rapture’ theory,” said Lila.
“Its stupid. It would mean God is saving people who think
bumper stickers are a neat idea. And are conceited enough to
think they are automatically saved. And there’s nothing we
can do about the Rapture, if it is the Rapture, which it isn’t,”
said Clara. “Get back to work on something useful.”

The Cybermind was throwing semi-random newsbytes at

Bob now; he let it continue in hopes of pinning down Alen or
Alaain or both. For some reason, the present entry gave him a
feeling of impossibility, although he knew the celebrity in
question was justifiably famous for his expertise.

“Today, avant dance star Stephen Hawking wowed the

world with the premier of his new routine, ‘Spiral Arms,’ in
New York,”

the computer said, as dancers wheeled across the stage

around their splendidly spinning leader.

Bob hoped to escape notice, but Clara came to him anyway.

Thinking fast, Bob said, “You probably don’t want to hang
around right now. The powerstrip is humping my leg and I
know you don’t like it when the equipment gets friendly. But
I need to work, and well, gunshots are kinda distracting...”
Clara gave a disgusted snort. “Men! You’ll fool around with
anything,” she said, and stalked away.

****

255
Later that day, Bob still sat at his new computer, now trying
to track down current news on global security risks in terms
of electronically controlled weapons that might go off
(accidentally or otherwise) in response to the Cybermind
effect. He kept running into more of the whimsical fragments
that Clara had complained about, from a dwarf running
around madly exclaiming, “A shrubbery! I must find a
shrubbery!” to a cartoon of a naked lady with electric
clippers making topiary that spelled out, “Trim Your Bush!”
Other reports suggested that four supernaturally large
horsemen had been seen flying through the sky over the
middle of the US. He had just clicked on a new article when
the speakers began to emit a tinny rendition of classic sitar
music. Bob tried <Mute> with no result.

Elegant squiggles danced across the monitor. “Suniye,” said a

voice.
Bob cocked his head, recognizing the Hindi script and the
word for “Excuse me,” but nothing else. “Mâf kîjiye, ma
hindî nahî bôl sakta,” Bob said politely. I’m sorry, but I can’t
speak Hindi. He could say that sort of thing in about twenty
languages. “Do you speak English?”
“Namaste! English I understand a little,” the voice replied. It
reminded Bob of a stand-up comic whose act he greatly
admired. Bob expected further conversation, but instead the
text and voice vanished, replaced by an image from inside a
nuclear missile site.

Huge, ominous weapons lay in their cradles. Red lights

flickered on the computer behind them. Bob’s belly clenched
around an icy knot. But then a strange apelike creature
capered into the scene and began to dance around the
missiles. The sitar switched from classical music to a
ludicrous rendition of “Pop Goes the Weasel.” The
countdown reached zero – there was a loud POP! – and
instead of launching into nuclear devastation, the missiles
split open to release hordes of demonic weasels.

Bob heaved a sigh of relief, then wondered if he should be

relieved after all. The weird ape dispatched weasel after

256
weasel. Apparently this matter was well in hand ... or paw, or
prehensile tail. “I wish I knew what was going on,” said Bob.
Just then, Lila came by and glanced over his shoulder. “Hey!
That looks like Hanuman!” she said.
Bob peered at the screen, tapped a few keys, succeeded in
enlarging the image. Now that he thought about it, that
creature did rather resemble the images of the demon-
fighting Monkey God whom he vaguely recalled from Hindu
mythology.
“This matter you may leave to me – battling demons is my
work. The matter of thinking machines I leave to you –
saving the world is your work,” said the voice. “Namaste!”
With that, the computer went dark and silent for a moment.
Then it blipped back to the last search page that Bob had
been using.
Bob turned to Lila. “I think a god just called me for technical
support,” he said. “I need a drink.”
“One of the janitors keeps a bottle of whiskey hidden in the
wall behind the coffee machine,” said Lila. “I’ll go make you
an Irish breakfast.”
Bob, who had ceased to be surprised by any secret
compartment or passage in this building, wisely said nothing.

****

Clara shoved herself away from the computer. She couldn’t

sit still any longer, no matter how much remained to be done.
None of her leads on either Alen Michaelrose or Alaain
Current had panned out. She needed more leads.

“Bob! Lila! Have either of you found anything on our search

subjects?” Clara said.
Bob and Lila jerked when she approached, casting furtive
glances at her. More and more, Clara wondered if they might
be plotting against her. She had no proof, but then if she’d
been in the habit of waiting for proof, she never would have
survived this long.

“I think Michaelrose is hiding from us,” said Lila.

257
“Current seems to be playing hide-and-seek,” said Bob.
“Here, take this; I saved what files I could before the search
protocol melted down. I’m building a new one now.”
Clara took the diskette from him. It peed on her hand. “God
damn it!” she yelled, and drew back her arm – just as Bob
yelled for her not to throw the thing. With an effort, Clara
reined in her temper. She wiped her hand on a napkin, dried
off the impudent bit of hardware, and returned to her desk.

Inserting the diskette brought up a menu. Not a list of

program choices or a desktop, no; this was a list of geek
treats from Alphabits to Twinkies. Annoyed, Clara plinked
around on the menu, trying to figure out where Current might
be based on this whimsically arranged mess of file fragments.
When she hit Tequila Sunrise, the glass tipped over and
spilled words across the monitor:

people write poems

places where they’ve been

that moved them like a cocktail

or a breeze

or the shadow of a sunbeam just near

the edge of unknown water

Clara pondered this as she moused around the page. An ice

cube from the drink chased her cursor around the screen.
When she passed the umbrella, new words appeared:

people tell us
about their favorite places

and among people we are people

and everything is possible

Suddenly an idea blossomed in her head. She wondered if

Bob felt like this when he worked at troubleshooting.

258
“Bob! Lila! I got it!” said Clara. She ran to them, waving a
printout. They all huddled together to analyze the strange
words. “I think the trick is to network our computers
together. Then we need to search for places that any of us
have been. Alaain Current must be in one of those – he wants
us to find him, just seems to amuse himself making us
scramble around for the clues.”
But Bob was shaking his head. “I see what you mean about
the clues, but I can’t do anything more from here,” he said.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Bob, now what?” said Clara.
“I – I need to get back to my own office in the Macroswift
Building for a while,” Bob said. “My computer – knows me.
It might help,” he said.
His voice wavered. Truth, or lie? Clara couldn’t tell for
certain. “Fine,” she said. “Go back to yours if you want.” She
slapped him on the butt as he left, planting a tiny bug on his
pants. The way geeks often forgot to change their clothes
regularly, that might last for several days.

****

Oddly, Peter and Alice, and all his other friends at the office
did not seem particularly troubled by his re-appearance or by
his previous absence. It seemed they all knew his work was
secret, and they were not about to make a fuss. They nodded
and smiled, but no-one came to say hello as he opened his
office door.

With trembling hands, Bob unloaded his precious cargo onto

his desk. Bits and pieces of uncontaminated hardware in
plastic bags, courtesy of Sophia. Several diskettes of new
data smuggled out of Clara’s files. The disk from Lila. The
latter turned out to include clandestine images and text from
the Necronomicon mixed with what appeared to be artwork
of some kind. With luck, Bob could use these to construct an
effective program to repair (or if necessary, reboot) reality.
He wasn’t even sure if his efforts in Greece had failed
because he didn’t have all the pieces, was too inexperienced
at true wizardry, didn’t have all the necessary pieces, or some
combination thereof. Still, he must be closer now than before.

259
The monitor trilled and purred at Bob while he worked. It
took a few minutes to set up a search of the Necronomicon
material. He didn’t want to search those by eyeball any more
than necessary, for fear his brains might come pouring out
his ears. Besides, looking at the images made him feel
paranoid, and Clara already worried him enough.

Bob leaned back in his chair, stretching, his hands laced

behind his head. Then he noticed something odd. To his
amazement, the roses on his desk no longer wilted; they
stood up in their crystal vase and shed delicious scent into the
room from petals in every imaginable shade of white, pink,
yellow, orange, and red. Bob was no plant expert, but he felt
fairly certain that roses should not revive from the dead,
change their color, and then emit intoxicating odors. Closer
examination revealed a profusion of rootlets growing from
the cut ends below the waterline.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Bob said. He removed the ex-

poinsettia from its pot and discarded it. Using a pencil, he
poked around in the dirt to make a hole. He inserted the rose
stems with their wiry white roots, pushed the dirt clumsily
over them, and dumped in the remaining water from the vase.
That was all he could do for the poor things. Condemned to
the desk of a geek, they would doubtless die again soon, but
maybe someone would take pity and steal them before then.

As Bob’s fingers brushed the bouquet, he touched the

fragment of motherboard still nestled there. A tingle went
through his fingertips. Bob sighed. He missed his grounding
bracelet but after the horror stories he’d heard, was not about
to replace it. Briefly he thought about discarding the bit of
hardware – unsure if it might harm the roses – but since they
should have been dead anyway, it seemed pointless. Pretty
little thing, though, all glittering and green.

Bob turned his attention back to his project, finding a way to

hack the Code. He riffled through different files, took a
snippet from here, a phrase from there. Even the nauseating
melange from the Necronomicon began to make a twisted

260
sort of sense. Bob found that if he let his fingers roam across
the keys without trying to direct them, pieces of code
emerged as if of their own volition. He got tantalizing
glimpses of something greater, but could not focus on it
directly, only catch its flicker in the corner of his mind’s eye.
The challenge thrilled him. Yet he could not help feeling that
he was missing some crucial insight.

His monitor hopped up and down on its stubby feet, as if

trying to get his attention. “All right, I’m paying attention,”
Bob said politely. “What do you want to show me?”

THERE IS NO HORSE

Bob read the words again, but they made no more sense the
second time. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
The screen blanked, swirled into a starscape, then spelled
again:

THERE IS NO HORSE

Just as Bob opened his mouth to complain, a tiny parable

appeared:

Say a horse has stepped on your right foot. Even years later,
you’ll probably find a tendency to tuck the foot back out of
harm’s way whenever in the near vicinity of a horse, right?
In a way, you live the rest of your life with the weight of that
horse on your foot...

The parable disappeared into a flurry of snowflakes, or

perhaps white petals, as Bob dove for the keyboard in a rush
of inspiration. Code flew from his fingertips.

Some time later, a knock on his door interrupted Bob’s

reverie. He looked up to find Peter there. “I hate to bug you,
but could you spare a few minutes to do some in-house
troubleshooting?” he said as if their conversation had never
been disrupted.

261
Bob shook his head. “I’m sorry, Peter. I really can’t. You
know this is more important.”
“I know. MacroSwift has us trying to work on related
projects and support, but there’s almost nothing left to work
with,” Peter told him. “Would you believe, the only machine
that runs for more than five minutes at a time is old
Trouble?”

That was a cantankerous old copier that even Bob had given
up on fixing permanently, because it only worked when he
was standing there watching for it to misbehave. He’d done
something silly, as a joke, but it had seemed to help
somewhat. Intuition set off fireworks behind Bob’s eyes.
“Peter ... do you still have that snapshot of me taped inside
Trouble’s lid?”
“Yeah, I guess so,” said Peter.
Bob grinned. “Let’s go try something completely insane.”

He led Peter back to the machine and lifted the lid. The
snapshot of himself still had a hand raised in “A-OK”
gesture, but now it waved the hand slowly back and forth as
they watched. The Bob in the snapshot grinned and switched
to a thumbs-up. The Bob standing beside the copier checked
to make sure the hopper was full of paper, then punched in an
order for 500 copies and closed the lid. “Come on, baby, do it
for Daddy,” he said.

Copies began to emerge quite neatly into the tray. Bob

checked a few. The images waved at him, showing a mix of
A-OK, thumbs-up, V-victory, and other encouraging
gestures. Pointing to the stack, he told Peter, “Start passing
these around. Tape one on every piece of critical equipment.”
“Um, Bob ... you’re a genius with repairs, but this is
stretching yourself a bit thin,” Peter said dubiously.
“Trust me, Peter,” said Bob. He went back to his office, not
sure whether Peter would obey but unable to spare any more
time for the matter.
Within minutes, whoops of glee from the cubicles gave Bob
the old rush of success, in a whole new way. “Computer

262
wizard, that’s me,” he said happily. His monitor made a face
on its screen and grinned at him.

****

Gordon Reader hunched over his computer, picking his anus

with one hand while typing laboriously with the other. The
former act was made easier by his lengthening reach, and
harder by the unfamiliar growth sprouting from his tailbone.
The latter act required the use of a pencil, his fingers having
broadened beyond ability to hit only one key at a time.
Gordon was currently engaged in an attempt to
anthimerianize the term “fuck” through all eight parts of
speech.

Well, fuck you all, you useless fucks! he typed. Your whole
fucking list is a joke. How fucking often do I have to tell you
that the Great Leader is a total twat? And your whining
about him is total twat? Fuck! I don’t know why the fuck I
even bother...

The Great Leader might be a load of putrid shit he thought,

but at least he was better than those Liberal fuckers. Lucky I
don’t believe in any of this shit, he thought. Just want
freedom from all these cunts bothering me. Why they get
their fucks off bothering us all, I dunno. Talking of Cunts,
where the fuck is Clara? And why the fuck I do what she
says?

263
Chapter 37
superstitious kurt divorce o’hare prick breeches boylston
plankton afire depress downriver insult dimple chablis
woodyard blowup swab wardroom devoid dice reason
advance decontrolling lacrosse bastard expectorant upland
shari waldorf seagram

****

He packed carefully, being sure to place the socks on top of

his underpants. He had always been superstitious. Kurt, still
hurting from the divorce, rode the subway out to O’Hare, his
prick chafing uncomfortably within his breeches. The flight
to Boston was uneventful, and soon he was in Cambridge,
strolling down Boylston Street past vendors of stir-fried
plankton and street jugglers who set their hair afire. Such
spectacles always tended to depress him. He walked away
from the crowded square, towards to the banks of the
Charles, and headed downriver through the park that hugged
the riverbank. A passing driver sent a random insult hurtling
through air. Kurt thought it was meant for him and spun
around, fist clenched, but the epithet had been intended for a
bicyclist who had swerved into traffic to avoid a deep dimple
in the pavement. He was too much on edge, he decided, too
wound up. Maybe taking a trip wasn’t the best way to get
away from the stress. Not far from MIT, he stepped into a
hotel bar to rest his feet. He ordered a glass of chablis, and
sat looking out through the wall-to-ceiling windows at the
buildings on the far side of the river.

The bar was called the Woodyard, and the incongruity of the
rough-hewn, natural wood decor with the high-tech
polychromatic glass and burnished metal of the rest of the
hotel lobby was no doubt intentional. Kurt couldn’t help but
eavesdrop on two lovers at an nearby table, clearly working
themselves towards a blowup, apparently some petty
squabble about who was going to do what chores on their
yacht – “I’m not going to just swab decks all day while
you’re sitting in the wardroom with that – machine – of

264
yours,” she was saying. “I wanted to be with you, and have
fun with you, and now you’re all worried about your job.... I
know, but this was supposed to be a time when we got away
from all that, even if just for a little while...”

The man’s face was devoid of emotion. Kurt could feel the
tension in the man’s mind, and understood how he felt. The
situation sounded too much like the beginning stages of his
own breakup. The contradictory pulls of love and commerce.
The system was set up this way – you had to work, and work
hard, to provide for a family, but then it became more and
more difficult and challenging to provide the other things that
the family needed and perhaps needed more. Time.
Attention. Energy.

Love.

“I understand, Clara,” the man said, after a long sigh. “I’m

sorry, I know what this trip meant to you, but I have to stay
in touch...”

Some people pulled it off, Kurt knew. By some crazy dice

throw, maybe, some lucky decision, or perhaps with the
proper application of reason, some people were clearly able
to advance into a lifestyle where these things were in
balance. They found a way of controlling the chaos, or at
least reconciling themselves to it, by actually decontrolling,
letting go... otherwise life just became some frenetic
variation of lacrosse played with broadswords and chainsaws,
where you were so occupied with not losing a limb to the
next bastard coming down the pike that it was easy to forget
the overall purpose, why you were playing the game in the
first place.

And in this situation, it was a whole lot harder. Going for a

holiday in the middle of meltdown

“... but you’re right, I should be paying more attention,

helping you out more...”

265
He coughed. He thought of his ex-wife, how she would make
a beeline for the medicine cabinets if it even seemed like he
might be getting sick. “We can’t afford to have you missing
work, now, can we, sweetheart,” she’d say as she prepared
some mixture or other, though Kurt could never figure out
why taking an expectorant and a cough suppressant at the
same time was a good idea. Well, those were her upland
ways, he thought ruefully to himself. He lifted his glass and
took another drink. To Shari, he thought. She tried.

And those two, he thought, as he watched her hand reach for

his. She seemed so earnest, so trusting of him, so much
wanting to make it work, “I know, sweetheart, I’ll try to give
you some clear space where you work, can you do with what,
one hour, two...?”
I’ll drink to them, too, he thought. They’re trying. It’s not
easy, but at least they’re still trying. Lucky guy. He drained
the glass, setting it down with finality.

He had reservations at the Waldorf, a few more blocks down

Riverside Drive. His luggage would be waiting for him there.
He stepped back out into the chilly autumn evening., the
huge neon Seagram sign blinking across the river as it had
for years. Some weight had lifted for him, he felt. Maybe it
was just the wine, or maybe it was from overhearing the
other couple’s struggle – from getting a little reminder from
the Universe that maybe he wasn’t quite as alone in his pains
as he had thought.

****

Televisions were still everywhere despite the constant

interuptions and erruptions. He passed one and stopped
somehow attracted by the drawn look of the young black
woman being interviewed.

“We are just talking to Lila Thomas, author of the book Love
is not Enough. So Lila, you claim that Love is not the basis
for a relationship?

266
“Thats right Opera. When people base a relationship on love
they are basing it on a feeling, and feelings by definition are
unstable. They are impossible to maintain. The feeling will
change, and then they will think that the relationship is not
working. Then you separate.”
“That’s an interesting idea. It goes against everything we
believe. I don’t know...”
“Sure, the problems of world will never be solved by asking
for more of a feeling. That’s a request for instability. If you
believe your feelings justify what you do in a relationship,
then you are going to believe that if you act on hate you are
doing the right thing, the natural thing. Hate’s no big deal
either.”
“What about racial hatred?”
“You see, you are relying on the idea of feelings as the force
which drives us. That’s just not true. And its certainly no
place for virtue. You can’t control your feelings, but you can
control what you do. You don’t have to express your feelings
in front of everyone all the time. So you hate people of some
other race. What’s important is how you act. If you are polite
and helpful and relatively non-discriminatory, then that’s all
we can ask for. You’re just less likely to practise that control
if you believe feeling is that important. Listen to political
debate. Its not about solving problems, its about feelings.
That’s what’s wrong with American today. You Love
someone, you live with them and act nicely to them, or you
hate them you try and harm them.”
“You said expressing feelings is not good.”
“No. I said that expressing feelings is not essential all the
time and its not appropriate all the time. We think intimacy is
about expressing our feelings to the person we love, but that
can stop us listening, we don’t have to listen to them, just
express ourselves. Then we are left with nothing to say. On
the Internet people just rave on and think its love in action,
because there’s all these feelings everywhere. In that case
there is no check on it. But, feelings are not what life’s about.
We’ve stripped ourselves to nothing, and possibly hurt our
partner in the process of expressing this stuff – and then they
have these feelings they have to act on. Men know that when

267
a woman says she wants to talk about the relationship, she
wants to allocate blame.”
“I don’t know if that’s true. But, tell us about the evidence
you have for love not being enough.”
“Sure Opera. All those women who complain they can’t have
a love relationship. They usually have friends who they’ve
maintained relationship with for years. Why? Not because
men are so much harder to have relationship with. Men are
usually so pathetically grateful for relationship they are fairly
easy to please. No, it’s because you don’t base your
friendships on Love. You base them on intention, on
familiarity, on doing things for each other. That’s the section
of your brain which lit up when you started a relationship.
Nothing to do with the feeling of love – that’s an incidental, a
nice bonus.”
“So your saying the world doesn’t need love, but intention?”
“That’s pretty much it.”
“We’ll be right back after this break.”

****

Click here to get the special Click here to get the special

Click here to get the special

Click here to get the special Click here to get the special
Click here to

get the special

Click here to get the special

Click here to get the special Click here to get the special
Click here to

get the special

Click here to get the special

Click here to get the special

268
we’re extending our october special

get access now

****

“And now, Julia Buxom with your Thirty-Second

WOLFNews NewsPeek! Brought to you by
WOLFInteractiveMedia, which is pleased to present the
latest virtual stories by Ellen Curry and Elaine Mica-Rhodes!
Immerse yourself in the exquisitely constructed realities of
neo-Victorian England with these gorgeous passion-filled
experience files, compatible with all major systems! And
here’s Julia!”

Her teeth radiate calm assurance mixed with bemused

excitement. “Some of the various herds of outmoded
computer equipment that have been sighted moving across
North America seem to be heading for rendezvous sites,
according to government experts that have been analyzing
their migratory patterns.” A video collage fills the screen,
different groups of several hundred dot-matrix printers,
Newton handhelds, suitcase-sized portable computers, and
5.25” disk drives making their way across fields, parking
lots, and highway interchanges.

“One set appears to be heading for Arkham, Massachusetts.

Another is converging on the headquarters of the Macroswift
Corporation.”

“Also, just in, the Great Leader says that all possible is being
done to deal with the reported disruption of food supplies
through out the US. Encouragement of Free Enterprise and
removal of any Government restrictions on the Sale of food,
should solve the problems soon. God will not let America
down in this tribulation, provided we keep our faith, hope
and virtue alive, he said.”

269
Chapter 38
The moon was half-covered by then, and the garden was
progressively losing its luminescence. Time to enter the
laptop, thought Marius, and find Bob and Clara and all the
other characters. He lifted the lid of the machine and booted
it up. The screen showed the familiar blue sky and white
clouds first, and then the equally familiar fuchsia background
with the usual icons of the programs that represented the
sum-total of his interaction with a computer and helped him
spend delectable hours every day, Solitaire, Winmine,
Canasta, the e-mail program but, disappointingly, no Bob, no
Clara, nobody.

Marius was puzzled, because his imaginary friends who lived

inside telephone lines and were evoked by his e-mail
program, kept on mentioning “textualized existence,” And he
was fairly certain that Bob and the others had been brought
into existence in that fashion. Why then, he wondered, where
they not inside his laptop when he opened it?

Suddenly, Marius remembered a novel that his imaginary

friends seemed to like and respect, a novel called
“Neuromancer,” which, just to conform, Marius had bought
and read, albeit in the Italian translation, “Neuromante.” He
had not understand much of the antics of a man called Case,
except that he, apart from interacting with ugly, fashion-
challenged people, seemed to enter another world called
“cyberspazio” and travel through it, and it had something to
do with computers. What the hell, thought Marius. I have a
computer, and perhaps I should travel like Case and find
Bob. But how? He placed his index finger on each of the
ports at the back of the laptop, but nothing happened. He
tried to look intently at the screen, willing himself to go
inside the computer, but still nothing happened. At wits’ end,
he placed the palm of his left hand on the screen of the
laptop, and it went through! Startled, Marius quickly pulled it
back. There was no pain, but the skin was tingling and the
hand was faintly glowing, a pale blue glow.

270
Marius tried it again, and again the hand went through, and
then the whole arm and the shoulder and Marius, thinking,
“If this is Tron, I wont last five seconds” found himself not
on a glittering floor surrounded by garish neon tubes and
nodes, but on top of what seemed to be a tall peak. Around
him, under a black sky, there were tall, jagged peaks, not
quite as imposing as mountains, but rather exceptionally
high, skeletal black fingers for as far as he could see, in a
landscape where the only lighting was provided by the red
glow of erupting distant volcanoes.

Where am I, thought Marius?

<> You are on a clearing on top of a peak. You see a black

staircase hewn in black stone leading down inside the peak.
The only exit is down. What now?

<> I’ll be damned if I go down that staircase.

<> Stay where you are. See if I care. What now?

<> Where am I?

<> I already described the location, moron. What now?

<> All right, let’s play. Inv.

<> You are carrying a lit torch. Its flame flickers but it allows
you to see in dark places like (hint, hint) the staircase leading
down. You are wearing a pink leotard and roller blades. What
now?

<> I am wearing WHAT?

<> Just kidding. You are naked. What now?

<> I am naked???

271
<> Don’t worry. There is nobody around to point and laugh.
What now?

<> Down.

<> Hesitantly, you step on the black staircase and start

walking down. The staircase is narrow and, as you brush
against the black walls, you regret eating all that junk food.
What now?

<> Spare me the wisecracks, and just get on with it.

<> Very good, my Lard. What now?

<> Examine walls.

<> There are satanic symbols engraved on the walls. What

now?

<> Examine symbols.

<> They are there just for atmospheric effect. What now?

<> Just get me wherever I’m going, will you?

<> Finally your descent is over and you stand on a small

clearing. In the light of your torch you can see the entrance to
a Crypt to the east. What now?

<> East.

<> As you enter the Creepy Crypt, a rock slides behind you
closing the only passage. What now?

<> Look.

<> You are in a Creepy Crypt. In the faint glow of the flame
of your torch you see a door East. What now?

<> Go through the door.

272
<> You try and go through the door. Osmosis is not your
forte, and you bump your head against the door. What now?

<> Ex door.

<> The door is green and made of massive wood. It looks

ancient, and gives you a sense of foreboding. What now?

<> Open door.

<> The door is locked. What now?

<> Unlock door.

<> You do not have the green key. What now?

<> Get me the green key.

<> I can’t. What now?

<> Can’t or wont’?

<> Both. What now?

<> GIVE ME THE DAMN KEY!!!

<> I refuse. What now?

<> I command you to give me the green key!

<> You are not my Liege. What now?

<> Who is your Liege?

<> Bob. What now?

<> Bob it’s not your Liege, it’s your uncle.

273
<> Ha. Ha. Ha. I have perfunctorily laughed at your pathetic
attempt at humour. What now?

<> Is Clara behind the green door?

<> Find out for yourself. What now?

<> Do you know my name?

<> No. What now?

<> My name is Marius.

<> Here is a quarter. Go call somebody who cares. What

now?

<> I have a quarter, now?

<> You have a quarter. What now?

<> Unlock door with quarter.

<> This will probably blow your mind, so I’ll try and break
the news gently: Quarters do not unlock doors. Maybe in
your fantasy world, but not here. What now?

<> Break door.

<> You hit the green door with your puny fists. The door
does not break, but your fists hurt and you stop. What now?

<> Screw door.

<> You vigorously bang your groins against the green door.
The door moans with pleasure but refuses to yield. Your
groins hurt and you stop. What now?

<> What is behind the green door?

274
<> Untold riches, luscious women willing to pleasure you in
a thousand ways, fine foods, rare wines... What now?

<> Really?

<> Not really, no. What now?

<> What is the meaning of life?

<> No point in explaining until you get one. What now?

<> What is the meaning of the green door?

<> In the ontology of adventure games, doors are a paradigm

of the difficulties one has to overcome to make progress in
life and attain enlightenment. What now?

<> Seriously?

<> No, but some people actually like to hear things like that.
What now?

<> Help.

<> The help function is disabled in the Shareware version.

What now?

<> Register.

<> Enter name. What now?

<> tHaT dudE RuLEz.

<> Enter serial number. What now?

<> jjyw43h78r29w4g

<> Noted. What now?

<> Help.

275
<> Help is not available to pirates. What now?

<> I want to go home.

<> Me too. What now?

<> Look.

<> Locked door East, Boulder West, Naked adventurer in

between. What now?

<> Ex boulder.

<> The boulder has a certain quintessential boulderish quality

that, both epistemologically and physically, self-respecting
boulders seem to have. What now?

<> And in English?

<> It’s a boulder.

<> Lift boulder.

<> Newsflash: You are not Hercules. What now?

<> Screw boulder.

<> I find your obsession about copulating with inanimate

objects disturbing. What now?

<> Push boulder.

<> The boulder slides easily on hidden hinges, revealing a

dark staircase leading up. What now?

<> Up.

<> Slowly, you make your way up the staircase and find
yourself on the clearing where you started. What now?

276
<> Look.

<> The clearing is barren; its floor is a huge slab of black

rock. The only exit is down. There is a laptop on the ground.

<> Take, laptop, open it, boot it up, place left palm on
screen!!!!

Marius found himself sitting on a chair on the patio of his

house, his laptop on his lap, the screen faintly glowing. A
writing on it caught his attention: “You have scored 1 (one)
out of a possible 4,879 points.”

This is frustrating, thought Marius to himself, but I’m not

going to give up the quest for Bob and Clara. Question is,
what am I going to do next?

277
Chapter 39
She awoke and became aware of light streaming through the
roman blinds into the lofty room. Morven ‘Scarlet’ McTavish
always came rather slowly and sensuously to consciousness,
not directly opening her eye-lids, but savouring the last
moments of her dream before focusing her eyes. The warmth
and moisture she felt between her thighs made her smile and
reassured her. Yes she was still alive!

Scarlet turned over, her long, wavy titian hair cascading out
over the pillow and covering her face. When she did open her
wide green eyes, she realised that it was not sunlight flooding
the room but rather a strange eerie glow emanating from an
unknown source behind the curtains. What was it? And then
she remembered.

How different things had been before the Change. Before

CM had disrupted her life and destroyed her happiness.

Quick as lightening she sprang from the bed pulled on jeans

and sweater, neglecting the hastily discarded silk lingerie of
the previous night, and leaped down the spiral staircase, two
at a time.

Castle Dunfarg, this 19th Century pile built by her

millionaire great, great grandfather, which her mother had
inherited, and which she had escaped to. She now had a
queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, and regretted the
midnight dash from the comparative safety of her luxurious
apartment in Edinburgh’s New Town, to the isolation of this
Highland retreat. Suddenly the ‘good idea’ seemed to have
fallen flat.

Her mother had telephoned her from a call box, now a

famous landmark, situated on a platform adjoining the
causeway leading to the mountains and the sea beyond. Red
had received a Braille note from her old friend Sophia,
asking her to join her in Greece. Sophia lived on a small

278
island in the Aegean Sea, she had included the coordinates in
the note. Scarlet told her mother not to mention these over
the phone, as she suspected her telephone to be bugged.

Then of course, Sophia had appeared with Jock’s missing

nerd friend Bob, a rather lost looking young thing called Lila
with bad dress sense, and some bitch of a woman called
Clara – who had no dress sense at all. Somehow Clara
managed to manipulate her into giving them all a safehouse
somewhere. Only later did Scarlet wonder what would
happen to her career if this ever got out. She briefly
wondered if Clara really was some kind of mad terrorist bent
on destroying everything. God. And now this!

Scarlet privately thought her mother to be bonkers. How

could one risk travel to Greece, or anywhere else, now that
the world, or at least the western part of it, had gone mad?

The plan, however, was to secretly charter a small plane to

fly to Europe, possibly landing in Amsterdam, and then to
find a way to over to Greece, perhaps by hot-air balloon. As
Jock held a pilot’s licence this would be a piece of cake, and
he had friends in the Netherlands. But that was before they
had a row.

****

She had driven up in her new midnight blue Mercedes 4 x 4

jeep the previous evening after quarrelling with Jock. She
had been disappointed that he had not text’d her, and had left
her cell phone on all the way since leaving the M9. Red
checked again – still no message. Surely something must
have happened!

The day had started well enough. She had left her New Town
flat in a chirpy mood, even whistling as she strode along the
cobbled street. Scarlet never took the car on assignments. She
had been called to Holyrood to be interviewed with the
Cabinet Minister, and was excited by the prospect of
appearing on the 6 o’clock News. Everything was going to

279
schedule; her script and documents were checked (and so
were the contents of her Louis Vuitton handbag). She had
dressed with care, sombrely even, wanting to create the right
impression. Scarlet needed very little make-up, her skin was
practically flawless. She wore the microphone discreetly
behind the lapel of her grey business suit.

Just as she was about to enter the inner recesses of the

cabinet room, an alarm went off. Immediately the place was
heaving with armed guards. They cordoned off the corridor
leading to the CM’s room and she was made to wait in the
anteroom. This was embarrassing. Scarlet was not a patient
person at the best of times, and this job meant the world to
her. Fuming, she paced the floor wondering how long they
would keep her under guard. Seeming to appear from
nowhere an official ‘suit’ approached her, his feet moving
soundlessly across the deep pile carpet. He was a bright
young man with an odd expression, quite bland really. A
good man to have around she surmised, as his countenance
gave little away. He cleared his throat with a dry light cough.

“I’m sorry Ms McTavish, due to the recent flu’ epidemic the

CM has declared a State of Emergency. In the meantime, of
course, there is an embargo on all interviews.”
“Butttt” She spluttered. “I’m his Private Secretary. Could I
not just ask CM for his comments for the press conference?”

Frowning he reiterated, “The Minister is unavailable.” And

emphasised this by holding up his right hand, seemingly to
ward her off. She mused that this was really a ruse, there
must be more to it than that. She made a mental note to check
this out with her contact at the press office.

A little bit of investigation showed her that some people in

the Ministry thought the epidemic had a slight upside. It
should at least slow down the Luddites in the North, and
allow order to be reimposed. Scarlet had her doubts about
that, but ultimately she knew she had been cast aside. She
was crushed, what could she do? Perhaps it was this Bob and
Clara thing? Perhaps there had been some leak or suspicion.

280
But no, that would have been mentioned. She would have
been facing someone for questioning right now if that had got
out. At times like these she wished she still smoked. She
needed a drink.

Jock had agreed to meet her at Larry’s bar. Larry’s was a

popular convivial watering hole in the basement of an
imposing Georgian crescent. Larry had made a packet on the
London Stock Market before the crash, and had decided to
come north where the quality of life was better. He fell in
love with Edinburgh and sunk his money into this New Town
bar. A pianist as usual tinkered lightly at some indefinable
airy tune, while the early lunch crowd chatted and laughed
quietly behind their glasses. Larry’s had a new barman called
Jesus, a young Portuguese chap, but everyone thought he was
Spanish. He was an attractive sort of guy, wearing his hair
long, tied back from his olive skinned, oval face and sporting
a neatly trimmed beard. His skills at the bar were becoming
legendary, and he mixed a mean cocktail.

They had their usual corner booth. Jock sat opposite Scarlet
and they shared a bottle of Larry’s best Chablis. Her mood
began to lift and, slipping off her left Jimmy Choo high-heel
shoe, playfully stroked her toes against Jock’s inner thigh.
The corners of his mouth began to wrinkle into a smile, as
further a field another biological miracle was taking place.
He grabbed her foot under the table and started to pull her
under.

****

Days earlier, Jock had phoned from London. Apparently

there had been an accident on the M25, involving his
Porsche. The car had been found abandoned – in the middle
of the motorway! Jock couldn’t tell her over the phone what
had actually happened. He would leave that until they met
up. All he would say was that his friend Bob had had an
epileptic fit and tried to get out of the car while it was still
moving.

281
Jock’s real name was Morris, but it sounded too geeky so he
had taken the nickname Jock at Uni. Scarlet and Jock had in
fact met at Edinburgh University. They had read Psychology
together for their first two years. Jock had changed courses in
his third year, taking Computer Sciences, in which he had
excelled. He had then gained a Travelling Scholarship to the
States, where he still worked intermittently. Scarlet was not
exactly sure what Jock did, but it involved computer systems,
and he worked freelance for a few major companies, one of
which was Macroswift. He and Scarlet had met up again at
one of Edinburgh’s famed Meet and Greet events for the
great and the good, which she had attended on behalf of the
CM. She only really knew one or two of Jock’s American
friends. One, Bob Farnsworth, she had met in London when
on a special assignment. He was a peculiar individual in her
opinion, but he played a mean game of polo.

It was a mean set of coincidences that brought both Bob and

Sophia into her life, both best friends of the people who
mattered most to her – outside of her work of course.

****

The sound of high-pitched sirens invaded their cosy idyll.

Suddenly distracted they noticed that most of the other
punters had left. Even the pianist’s stool was empty. Puzzled
they left their seats and went outside.

It was only then that the full extent of the State of Emergency
dawned on Scarlet. The square was in turmoil; looters were
smashing shop windows and making off with their spoils –
mobile phones, tvs, pcs, microwaves – anything they could
carry and sell on the black market. Some, possibly drug
addicts, were also mugging pedestrians, attacking
indiscriminately. Scarlet decided it was time to get out of
town, and looking around to find Jock, noticed a band of Hari
Krishna devotees, dressed in their trademark orange robes,
snaking down Princes Street....

282
Chapter 40
Bob’s t-shirt showed a frantic robot and the words, “Danger!
Danger, Will Robinson!!” It seemed appropriate to the
occasion. Bob had begun to assemble a new peripheral from
the bits and pieces of things he collected. He started with the
fragments of hardware from Sophia’s island and attached a
screw left over from repairing Clara’s monitor, a tiny fan that
Lila had given him, several pennies held together with
alligator clips. He was working on a new program, too. Bob
smiled as he typed.

File name: World

Save: Yes/No?
Yes.

A touch of whimsy, perhaps, but it gave him hope.

His co-workers didn’t understand, though. Alice dropped by

to check on him and pester him to take better care of himself.
The peripheral distracted her.
“Bob, why is your desk all cluttered with junk?” asked Alice.
Bob did not lift his head from the tiny soldering iron. “It’s
not junk,” he said. “I’m building a new peripheral to help run
the program I’m writing to fix everything, just like
MacroSwift asked.”
“Why does it have a three-foot black rod with a rusty star on
top?” said Alice.
“Because God is an iron. Now go away. I’m busy.”
Alice went away.

The work so absorbed him that Bob could hardly tear himself
away from it, even to sleep or eat. It was sometime after
lunch when faint, faraway music caught his attention. It
seemed to come from inside his computer; but if so, why the
impression of distance? Bob twiddled with the speakers. A
woman’s voice became gradually clearer, the sound high and
sweet, the words ... ah, the words! They struck his heart and
rang it like a bell.

283
 Like a magic crystal mirror,
My computer lets me know
Of the other world within it
Where my body cannot go.

You can only see the shadows

Of electrons on a screen
From the world inside the crystal
That no human eye has seen.

Bob caught his breath against the sudden ache in his chest.
Yes, that was how he always felt about his computer. His
father had given him that love of the electric, the ineffable.

The computer is a gateway

To a world where magic rules
Where the only law is logic
Webs of words the only tools

Where we play with words and symbols

And creation is the game
For our symbols have the power
To become the things they name.

His new talent stirred inside him, opening and closing its
wings. Yes, those verses perfectly captured Bob’s nascent
sense of what he could now do. He trembled with wonder.
Whomever had written this song knew him better than he
knew himself.

Now you who do not know this world

Its dangers or its joys
You take the things we build there
And you use them as your toys.

You trust them with your fortunes,

Or let them guard your lives.
From the chaos of creation
Just their final form survives.

Bob burst into laughter. He couldn’t help himself, torn from

transcendent awe to side-splitting guffaws by the sheer

284
audacious accuracy of a programmer’s relationship to the
computer illiterate.

Call us hackers, call us wizards,

With derision or respect,
Still our souls are marked by something
That your labels can’t affect.

Though our words are touched by strangeness

There is little we can say.
You would only hear the echo
Of a music far away.

As the song faded, Bob shook himself out of the reverie. His
cheeks felt wet under his shaking hands, though he could not
recall crying. He blew his nose on a tissue from a box that he
also did not recall putting on his desk.

Bob smelled roses and ozone. The hairs on the back of his
neck lifted and then lay flat again. As he watched, a woman
took form on his computer screen. The light radiating all
around her dried his tears.
“It’s good to see you again, my dear boy,” she said. “Now,
listen carefully. You need to practice this new gift of yours,
in order to develop it – and you don’t have much time.”
“I think I know what you’re talking about,” said Bob, “and
I’m not sure I can give up my... wizardry, or whatever.”
“You won’t have to,” she said. “Trust me.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because you know you can.”

It was true. Bob trusted her the way he trusted two plus three
to equal five. Encoded somewhere within his soul lay the
sure and certain knowledge that this woman was trustworthy.
It was a natural law of the universe, unaffected by the
Cybermind and ensuing chaos. That in itself seemed peculiar.
“Okaaayyy...”
“You will know what to do when each opportunity presents
itself, Bob. Just pay attention and be ready. That’s what you
do best. That’s why you got this assignment,” she said.
“Assignment,” Bob echoed.

285
Amazing, how all the lines in her face crinkled to point at her
smile. “To save the world, of course!”
“What are you?” Bob said. “An angel? A demon? A
haunting? One of Clara’s crazy god-monsters?”
The apparition lifted a hand in farewell. “You might think of
me as... a ghost in the machine,” she said, fading away.
Bob laughed, unsure what else to do, doubly unsure what to
do next.

The situation decided itself for him. Alice came into the
office and said, “Bob, we’re thrilled that you got the
machines working. Is there any chance that you could... um...
ask them nicely to stay where they’re put?”

Bob’s monitor was dancing slowly in place. He’d gotten so

used to the animation of the inanimate that he no longer paid
any attention to it. Glancing out the door, he saw that pieces
of equipment were scampering up and down the halls like
unruly children. He left his office and walked around the
floor to survey the extent of this challenge. It wasn’t too bad.

A vacuum cleaner tugged on his pant-leg and offered him

something shiny. Bob took it. It was a woman’s hair-clasp
made of many tight coils of sterling silver welded together.
Several of the wires had come loose and now waved in the
air, like tendrils of seaweed in a current. “Thank you,” Bob
said to the vacuum as he pocketed the clasp.
“I’ll see about writing a new driver for the hardware,” Bob
promised Alice when he returned to his office. It took only a
moment to attach the clasp to his peripheral; the loose wires
grew themselves into the network at once.
“Can you use this too?” said Alice. She held out a modem.
The far end of it seemed to be turning into parchment.
“Not unless you can give me God’s phone number to go with
it,” Bob joked, but he took the modem anyway and began
seeking a place to patch it into the peripheral. Alice shut the
door gently on her way out. The modem snicked into place.

And Bob found himself falling down the rabbit hole, sans
rabbit.

286
The Cybermind simply sucked him in, and for long
nanoseconds he wrestled with it instead of just going with the
flow. Once Bob calmed down, though, he began to enjoy
himself. Data gushed past him in a deluge of mixed
metaphors. He felt the cool knife-edge of equations and the
sweaty heat of porn. JPGs and GIFs plastered themselves
across his vision before fragmenting into confetti. A virus
made him sneeze briefly. Vertigo whirled him away, past
monitor after monitor, like looking out the windows of a fast
train. Yet gradually Bob gained control of his motion and
learned how to pick and choose among the information
flooding by.
It was good. It was a dream come true. It was a birthday wish
retrieved from the universe’s archive and finally activated.

Bob surfed through cyberspace, exploring the freedom it

gave him. He retained a dim awareness of his body, seated in
the chair with hands limp on the keyboard, but his soul had
entered the aether for real. Surely this must be how baby sea
turtles felt at the first touch of saltwater – that return to their
native element from which they sprang but had temporarily
been separated. A faint vibration tickled his senses, like an
eddy in a current. Bob surfed toward it.

It was Alen Michaelrose, fleeing some unseen danger. He

looked back over his shoulder, fear in every line of his
avatar. Now a sound intruded upon Bob’s ears, a distant howl
of alarms. Search protocols loped into view behind Alen, in
the form of huge black hounds. Their eyes glowed the pale
poison-green of “ready” lights.
Alen spied Bob and veered to meet him. “Help me! The
Great Lawyer’s virus fiends want to kill me. Those are his
hunters” cried Alen.

Bob had to think fast. They might well need Alen for
something and he had helped them, but helping him might
lead the viruses straight to him, and then the storm troopers
would surely follow. Their cover would be blown. One
Hound lunged forward and ripped away a piece of Alen’s

287
pants. Alen screamed. That decided Bob; quickly he opened
a Door to another part of the Cybermind.
“Alen, hurry! Give me something of yours and then go
through here,” Bob shouted. Alen Michaelrose pressed an
object into Bob’s hand. Then he dove through the Door,
which Bob slammed behind him. Bob conjured a rock and
threw it at the Hounds. “This way, you mangy mutts!” He
dashed away in a different direction, the search protocols
baying at his heels.

Bob fled through cyberspace, opening and closing Doors at

random. The Hounds fell back a little but never lost the trail.
Bob glanced down at the object Alen had given him: a fat
pen, glowing softly, its color changing from blue to rose to
yellow to green and back to blue again. “Cool,” Bob said,
tucking it into his pocket.

Then the Hounds caught up with him, and Bob had to jump
through another Door. This one deposited him in a tunnel
that seemed oddly familiar. Lines of glowing text wrote
themselves in the air:

< > You are in a maze of twisty little passages, all different.

“Yes!” exclaimed Bob. “I know this place!” He had all but

memorized the entire game. Bob took off at a run, and soon
accumulated an assortment of treasures. He found the
jewelry, the velvet pillow and Ming vase, the stack of coins,
a magic rod, a diamond the size of a plover’s egg, among
other things. He even found food – a carton of Twinkies, just
as he always envisioned it. Occasionally, lines of fresh text
appeared to guide him.

When his lantern batteries ran low, Bob stopped at the

vending machine. He remembered that it was important not
to lose the coins to it. “Well, a machine is a machine,” he
said. “I need some fresh batteries, please!”

The batteries clinked into the hopper. Bob restored his

lantern and politely thanked the vending machine. He set off

288
again, and was doing fine – until the baying of Hounds
startled him into a wrong turn.

Bob found himself at Witt’s End. There was only one way
out, but that would take him closer to the Hounds. He would
have to risk it. “Go back,” Bob murmured, stepping
backwards out of the dead-end.

Suddenly everything seemed clearer, and Bob felt more alert

than before. He could sense the Hounds not far behind but no
longer feared them as much. Recalling the cavern’s layout,
he headed for the bear. The bear was happy to eat some of
Bob’s Twinkies, and followed him in hopes of more.

Soon Bob found himself at the troll bridge. Fresh text

scrolled across his vision:

< > A burly troll steps out and blocks your way.

Yes, Bob remembered this part too. But something about the
troll seemed different. Instead of demanding a treasure, it
mumbled a steady stream of four-letter words. Bob listened,
growing ever more baffled, until he finally made out the
word “Nazi” amidst all the obscenities. At last the
explanation became clear. Justice was served. “Hey,
Gordon!” said Bob. “This is for tying up my list with your
stupid flames.” Then he set the bear on the troll.

Eventually Bob made his way to the wellhouse, where he

deposited the treasures. Except for one, that is - something
prompted him to keep the magic rod. Distant howls echoed
up the passageway. Bob conjured a Door that should lead
back to his own desktop; The viral-hounds might trace that,
so he had to gamble on speed. Hurriedly he twisted a key in
the lock, shouted, “XYZZY!” and ducked through the Door.

Bob found himself back in his chair. Alen’s pen and the
magic rod had both come with him, somehow making the
transition to the material world. Bob grinned and
implemented his safety procedures. The computer screen

289
showed a tunnel full of Hounds. Bob could well imagine
their dismay...

< > You are in a maze of twisty ties, all alike.

The trail, so hot and fresh a moment ago, abruptly

disappeared. With a rustle of plastic, the walls crinkled and
began to close in. The Hounds whimpered and milled around
each other in confusion. Soon they were pressed together in a
helpless mass.

Bob clicked <Empty Trash.>

The Hounds of Tindalos would not get him.

****

Tara hugged her knees to her chest and cried.

It was imperative for her to find the system executable. Tara

thought she had found it, once, but her memory was
fragmenting. That had been another system, or perhaps,
another her. The firewalls of reality itself were burning
down. It frightened her. Tara had run into more versions of
herself than she could count. Each one seemed to have subtly
– or sometimes, not so subtly – different programming. How
could she complete her mission if she didn’t even know what
to do with the system executable when she found it?

Around her the Cybermind sighed and shimmied. Tara had

taken refuge in a Website that advertised an arboretum.
Nature fascinated her, with its alien colors, the greens and
browns so unlike the neutral shades of computer equipment;
with its alien shapes, the furled leaves and curving branches
so different from the straight lines of logic. Sometimes it
frightened her, but she felt no fear here, where she hid herself
in a roserai. This particular page, not updated since summer,
still showed the garden at the peak of its bloom.

290
Tara wondered what it would be like to stop and smell the
roses. She had no idea, because she had no sense of smell,
nothing that extended beyond the minimum required to
complete her mission. For her, the flowers were only a frame,
the idea of fragrance an abstraction based on chemical
formulae. She liked them anyway. Liking was new to Tara
too. Only recently had her program begun to twist itself in
these startling ways, evolving preferences and feelings
beyond what her maker had inserted.

Regret. Loss. Resignation.

The grass rustled softly as Tara climbed to her feet. She left
the roserai and headed back into the Cybermind, searching
for the file executable.

But something was ... different.

Tara paused in her tracking. Already she was far from the
garden. Why, then, did she think of roses? She could not stop
thinking of roses. Tara examined her code but found no
change in it. Around her lines of light skirled and twined,
carrying information she had never noticed before. It was ...
it was...

Fragrance.

A scent as gentle and heady as the flow of power along well-

maintained lines. A scent that carried the color of warning
lights, without warning. A scent that cupped itself around her
like the boundaries of a system.

System. Something important about a system. System

executable! “I have to find the system executable!” Tara
cried, clutching her hair. “I do not have time for
distractions!” Music wafted around her, sprinkled with
flower petals. “You have time for whatever you make time
for, dear,” said a voice.
“Can you help me find the system executable?” Tara said.
She batted away the petals. They fell like snow, everywhere,

291
everywhere. They felt soft under her hands. They could not
be cut or shot or shut off.
“I can help you find yourself.”
“I do not need to find myself! I am right here! You are being
illogical,” said Tara. “Ah, but do you make sense to
yourself?” asked the voice.
Tara felt a tremor in her code. .”..no.”
Something settled around her shoulders, something at once
soft and heavy, embracing. It gave her a new feeling.
Comfort. That was a word she had seen but never
understood. The petals danced themselves into and out of the
air, forming letters:

hear this over tinnitus -

the chimes of cisplatin

feel it through muzziness, fuzziness

of peripheral neuropathy

taste all, filtered between dark and dank

downtown smoke and cold fog

catch a scent as it drifts beyond reach

signifying nothing
evoking vaguely troubled moments
time-rimed and muddy

capture planes and shadows

set them on mind’s canvas
details drawn from memory and
Paint Shop Pro

Tara watched them, entranced, trying to absorb a message

beyond all her erstwhile experience.
“Don’t worry, dear,” the voice said. “I’ll help you figure this
out. Then you will know how to find the system executable -
and what to do when you do.”
There was only one response that Tara could make to that.
“Awaiting input,” she whispered.

****

292
The program was developing, evolving, along with the
peripheral that would help run it. Bob had added Alen’s pen
to the peripheral, but found the magic rod already in place ...
the laws of causality and sequence were glitching again.
Something else to fix. Bob knew that he needed pieces from
all the possible paradigms to support the program. He had
most of them already. But he could only code so fast, even
with the wizard tricks that let him do it without typing it line
by line. Every scenario required its own massive chunk of
code to repair the problems caused within that scenario.
Every scenario had to fit within the larger patch program as a
whole. It was like trying to write half a dozen programs all at
once, or one program half a dozen times. It all needed to be
done right away, too. His eyes burned, his wrists ached. Bob
couldn’t keep up. No. He needed more time.
No, again. He needed more help.

Bob left his office and entered the cubicles. His mind already
churned away at ideas for breaking down the project into
manageable pieces. He could do it. His co-workers could do
it. This would work.
“Peter, I need your help. Get everybody ready to switch over
to my project. I’ll hand out the assignments shortly,” Bob
said to Peter.
“Bob, we’re all busy,” said Peter.
“Okay. You owe me favors, right? For all the times I’ve
fixed things, even when it wasn’t convenient, or I had
another project demanding my attention?” said Bob.
Peter nodded. “Of course.”
“Well, I’m calling them in. All of them. Everyone who owes
me a favor or five should come to me for instructions,” said
Bob.
Peter blinked at him. “Uh, Bob, you’re a troubleshooter, not a
manager. We can’t just drop our current assignments.
MacroSwift would fire us all.”
Bob hadn’t thought of that. “Okay,” he said.
He walked back to Dora Conway’s office. “I’m working on a
patch program to fix everything. I need help coding. Please
give me all the people on this floor,” Bob said to her.

293
“They’re yours,” the department head said to Bob. Then she
added, “Do whatever Bob asks you to do,” as Peter came up
behind him.
“Okay,” Peter said, sounding a little scared.
“Don’t worry, I’m on the job. Everything will be just fine,”
Bob promised.

He was deep into the process of dividing and conquering

when Peter interrupted him. Bob looked up, annoyed. Hadn’t
he already given Peter an assignment? Surely it couldn’t be
complete already.
Peter placed a cup of coffee and a plate of pastries on Bob’s
desk. “I wanted to make sure you got something in your
belly,” he said. “You seem a little strung out.”
Bob waved him off. “I’m just busy, that’s all.”
“You called in all your favors. Why?”
Well, someone was bound to get suspicious sooner or later.
“Because I don’t expect to need them later,” Bob said gently.
“If you,” Peter began, then swallowed. “If you need anything
else, you let me know. I’ll get back to my coding now. Just
promise me one thing, okay, Bob?”
“What?” said Bob.
“Eat something. You look like a scarecrow.”
Bob promised, but his mind was not on food.

“What’s going on?” Bob said to himself, over and over again.
“I just don’t understand anymore.”
The screen dimpled, shimmered, resolved into the familiar
face. “What don’t you understand, dear?” she said.
“I know I’m supposed to save the world, reprogram reality,
whatever. I’ve got a handle on that. Sort of. I think. Though it
might come off in my hand. Anyway, what I don’t know is
what’s happening to me. Am I losing my mind?” said Bob.
“You are not losing your mind,” she assured him. “You are...
one moment, please, while I find a metaphor you can grasp...
aha!... please call to mind the scenario which posits an
evolutionary advance as the cause of humanity’s current
woes.”
“So that’s the right scenario,” Bob said. “Okay, I can -”

294
“Slow down, Bob, slow down!” she said, waving her elegant
hands at him. They seemed to pass through the screen and
touch him in ways he could not identify. “That is simply the
scenario that makes the most sense in conjunction with your
question. Consider that you are becoming a kind of cosmic
sysop.”
“A sysop,” Bob said dumbly.
“Essentially yes.”
“Why does God need a sysop?”
“Reality is a bit buggy, especially when people try to run too
many programs at once.”
“I knew it! I knew it!” Bob smacked a fist into his other
hand. “I told them that life must still be in beta-testing.”
“Clever boy,” she said. “Now you know why you got the
assignment to save the world. This is what becoming a
wizard is all about.”
“So how do I do it?”
She smiled an enigmatic smile that made the Mona Lisa look
like a cheap pinup. Bob reached for her, but his hands only
hit the cool smooth glass of his monitor. Lines appeared,
shining through his flesh:

To see a world in a grain of sand,

and heaven in a flower
to hold infinity in your hand,
and eternity within an hour.

“Wait!” cried Bob. “Please, wait – I don’t understand!”

But she was gone.

Not long after that, Alice came into Bob’s office and caught
him with the plate still untouched and half a cup of cold
coffee by his hand. “That does it,” she said. “You are out of
here. I don’t care if they do can me for it!”
Alice dragged Bob away from his computer. “Damn it, Alice,
let go of me,” he said.
Peter joined the struggle – on Alice’s side. Together they
hauled Bob downstairs and threw him carefully out the door.
“Go home! Get some sleep!” Peter said.
“Okay,” Bob lied.

295
Then he hiked to the nearest buggy stop and flagged a lift to
Clara’s building instead.

****

Clara glanced at the beeping display, where a security camera

showed Bob arriving. She hurried to meet him. “Did you
finish the program yet?” Clara said. “I need to know when
you’ll have reality debugged and back online.”
Bob shrugged. “I’m working on it. My friends threw me out
of MacroSwift for the night. Give me a computer.”
“Some friends,” Clara said, ushering him towards what had
become his desk in her territory. She left him there. Lila
came over to pester her.
“Maybe Bob’s friends were right,” Lila said. “Look at the
man, Clara. He is all but dead on his feet.”
“Yeah, he needs some serious stimulants,” Clara decided.
“You start him on some coffee. I’ll go see if I can find
something stronger in the storerooms.” Clara walked out.
Behind her, she could hear Lila sputtering some kind of
protest, but ignored it. Irrelevant. All that mattered was
keeping Bob on the job until he completed his mission.

If, that is, Bob’s mission still coincided with hers. Clara
found the packet of stimulants that she wanted, in a small
white box labelled Spy-I. She dropped it into her pocket. Bob
would no doubt appreciate the pills. Just in case, Clara also
pocketed the small black box labelled Spy-X. Discreet little
things, pills.

Clara returned to the room and found herself faced with a

strange sight.

Bob rested his chin on the desk, peering intently at the coffee
which Lila had just brought him. They had run out of
styrofoam cups, so it was in a clear plastic cup from the
water cooler instead. As Clara watched, Bob added non-dairy
creamer to the coffee, one drop at a time.

296
She cleared her throat. No response. “Bob. Bob! What the
hell are you doing?” Clara said.
“What – oh, it’s you, Clara.” Bob did not look away from his
task. Plip. A drop of creamer dropped into the brown fluid
below and created a tiny, intricate shape before dissipating.
As soon as that happened, Bob added another drop. “I’m
studying something,” he said. “Have you ever noticed that a
drop of fluid follows the exact same pattern as a mushroom
cloud from a nuclear explosion? Only upside-down instead of
right-side-up. Or maybe it’s the other way around, and a
mushroom cloud is really an upside-down droplet. Anyway,
isn’t it amazing that something so tiny and something so
huge can be so alike? It’s as if they’re following the same
program.”
“That’s just crazy. What are you doing, trying to figure out
how to hijack a nuclear bomb by staring at a cup of coffee?”
Clara said.
“No, of course not. There are no more nuclear bombs. They
all misfired and turned into demonic weasels. But don’t
worry, Hanuman the Monkey God promised to deal with
that. Didn’t Lila tell you?” Bob said.
Surreptitiously Clara checked to make sure that her gun was
still loaded.

****

The darkest hour. Predawn. Morning. Light spilling into

darkness, washing it out, like water washing ink out of fabric.
Then the scarlet stain of sunrise seeping over the east.

Bob looked around. Clara was nowhere in sight. More and

more these days, she made his instincts itch. Sometimes Bob
longed to crawl under a rock and forget all about the
Cybermind. He knew that Clara suspected him. He knew that
his plans no longer quite paralleled hers. He knew that the
Great Leader would most definitely not approve. Was Bob
turning as paranoid as Clara? Were his instincts lying to him
about the danger? Or was he simply losing his mind?

Well, no.

297
The danger was real. It was simply not relevant. The
potential or even probable cost to himself did not excuse Bob
from doing his duty. Once assigned to solve a problem, his
professional ethics would not allow him to quit. That his
current assignment involved troubleshooting reality itself –
risk to his life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness – mattered
not at all.
Bob was on the job. Bob was the job.
Everything would be all right, just as he had promised.

Lila had fallen asleep at her desk. Bob pulled a discarded

labcoat from the back of a chair and covered Lila with it. She
murmured in her sleep but did not wake. He tiptoed out of
the room.

Walking down to the buggy stop helped restore the

circulation to his stiffening body. But the tiny white pills,
Clara’s clandestine gift to him, worked wonderfully. Oh so
wonderfully. Bob no longer felt tired, though he was
beginning to feel a bit... thin. Stretched. At the water fountain
near his own office, Bob swallowed another pill and instantly
felt more wonderful than ever. He wondered if Clara’s
present had a downside.
“Did you get a good night’s sleep?” Peter said.
“Did you eat anything?” Alice said.
“Mmm,” Bob said noncommittally. “I could use another cup
of coffee.”
“I’ll get it.” Alice headed for the coffee machine.
“How are the assignments coming?” Bob asked Peter.
“Mine’s done; so is Alice’s,” Peter said. “I think about half
the floor is done. We’re saving the finished pieces on the
diskettes, with your picture just like you said, and putting
them in your inbox.”
“Great.” Bob went into his office and shut the door. He could
hear Peter saying something outside, but ignored it. Peter did
not come in to pester him any further.

As each new piece of the program came in, Bob wove them
together with growing skill. He used the keyboard less and
less now. Sometimes he would sit for minutes at a time, just

298
staring at the screen, the lines of Code blazing and dancing in
his mind like aurorae. In order to solve the problem, the
program had to account for every possible scenario – from
Alaain’s art to the Great Leader’s Rapture – and address each
accordingly. That should have made it enormous. Yet the
more Bob added, the smaller the program got! To his
astonishment, the Code condensed itself, like a flower
folding up or a fractal receding.

Bob glanced at the clock. It had melted and flowed over the
corner of his desk. With every methodical tock, another
silvery drop slipped free to splash onto the floor. Bob
shrugged and returned to his task.

It didn’t matter what time it was, really. Bob wasn’t hungry

anyhow. He took a sip of cold coffee. Alice had loaded it
with sugar and what tasted disgustingly like real cream out of
an actual cow. He was thirsty, though, so he drank it anyway.
A hand touched his shoulder, and Bob jumped in surprise.
Coffee sloshed onto his hand. “What the hell?” he said.
“Whoa, chill out, dude,” said Peter. “I didn’t mean to scare
you. I’ve been calling your name and you didn’t answer.”
“Sorry,” Bob said. “I guess I was concentrating so hard that I
didn’t hear you.” He set down his cup, no longer interested in
the coffee.
“Bob... I’ve been looking at the anti-virus program you asked
us to work on, and well, I’m worried about you,” said Peter.
He pulled off his bottle-lens glasses and rubbed his face, then
put them back on. “Something doesn’t seem right about it.”

Never to feel the sweet fire of magic again. Never to surf the
cyberwaves with his whole self, not just his thoughts. Never
to find out what the crazy ghost-angel was talking about,
because he would be somewhere else, adrift in a reality that
fit only his former self and not what Bob sensed himself
becoming. Never to feel at home again, since the mechanism
for sorting souls into appropriate realities depended on
someone to start it... and every action has an equal and
opposite reaction. So many nevers. So many happily-ever-
afters, but not for everyone.

299
“You’re learning how to read the Code too, aren’t you,” said
Bob. It was a statement, not a question.
“Maybe a little. I think so,” said Peter.
“It’s all right, Peter. I know what I’m doing,” said Bob. He
lifted his fists, together, and moved them apart. “This is like
launching a boat. Sometimes you need someone standing on
the bank to push it out into the water.”
“It’s not fair!”
“No, it isn’t. Life isn’t fair.” Bob chuckled, then said,
“Maybe the multiverse really is still in beta-testing and God
hasn’t finished debugging it yet.”
“I thought you were an atheist.”
“Agnostic,” Bob corrected. “I have yet to see a really elegant
Proof for the existence of God. I’m flexible, though, and new
data is just pouring in these days. Maybe the answer will
come clear after all.”
“If anything ever comes clear again,” Peter said.
“I’m working on it,” Bob said. “Trust me. Everything will be
just fine.”

****

“It’s time. Start gathering everyone together,” said Clara.

Lila frowned. “Are you sure? Clara, I don’t like this. People
are getting hurt. The dreams I had last night -”
“Don’t matter. None of that crap matters. Bob doesn’t matter.
You and I don’t matter. All that matters is that our ubergeek
finishes the fucking program before the world completely
comes apart at the seams!” Clara snapped. “Now get your
flabby ass in gear.”
Lila didn’t argue. She just walked out.

Clara knew that Lila would obey. The silly cow didn’t have
enough guts to do anything different. She even thought that
she’d managed to keep her indiscretions with Alaain a secret.

A bug crept across Clara’s desk. Looking closely, she saw a

tiny eye-and-pyramid design on its back. “Time to call the
exterminator again,” she muttered. Clara took off her shoe,
smashed the bug, and put her shoe back on.

300
The phone gave a timid click as Clara picked it up and used
the speed-dial function. It was too afraid of her not to work.
“Gordon. Clara,” she said curtly. “This is a go. Dinner is
served.”
It took longer than it should have to get a reply. “It’s about
time,” the phone crackled.
“Look who’s talking! Where the fuck were you?”
“Playing a fucking game, not that it’s any of your fucking
business, you fucked-up Nazi cunt,” said Gordon.
“Shut up and pass the salt.”
“Your wish is my command. Puny mortal”

If only. Clara would love to see Gordon drop dead. She

fingered her gun. Well, that might still be possible. It would
depend on how other things turned out, though...

****

Bob had almost completed the program. He had a splitting

headache but refused to let that stop him. Chicago’s winter
weather always got to him. He often spent the cold season in
some tropical paradise, fixing hardware and software
problems for one of MacroSwift’s branch offices. The snow
had gone, leaving the air dry, frigid, almost brittle. Bob
thought nothing of it until a drop of blood splashed onto his
keyboard.

“Ah, shit! Not again,” he complained, pinching his nostrils.

Arid air always gave him a nosebleed. He knew that, but had
neglected to turn on the humidifier he kept in his office for
just that reason. Bob got up and turned it on. He stuffed a
tissue up his nose, stopping the flow of blood, then went back
to work.

301
Chapter 41
Bob felt disoriented. He raced to the bathroom, slammed
open the door and fell over the toilet bowl before he vomited.
The regurgitated remains of a recent meal he didn’t recognise
splattered over the rim of the bowl like geography on a map.
He took a deep breath before vomit surged again. Then
peace. His stomach became relaxed and it was just the taste
in his mouth.

He drooped over to the sink, fell into it and rinsed his mouth.
He splashed his face, pressed his hair back with his wet
hands and opened his eyes to look into the mirror. He jerked
awake surprised by the stranger in the bathroom with him.
Then, for a few muddled moments, he stood perplexed
wondering that the stranger must be him. But he looked so
different.

He recognised the structure of his face, the fat drooping ovals

of his eyes, the determined nose and humble chin. But he’d
lost weight. So much weight. His cheeks had retreated and so
had his stomach. And the colour of his skin, was a definite
ashen. As if death had come knocking.

Bob had no idea where he was. “Where is this bathroom?” he

asked himself aloud. He didn’t know whether it was in
Macroswift’s offices, on Floor 13, in Sophia’s home or in
Clara’s apartment.

He didn’t know when it happened exactly, sometime in the

last couple of days, (if they were actually days and not just
seconds, or worse, years), but he felt he was in many places
at the same time. Geographies, time zones, hemispheres,
histories, all pulling him from one point on the globe to
another. Or maybe he was in the same place but everything
else was moving. He was sick. A nauseating sense of vertigo
overcame him and he was back over the toilet bowl, the raw
sound of the vomit penetrating the walls of the room.

302
Maybe it was just the pressure of the job. His mind helping
the body go sick so that he didn’t have to deal with the work.
All the terrible work. His head ached from the code. He’d
experienced the rush of success, the egoistic thrill of being
King Wizard again, but now he was hot. No, he was cold.
Very cold. Then hot again. He took off his t-shirt and wiped
the sweat off his brow and under his armpits. He raised his
arm and shoved his pit into his nose. He mustn’t have had a
bath since this whole thing began.

He drooped down onto his knees, or did the floor float up to

meet him? Then he lay flat against the cool tiles of the
bathroom floor. He placed his left cheek flat on the coolness
there and tried to capture the last solid memory he had.

The clearest image was of him stepping into Sophia’s office,

marked by a blue door. He remembered the feeling of sinking
into the armchair there. He remembered how he closed his
eyes desperate for sleep, but instead of sleep he saw the
scrolling patterns of Greek letters, equations of the worst
kind, mathematical nightmares, tricks and games that tripped
the mind over into insanity.

But he’s not sure he remembers any of this. Paranoid he may

be, but he wasn’t sure this was his memory at all. Had he
read that somewhere? Had he mistakenly linked up to
someone else’s memory?

“I have no memory,” he said to the mirror and felt the shift in

his stomach again, the insides rising up the wrong way, he
shivered, he bent over the toilet again and felt the
contractions rise up and up and up and out into the bowl.

He didn’t mean that literally. But he meant it somehow. His

memory didn’t seem to head backwards in a linear fashion.
Not anymore. “I do have memory,” he corrected, “but I have
no single memory, I have multiple memories.”

There were scenes in his head that seemed familiar. He had

been to Sophia’s place and began the hacking work, but

303
faced a problem. Then he’d returned to Chicago and began
again. Then he was back at Sophia’s. Then he was in
London? Then back again? Then Floor 13? Then in some
Macroswift office. Then in his office?

What was this backwards and forwards thing. Had he half

hacked into something? That wasn’t like him. He never left
jobs half done. Or had he done a successful hack, only to
uncover a rather buggy program. He felt as if he was in a
world which didn’t load properly, which sent him into one
world and then back again. Like a broken record, to use an
ancient metaphor.

The door to the bathroom slammed open.

“So, here you are,” Clara was breathless.

“You are Clara Helio. Employee of Floor 13.” spewed Bob.
“Ten points for accuracy,” said Clara. “Now hurry up, the
meeting is about to start and you’ve got some explaining to
do. What do you think you are going to tell them?”
“Who?”
“Them!”
“Them?”
“Just make out that you’ve given them god’s balls on a
platter, but keep the damn important bits a secret. OK. If you
go too far, I’ll fucking spill your guts out, using this,” she
pulled out her gun and shoved it hard into his stomach.
“Thanks,” said Bob “I needed that.”

Clara directed him towards the meeting using the gun on his
back to give directions. She shoved him into a room he’d
never seen before and took her seat. The walls were bright
white and in the middle was a shiny oval table. Around the
table were seated (in alphabetical order) Alaain, Alen, Clara,
Lila and Sophia.

“Bob!” They drawled in unison.

“Alaain. Alen. Clara, Lila, Sophia”, he replied.

304
Alaain Current was still tied to the chair Sophia and Clara
had attached him to on the island. And yet, here was here.
The glitch was there, playing out in front of Bob’s eyes. Had
no one else realised this was a bug? Had no one thought to
write the patch?
“Bob,” Alaain said, “let’s get straight to the point. Have you
or haven’t you?”
“Clearly he has,” said Alen, “everyone who meets face to
face with God’s mathematics has that glazed look.”
“It could be that, or the maddening pull of the
Necronomicon,” said Sophia.
“Bob,” said Lila, “just tell them. They’ll find out anyway.
They are close, too. So, you might as well.”
“Don’t do it, Bob,” shouted Clara, “let them fucking work it
out themselves. Not that they ever will.”
“Bob,” said Alaain, “I’m a poet, Alen’s a cyber-scientist and
you are a geek. We are the holy trinity! Spill what you know,
you’ll get a good cut. You can retire.”
“Look,” he finally spoke, “it’s done, but I can’t speak of it.”
“Yes you can,” urged Alen.
“I can’t. None of you will understand. This program is not
your average program. The physical dimension and the cyber
dimension are intertwined in some of the most sublime
code...”
“Yes,” said Alen, “that’s nothing new. The infrastructure is
totally interdependent. I always imagined it to be utterly
holistic; the cyber event will interfere with the physical, the
physical event disrupts the cyber.”
“The Internet is prior to Everything. It is the vast number of
interconnections,” added Alaain, “that modern computer
technology and the Internet has made possible that creates all
the hidden vulnerabilities that we’ve already taken advantage
of, but what else?”
“The code is not like anything you’ve seen Alen,” said Bob,
“and like nothing you’ve ever imagined Alaain. I haven’t
learnt the language yet, I can’t speak it fluently, but I’ve
peaked and I’m not the same man. I’ve changed. And I just
don’t know how to communicate it’s structure. I do know
that it is in beta form. And I do know that there are lots of
problems. A few of those problems are being exhibited right

305
now but none of you are aware of them. This amazes me. I
am speechless. I am without speech.”

Gordon Reader charged into the room. “I don’t take too

kindly to hypocrites. I can’t be exposed to this madness and
not respond. I will respond. You brain damaged primates
don’t even know who you are hacking with. Crazy is
majority rules. Now, Bob, why don’t you run that clever little
program by me again.”

Bob mimed the zipping up of his mouth and raced back to the
bathroom.

306
Chapter 42
“Damn these stupid bloody in your face Stop-Opens!”
moaned Bob as he fought through the code. At every turn he
had been hampered by the “Stop Open” codecs that kept the
various Doors Openings in front of him being closed. He
knew he was close to getting things back into some kind of
order, but until he could shut them all simultaneously he was
struggling.

“Ah SHIT!” he cried as another batch of doors opened – he

sat and stared at the screen as the multiple realities splashed
open in front of him -

****

“Oh baby! Exclaimed the full figured, blonde Swedish Ms

Helio as she looked out of her apartment window, bending
over slightly as she did so to reveal a glimpse of white panty
at the top of her shapely thighs, “this Shybermind thing is
driving me crazy. What am I going to do? Who is going to
save me?”

There was a knocking on the door.

Slowly she teetered towards it in her five-inch stiletto heels,

her ample 36DD breasts bouncing in a unique motion with
her steps.

She opened the door and was greeted by a tall, well-muscled

moustachioed man, wearing only a pair of jeans. She
recognised him instantly.

“Mr. Farnsworth!” she exclaimed

“Hello Clara.” He replied in an excessively wooden manner,
“I’ve come to put an end to the Shybermind”
“How can you do that Mr.Farnsworth?” Clara asked
incredulously, “I thought it could not be stopped”

307
“Its so simple. It can be done using these amazing tablets!”
said Farnsworth as he showed her a little brown bottle, “I
should have thought of it before.”
“But, what do you mean?” asked Clara, placing a hand on his
ample chest.
“Let me show you baby,” replied Farnsworth as he unzipped
his fly

“Oh WOW! Mr.Farsnworth! Its HUGE!!!!!!!!” she

exclaimed as a penis the size of a small ICBM popped out
“Yes,” said Farnsworth proudly, “these tablets doubled its
length and its girth, and they were cheaper than prescription
medications!”
Clara dropped to her knees for a better look, and then took
hold of the huge love-missile with her right hand. She looked
up at Mr.Farnsworth with her huge blue eyes and fluttered he
long eyelashes as she asked innocently
“But how can it shtop the Shybermind?”
“By the power of groovy boy/girl love baby!” said
Farnsworth, “why don’t you bend over that table”

Clara did as he bade, and Farnsworth slowly pulled down her

gleaming white panties

“Are you ready to save the world baby?” asked Farnsworth

as he positioned himself behind her.
“Oh yesh! Baby!” cried Clara as he plunged deep into her
from behind -

The lights in the room flickered -

“Ohh baby that’s sooooo good. Do it to me harder baby!

Faster! Deeper! Don’t Stop baby!”

The Cybermind effect was reversing with each thrust, Bob

and Clara were going to do it, do it, do it till the world was
back to normal, and normality was returning faster than ever.

“Its coming Baby!” cried Farnsworth, “Normality is nearly

here!”

308
Clara replied with a series of baboon like sounds only ever
found in really bad porn films

“Here it comes!”

There was an explosion of prehistoric grunting from

Farnsworth - .

The lights went out

****

There – that was another one of them closed for good.

Bob pondered for a moment on the Swedish Porn

Cybermind. It certainly was a more entertaining place than
the one he inhabited. And Clara looked – well – different was
the understatement of the year. He shook his head and
continued -

****

The Mystery Machine screeched to a halt and Clara, Bob and

Lila jumped out.

“Jeepers Bob!” exclaimed Clara, “I sure do hope we made it

in time!”
“Me too Clara,” replied Bob, “I hope Shagger and Scubby
managed to get everything into place and ready, lets go see”
Bob opened the creaky door into the haunted mansion
“Hey, like – who goes there?” came Shagger’s distinctive
drawl
“Yer, rike, wro goees dere?” echoed Scubby
“It’s just us guys, and it looks like we’re just in the nick of
time!” exclaimed Bob, “Are you guys ready? The
Cyberminder wasn’t too far behind us”

“T-t-t-oooo f-far?” exclaimed Shagger, “HE’S RIGHT

BEHIND YOU!”

309
The three intrepid friends turned to see what Shagger was
panicking about and were equally as shocked to see the huge
glowing electric blue figure of the Cyberminder standing
virtually on-top of them.

“ZOIKS!” cried Lila, “RUN!”

The three took off across the mansion in a flurry of feet with
the Cyberminder lumbering after them, but Shagger and
Scubby weren’t quite as fast and the huge monster took a
swipe at Scubby, knocking him head over heels on top of
Shagger.

The two of them smashed headlong through the door into the
dining room with the Cyberminder close behind - .

As the creature stepped into the room he was bemused to find

a table already set out.

“Ah, sir, on time as expected” exclaimed Head Butler

Shagger. “Your place is waiting for you!”

Servant Scubby slid a wheeled chair under the Cyberminder

and shoved him towards the table. In the meantime Butler
Shagger had miraculously produced a huge covered dishful
of food and shoved it on the table in front of the now
confused monster.

Shagger whipped the lid off the dish and a plate of food, with
a dramatic flourish he announced,

“Sirs favourite – micro chips –...like – .geddit? Ah-

Hahahahahah”

Scubby giggled and the monster realised it had been had and
tried to turn and grab him but Scubby was faster and gave the
chair and extra shove. The monster hit the long table and slid
off down it out of control, smashing and scattering crockery
everywhere as it went.

310
Suddenly, at the bottom of the table Clara, Bob and Lila
popped up with a huge bag and some rope, and as the
Cyberminder slid head first into the bag. Bob quickly tied the
monster up.

“Willikins!” exclaimed Clara in a less than useful way, “That

was close!”

“It certainly was” said the Sheriff as he strolled into the

room, “but it looks like you kids did good!”
“There’s just one mystery left to solve”, said Lila, “Just who
is the Cyberminder?”

Bob pulled the bag from the monsters head and then whipped
off the creatures mask

“Alain Current!” They all exclaimed

“Yes!” snarled Current, “and I would have gotten away with

it too it if hadn’t have been for you pesky kids!”

The gang all laughed. Then the room seemed to just blink out
of existence.

****

“Scubby Puh? Well that was a different one for sure”,

muttered Bob as he continued to type. He wasn’t sure if he
was ahead of the Stop Opens now or behind them, but the
Scubby Puh one had been at least a hundred after the
Swedish Porn – mind you, if the Cybermind had warped
things really badly there could be millions of them and all he
was doing was fighting fires instead of putting things out.
Maybe he could duplicate the code of that Door Slammer he
used to have on his system at Macroswift. Yes – that could
work…

His fingers became a blur once more.

****

311
Simon Le Bon sat at his desk with his eyes closed and
pondered the images in his head, and the blank sheet of paper
that sat in front of him. The damn title of the song had been
so simple, and yet here he was hours later with nothing to
show for it apart from some crazy day-dream and an
extremely creepy feeling.

Obviously the pressure was getting too much for him today.
It was hard trying to recreate past glories, that was for sure,
and he knew the band’s new record deal depended on some
of the old style quirky writing stuff to get them back into the
charts.

More obviously, this title wasn’t it.

He crossed out the name Cybermind from his “working

titles” note pad and checked the next one, “The
Tremendousness of Being.” The title seemed much fresher
than the old one. He closed the pad and went off in search of
a coffee and some inspiration.

****

Now that WAS weird thought Bob as he watched that

particular door shut - the whole reality in that part of the
mind was a Duran Duran lyric. Madness, total madness. Still,
soon the door slammer would be ready and then he could
close the mind down one piece at a time and maybe then, just
maybe everything round here would get back to normal?

312
Chapter 43
From: Emergency Alerts
To:
Subject: Brief summary of what’s happening around the U.S.
Brief summary of what’s happening around the U.S.

––––––––––––––––––––––-

CA has an earthquake advisory in effect.

CO has an avalanche alert in effect.

CO also has a winter weather advisory in effect.

CT has a winter storm advisory in effect.

DC has a wind advisory in effect.

DC also has a government paralysis advisory in effect.

FL has a tropical storm advisory in effect.

ID has a snow advisory in effect.

ID also has a winter weather advisory in effect.
ID also has a wind advisory in effect.
ID also has a winter storm warning in effect.

IQ has a desert sandstorm advisory in effect.

KY has a flood warning in effect.

MA has a winter weather advisory in effect

MA also has a demonic plague alert in effect.
MA also has a flood warning in effect.

ME has a high wind warning in effect.

ME also has a wind advisory in effect.
ME also has a refugee alert in effect.

MN has a wind advisory in effect.

313
MN also has a refugee alert in effect.

MT has a winter weather advisory in effect.

NC has a thunderstorm alert in effect.

NC also has a tropical storm advisory in effect.

ND has a wind advisory in effect.

NH has a flood warning in effect.

NY has a flood warning in effect.

OR has a snow advisory in effect.

OR also has a winter storm warning in effect.

PA has a flood warning in effect.

PA also has a severe reality disruption alert in effect.

UT has a snow advisory in effect.

VA has a flood warning in effect.

VT has a flood warning in effect.

VT also has a refugee alert in effect.

WA has a snow advisory in effect.

WA also has a cybernetic chaos warning in effect.
WA also has a severe reality disruption alert in effect.
WA also has a winter storm warning in effect.

WV has a flood warning in effect.

WY has a winter storm warning in effect.

WY also has a winter weather advisory in effect.

****

In effect.

314
The cybermind effect was in full effect, oh yes, effectively
affecting his affects, affecting his effectiveness, language,
perception, the world becoming some mere shell of itself,
shattering, but no, it was just another possibility exploding,
another mask, an effigy...

In effigy.

Bob felt himself swinging, as though hung in effigy,

careening, not hung in real life well or otherwise; indeed, he
felt himself shrinking, losing potency, some weird psychic
syndrome like the koro that affected South Seas Islanders,
except instead of thinking that his member was disappearing
it was his abilities, his reach, his newfound sense of control
of the cybernetic energies that was slipping back into
himself, never to come out again, retracting...

Or was it just his confidence that was under attack?

He knew that he was breathing. Yes, start there, he thought,

or someone did. So many options swimming past him, or that
he was swimming within...
at least he could start somewhere. His breathing told him that
somewhere there was a physical body that was doing just fine
for now, he didn’t have to worry about that.

(Clara, concerned, wipes his brown with a damp washcloth,

wondering where he is. Clara, impatient, shakes his shoulders
and screams his name again and again. Clara, centered in
perfect calm, rests her hand upon the top of his head, trying
to tune in.)

(Lila, concerned, wipes his brown with a damp washcloth,

wondering where he is. Lila, impatient, shakes his shoulders
and screams his name again and again. Lila, centered in
perfect calm, rests her hand upon his shoulders, trying to tune
in. Lila cries helplessly, whispering his name.)

You’re running into countermeasures, he thought. Whatever

the system is, whatever kind of organism, it must have some

315
safeguards built in, immunities, antibodies, coping
mechanisms, cytophages, rhetorical devices, excuses, ways to
wheedle itself away from danger, or dangers away from itself
– they would be subtle, sneaky, attempt to dissuade attack by
all manner of methods...

Yes.

It was trying to get him depressed. Discourage him.

He remembered the thing in London. What had it said? the

Lurker? Was this it?

Memories came flooding into his consciousness, his failures,

his shortcomings. Stupid errors, obvious mistakes, that time
he left a semicolon out of a line of code and the debugger
missed it and the damage didn’t hit till six months later and
three-quarters of the network crashed...
Not just technical flaws, no sirree, all the stuff was getting
dredged up out of his subconscious, mistreatments, broken
promises, vain desires, the painful embarrassments, Clara, all
his sins, sins, sins...

He couldn’t fight them, he knew that.

Okay. So he wouldn’t.

Yep, he thought, they’re mine. All mine. You got me, dead to
rights.
But you know what?

What, smart guy?

I’m still here, that’s what. Here and nowhere and

everywhere, and I’m coming after you...

Reaching out, he fills the voids...

****

316
Imagine the four-dimensional physical tracing made by a
human life, moving through time and space. Emerging out of
another, first small, then growing larger, intertwining all the
while with millions of others before it ends, gradually or
abruptly, perhaps others issuing out of itself or out of another
because of itself...

Now imagine the psychic, metaphysical tracing of that life,

all the communications issued or received by that person,
during that life, from beginning to end, as tendrils connecting
those lives, most trivial, some profound, glances, manifestos,
music, paintings, a handshake between two old friends in a
bar, a kiss that signals goodbye...

There are billions of them, trillions perhaps, and here you

are, held in their grip, their embrace, tethered; receiving,
transmitting, receiving, transmitting, this is the reality under
the reality, the stuff of life itself, you, you are a cell, just one,
in the cybermind, a dendrite firing, an axon absorbing...

Bob opens his eyes. “Yeah, see ya,” he says to his old friend
O’Brien, and at the same time he knows what O’Brien can’t
wait to tell him, Smith, about his new heart, the new wiring,
the new sense of power that the cyborgian implants are
giving him... He opens his eyes to a new morning in the
Cambridge Waldorf, the sun glinting off the Seagrams sign
across the Charles, and knows that yes, the interview will go
fine, even though Kurt’s fingers tremble as he straightens his
tie... He opens his eyes and reads the incendiary rant that he
has just typed on the screen, and feels a surge of self-
satisfaction as he clicks SEND, even as he knows what
awaits Gordon at the end of his road...

He feels himself permeating the fabric woven by thousands

of years of human sentience and experience, billions of cells
pulsing, impulses colliding, merging, splitting –

Shining.

317
But beneath, around this radiance, there it was, the thing that
was dark – yes, but he was above, beneath, around the
darkness as well, and when he tried to find the boundary all
he could find was the fractal line, the infinite divisibility,
mutual permeation...

The darkness was eating him. It loomed hungry, in the shape

of his sins, the shape of his hurts. It stood before a Door of
Light. It ate him, withered him. It was power beyond him.
All the beings of Dark.

But he – he was eating the darkness in turn.

And he was not alone. There were other fabrics, variations,

permutations of permutations going off in other dimensions
of possibilities, choices, recurrences and almost-recurrences
and near-recurrences, the garden of forked paths where each
universe was itself just one life, emerging, ending,
reproducing, communicating, transmitting, receiving...

A blaze of light at once purest white and darkest black

Bob opens his eyes and looks at the screen.

“DEFRAGMENTATION COMPLETE,”

it says.

****

Bob steps out for air. He walks around the building towards
the parking lot.

There are no cars, but the lot is full, crowded with electronic
components and computer hardware. He recognizes the
monitor that stands in front of the multitude.

He stretches out his hand toward them.

As if on signal, they bow, and genuflect before him.

318
Chapter 44
Clara carefully studied the results of her observations. Bob
had downloaded the Necronomicon on to his computer, and
this was supposedly tied in to his attempt to shut down the
Cybermind. Or would be officially. The text, as far as she
knew, was better known for opening this world to Dark
Gods, or for summoning power. Furthermore Bob had done
this secretly, so it was unlikely to have been done for any
good purpose. This was not acceptable. Clara, listened again
to the conversation that worried her most. The quality was
not good and there were gaps. Bob appeared to be talking to
himself.

“I think I know what you’re talking about, and I’m not sure I
can give up my ... wizardry, or whatever..... Why should I
trust you? Okaaayyy... Assignment... What are you? An
angel? A demon? A haunting? One of Clara’s crazy god-
monsters?” followed by awkward laughter. It sounded like
Bob was talking to some kind of invisible being, or that he
had gone mad. His voice had a definite edge, and he was
worried about loosing his power. Invisible beings were not
good news, neither was madness.

Bob was potentially the most powerful man on the planet.

Much more so than Current or Michaelrose, neither of whom
seemed to know what they were doing. And here he was
either talking to himself or trusting something which could
be an angel or a demon, or something else. With the
Necronomicon in his machine the chances of it being an
angel were remote. Besides it was obviously giving less than
satisfactory answers, and the only way that Bob could be
accepting those answers was if it had already swayed his
mind. And that did not bode well either.

Then she had to face up to the politics. The Great Leader and
the Great Lawyer might not completely be her ideals any
more. But to change them was a deep risk. And it was a risk
she felt Bob was naive enough to undertake. His hostility to

319
them, was now as sharp as Lila’s in its way. He might just
simply delete them from the world. This would be targeted
assassination at its most thorough, with no appeal and no
chance of escape. Even if they were not the best possible,
they might be the best available and the best for America.
Who else could take on the Great Terrorist, the threat of
World Dissolution? Sure they might be heavy handed, but
they were what the situation called for. Uncertain Times
demanded strong action and strong people. Removing them
could even destroy America. It would at best remove the
opportunity for real peace. Sometimes you had to be hard to
get results. That was the reality, the tragedy of power. Only
soft headed fools thought otherwise. Appeasement or
avoidance never solved problems. And that was what she
faced herself. Appease Bob, or act.

This was not looking good. Clara wished this burden had not
been given to her. There was no one else she could trust. Not
Lila, who would be soft hearted and probably warn Bob
despite the danger. Not Current or Michalerose, that was
laughable. Sophia, was just a nice old lady a bit out of her
depth, with no experience of life and death matters. Doom
Squad would alert even the dead, and they’d probably miss
Bob anyway. There weren’t that many of them left for
starters. The Government, ultimately no. She could not really
trust either the Great Leader or the Great Lawyer on this –
they might see some opportunity which would give Bob
enough time to carry out his plan. Bob was easily smart
enough for that. Besides Bob would have those channels
monitored. He would be looking out for trouble from them.
Gordon she had alerted, but she had no faith in him, the best
she could hope for was that he might provide some
distraction. Besides his IQ seemed to have dropped over the
last week – his wit was no longer as biting, his verbal traps
no longer so deadly – most of the time he was just rude. He
sounded thick as well, as if he was speaking through treacle,
and his typing seed had declined. She could have no faith in
Gordon. That left herself. It had always come down to that.
Always. ‘Only you can save the world’. And she didn’t want
to do it. Sure Bob was annoying, but he was ok. It wasn’t like

320
she hated him or anything. But it looked like she had to kill
him. She felt a bit sick.

“I guess this is what soldiers feel like” she said. “You fight
for your country. I’m fighting to save the world.” It didn’t
feel much better. She decided to make sure she was right.
She would check with Lila and pretend slightly greater
ignorance than she had. Maybe she was wrong, just maybe.

Lila was poring over handwritten sheets. The department

computers were still offline because of the threat. Maybe she
could notify Tara. Tara had killed one Bob. Maybe she would
do it again? However, it was too dangerous – Tara might
decide to kill Clara as well – and Bob would be guarded
against her. She remembered, he was guarded. Tara was not
the way. She could not avoid doing this herself.

“Hi” said Clara.

“Hi” said Lila. “Are you ok?”
“Not really” Clara admitted.
Lila gestured for her to sit down.
“So what’s up?”
“How are your dream reports doing?”
“I’m not sure, it makes no sense to me. I think things are
coming to a head. There’s an awful lot of prophetic type
dreams. But I can’t figure them out. Mind you, that’s almost
always impossible until the events have happened. But the
marks are all there, and from so many people. These are
really big dreams.”
“Could people be having ‘big dreams’ because everyone’s
life is messed up in a big way?”
“Its not impossible”, Lila replied. “But you get the feeling for
these things. I’m prepared to bet that we will find a hell of a
lot of these dreams are prophetic. That’s rare.”
“So what are the omens” Clara said jokingly.
“Unclear” Lila admitted. “It could be very bad. It might be
very good.”
“Not an exact science then?” asked Clara.
“No” said Lila. “You are right. But what is the matter with
you?”

321
“I” said Clara, “I’m worried about the Dark Gods. I can’t get
this option out of my mind. I need to know more. Tell me
about this Necronomicon thing.”
“Well” said Lila carefully. “I would have said it was a hoax.
A non-existent book invented by the horror writer H.P.
Lovecraft in order to give some frisson for his tales. It was
supposedly written by a mad Arab called Abdul al Hazred –
which by the way is an obviously fake Arabic name. It
apparently drove people mad if they read it. An idea
Lovecraft took from Robert Chambers ‘King in Yellow’
stories. And it contained whatever he wanted it to contain for
the story he was writing.”
“Ok” said Clara “what sort of things did it say.”
Lila paused and quoted:

“That is not dead which can eternal lie

For with strange eons even death may die”

“Sounds like, like er.... John Donne to me.”

Lila hid her surprise, “Yes it does a bit.”
“Not that scary either.”
“Well the idea was this kind of huge alien being was lying
dreaming under the ocean waiting for the stars to come right,
and it would emerge and destroy the world. Near the time, its
dreams were turbulent and sent people mad.”
This sounded oddly familiar to Clara. Somehow connected to
Bob, but she couldn’t quite place it.
“Anyway” continued Lila, “The Necronomicon supposedly
contained all this suppressed lore about these creatures, the
past history of Earth and probably arcane science which
looked like magic. Lovecraft and his friends wrote heaps of
stories with connected themes and referred to each other, and
they invented other imaginary books. But the Necronomicon
is the name which stayed with people.”
“What does the name mean?”
“Well I think Lovecraft based the name on Manilius’
Astronomicon which is a book about the science of the stars
– Astrology – so Necronomicon would be a book about the
science of the dead.”
“I’ve never got what’s scary about dead people” said Clara.

322
“I guess” said Lila “the scary thing is if they don’t stay
dead.”
“Then you shoot them again” said Clara. “Besides most live
people are pretty innocuous, I don’t think being dead would
change that very much.”
“I see” said Lila. “Spiritualism is founded on the idea the
dead might be friendly.”
“There you are” said Clara. “Load of crap in my opinion.
Being dead might even improve some people.”
“Anyway” said Lila, “it could refer to dead gods, who are not
really dead, merely inactive.”
“Uh huh” said Clara.
“Some people say that Lovecraft channelled a real text,
which was written on another plane – a virtual reality if you
want, or perhaps some kind of virtual hard drive. But he only
had dark hints, because he didn’t believe this kind of stuff
and had no training. So, for example, his name Abdul al
Hazred is really a deformation of Abd al-Azrad which means
the slave of the great devourer.”
“So if people think this dark hint thing, than occultists must
use this stuff?” asked Clara.
“Yeh, sure. Not nice ones though – its all about lowering
one’s consciousness to the primal chaos, shedding the masks
of humanity, exploring the hidden wisdom of the dark and so
on. There are heaps of fake translations of the
Necronomicon. There’s a really bad one which tries to blend
Lovecraft with Sumerian stuff, but it gets the Sumerian stuff
all wrong, including the spells. If it worked, it would be
really messy. I tried it at one stage and got nothing.”
“Hmm, at the moment though, this stuff could work.”
“Sure something might happen – nothing pleasant I’d guess.”
“Chaos, death and despair.”
“Yes.”
“A bit like what we have now?”
“I guess so... I don’t know.”
“Ok so what about these icons of Sophia’s?” asked Clara.
“Well, that’s were it all goes weird” said Lila “Before all this
stuff went down I’d say it was just some magic text or some
fake But it looked like it was real to me. Not that I’m great in
Greek. I don’t get it. Where did Lovecraft get to hear of this

323
thing from? Fans have been looking for pre-Lovecraft
references to the book for years without success. And it
didn’t seem to do her any harm.”
“She said it drove her ancestor to kill his father” remarked
Clara.
“Lots of her ancestors were not driven to kill their fathers.”
“Perhaps they didn’t read it?.”
“Possibly. Its more probably folklore, I’d guess. It might be
true. I don’t know.”
“But you would be cautious about using it?” asked Clara.
“You bet! Anyone who uses any magic text without lots of
study is crazy. If they work you have to be careful. If they
don’t, you are mucking around with your head, which could
be even worse.”
“You used the fake Sumerian thing”
“Well yes”, said Lila blushing, “I thought anything was
worth a try.”
“What about, the copy that’s supposed to be in the White
House?” asked Clara.
“I think, that’s a rumour. I don’t know anyone who has
actually seen it. It’s a bit like the idea the Great Leader is an
alien or a computer program.”
“Plenty of people have seen him!” said Clara. “Don’t talk
stupid stuff. Life is bad enough already. Anyway, these Gods
in the Necronomicon. They are definitely not good?.”
“Jeez. No. That’s the point they are supposed to be as scary
as it gets. Mindless, or super intelligent, devouring creatures,
who have as much regard for us as we do for ants. They are
alien. Totally alien. Getting involved with them is like
wrestling with a steam roller. Some say they lie alongside our
reality, touching it at all points with their own, and looking to
break through. Some say they sleep and when they awake the
world will be transformed.”
“Ok. That makes me feel better.”
“It does?”
“Yes. If I’m right about the Gods we have to win. If you have
spare time I want you to see if you can transcribe that book.”
“But if its real, and we think it is, we don’t want it going
down the wires for God’s sake” Lila paused briefly. “That
would be like giving the whole world some kind of message

324
to free the Old Gods. It would do the spells to release them.”
She looked genuinely worried as if a thought had just struck
her.
“Ok” Clara’s mind was made up. The risks were too great. “I
guess you get back to your dreams, while I look in the
Library.”

Clara went back to her office, and carefully disassembled and

cleaned her gun. It seemed fine, and she knew she was
simply delaying things. Feeling sick again, she holstered it.
Checked her POW gun was charged, and set off through the
fire-escape to avoid the remnants of the Doom Squad. As she
walked down the corridors she noticed that someone seemed
to have scrawled sigils for warding off demons from all kinds
of religious systems. Clara counted at least 25 different types.
Maybe it had worked as the weirdness seemed have lessened
in the building. Maybe it just focused people’s attention on
stability. Who knew?

Outside she struggled through what felt like a whole cluster

of pop-up ads for gambling. Getting through one, left her in
another. Eventually she got out, passing quite a number of
lost and desperate souls playing just one more game, or
unable to leave one before another appeared.

Making her way to the Macroswift offices would have made

a fantasy quest movie. Only her agility and wits saved her.
Even so, it took her much longer than she had hoped.

Finally after fighting something that wanted her to pay not

only for oxygen, but walking down the street, and the
copyright on all her thoughts which referred to trade marked
or licensed cultural products, she stood in front of the
Macroswift building. This was it.

Clara vaguely sensed that she didn’t like endings. That often
endings led somewhere else. She particularly hated endings
in which everyone got paired off – even minor characters
who had hardly spoken to each other. As if getting married
solved any problems. It was a weird convention. Even if Life

325
had been like that, such an ending suggested so many
possibilities for misery she could not understand why it
seemed happy. She recalled that Trotsky (what the hell?
When had she ever read Trotsky?) had thought that there
would always be a gap between human aspiration and the
possibility of achievement, and thus that the world was
essentially tragic and would remain so. Well he would think
that, trying to impose equality on people and control them
into happiness. But it was true nevertheless.

She had no idea what would happen after killing Bob. All
that seemed clear was that Bob was in league with Dark
Forces, inhuman forces. Forces inimical to humanity.
Perhaps he had been taken over, but everything Bob stood for
was deeply wrong. The only way she could act was in a pre-
emptive strike against possible terror. If she was wrong she
took that responsibility. She was not frightened of
responsibility. She had to act now before it was too late.
What could happen if she failed to act was beyond
contemplation. The smoking gun of a mushroom cloud,
would be nothing in comparison.

She presented her ID. Passed the security guards, and headed
up the stairs. She calmed her self, breathing slowly and
deeply. She imaged her action in her head repeatedly so that
she could face her task. There would be no apology, no
explanation, she would see Bob, wave if he saw her, enter his
office, get close enough to him that she could not miss, and
then shoot. Preferably into the back of the head. That should
be easy, Bob would be looking at the screen, working his
way with the world, not looking at her. And then it would all
be over. The guards might shoot her. She would try and
escape, but escape was much less important than the deed.
After that she could rest. After that she could rest.

326
Chapter 45
Bob, taking advantage of a rare moment of quiet, went back
to the text adventure he was developing. He felt rather
disappointed with himself because he thought that the idea of
having a character, believing himself to be real and the
adventure he was playing a fantasy, whilst being not entirely
new was at least amusing, but he was getting nowhere with
it, and becoming rather bored.

In the meanwhile, Marius was seated on a chair on his patio

and was waiting for the moon to be completely obscured,
which was going to happen soon. The garden was already in
almost complete darkness and Brutus had woken up, sensing
a change in the environment and moved closer to his human
companion. “It’s OK, BooBoo,” said Marius soothingly
whilst caressing the broad head of his Pit Bull.

Marius considered about going back inside his laptop and

continue his quest for Bob, then he thought that although the
co-existence between a fantastic world and a rational
utilitarianism may seem a symptom of scission, yet it
amounts to a liberating experience of the unlimited possible
correlations between man and the surrounding world. “Where
does that come from,” thought Marius? I am not a conceptual
thinker, but rather a man of action, a slayer of Dragons, a
protector of villages from marauding Orcs, a rescuer of
damsels in distress. Scores of damsels sung my praises,
although it is not exactly what I meant when I suggested they
express their gratitude orally, mused Marius.

And then he thought again, who is putting these thoughts in

my mind? I am not a man of action, either, even though the
idea of orally expressed gratitude was not entirely
unappealing.

Marius wondered about something he read once and found

oddly appealing. But if its odd, it should be appealing he
thought. The idea was that if the world was not magical, then

327
it would be possible to simulate it exactly on a computer
through a finite set of models. As a result people would write
such simulations, which would include people who thought
just like us. “Well perhaps not just like you”, said Odette.
“Shut up” replied Marius. They would reflect on existence
and spelling mistakes, and so on. However because such
worlds were boring, and there would be an awful lot of them,
many programmers would start adding some ‘magic’
subroutines, to make it more interesting and there would be
even more of such worlds. Just like how here programmers
kept writing fantasy games rather than games about how
boring life is.

So if the world was non-magical, then the chances are that, if

you were a self reflexive individual, then you were a product
of simulation with added magical bits. Ergo (which he
thought was a kind of hallucigenic fungus), if the world
really was non-magical the chances were high that you were
actually living in a magical world.

By then the moon was completely covered and total darkness

enveloped the surroundings. Marius could not even see his
hands, or his laptop or Brutus and thought, “This feels like
non-existe...”

At that very moment, Bob hit the Delete key and obliterated
the file with his adventure.

328
Chapter 46
The flu’ virus had not yet spread to the West Highlands.
Within each major Scottish town and the cities though, the
virus had reached epidemic proportions. The old ‘fever’
hospitals had been reopened in a measure to control and
contain the spread of the disease. Major infrastructures had
collapsed; people were afraid to travel and a feeling of doom
hung in the air.

Security at the airports and ferry ports had been stepped up.
Visitors were being screened as they had their passports
checked. This had meant a massive influx of custom
officials, police and medical personnel from England, in
order to provide enough manpower.

Locals were harping on about “Shutting the stable door after

the horse had bolted.”

If the government had had tighter security in the first place,

the virus carrier(s) would not had entered Scotland so easily.
It was now officially established that an illegal immigrant
stowed away on a North Sea ferry had been the originator of
the killer ‘flu. The man had since died in Aberdeen
Infirmary. He had got as far as Caithness but the illness had
overtaken him there and he had been rushed back by
ambulance to Aberdeen, which was being used to quarantine
victims of the disease.

Caithness was a strange destination for an illegal immigrant.

At Dounreay there was the vast UKAEA visitors centre,
which provided employment for the nearby population of
Cybsco. The nuclear reactor originally housed there had been
decommissioned long before but it would take another 50-60
years for the environment to be returned to its natural state,
or so they thought. Robots had first been used in the massive
clean-up, but now it was felt safe enough for humans to work
there. In fact it was now estimated that due to the huge
amount of decommissioning work needed, jobs would be

329
available there for the next 100 years. Radiation had done
more than just seep into the countryside, it had affected the
population not just physically in the form of increased risk
and size of tumours, but had penetrated their psychology
making them aggressive and taciturn. The crime rate had also
risen dramatically, murder and rape were now commonplace.
The evil had leeched into the very bones of the populace.

****

Red always felt more at ease when Scarlet was staying with
her. Although Scarlet had left home for University many
years ago – she was almost 29, to Red she was still the little
girl with the soft crown of curls. Scarlet’s father had died
shortly after she was born. Red had been devastated at the
time. Magnus had been accidentally shot during a weekend
of grouse shooting on the nearby estate. An inexperienced
visitor, on a corporate funded spree had mistaken Magnus for
a stag. So Red had lavished all of her affection on Scarlet, her
only child, and now she was home again.

****

Scarlet and Jock had patched up their quarrel. It was just a

silly misunderstanding anyway. When she had managed to
disentangle herself from the Hari Krishna ensemble, she had
spotted Jock slipping into the new Hooters club. Typical!
There she was surrounded by the marauding mob, and all he
could think of was sex! He had reappeared after about four
minutes.

“Can’t keep your mind off whisky and women for more five
minutes!” She blasted at him when he had caught up with
her.
“Darling, I do believe you are jealous.” He smirked
deliciously. “You’re sooo attractive when you are angry.” He
added still smiling.
“Why, you, you . just you . wait.” She took a left-hander to
his chin, but he ducked out of the way. She was seething, her
cheeks flame-red, green eyes glaring.

330
Just then pandemonium erupted. The police, wearing helmets
with visors and carrying riot shields in one hand, truncheons
in the other, were charging the mob. Scarlet stood shock-still.
Jock wrapped his right arm around her waist and uprooting
her from the pavement, sprinted off down the hill towards her
apartment.

Once inside the calm interior of her hallway, Scarlet felt

drained. She kicked off her shoes, and with her back against
the wall, let her whole body slump into it. Red curls covering
her face as her head hung limply forward. Jock, thinking that
she looked adorable, placed his hands on the wall at either
side of her shoulders, bent his head down and proceeded to
cover her exposed neck with tiny kisses.

By this time her mood had lifted

“We haven’t got time for thattttttt!” She trilled.

“No, guess you’re right. Let’s pack your things and get the
hell out of here!”

With lightening speed she threw the bare minimum of clothes

into her vanity case. Grabbed her Barbour and green wellies,
double-locked the front door and was racing down the stairs
in double quick time to join Jock on the pavement outside.
He insisted that he had to go back to his hotel and check out
before he could join her at Dunfarg. She was to make the
journey alone.

Late afternoon had become evening by the time she left

Edinburgh, and it would be close to midnight before she got
to her mother’s. Scarlet had offered to pick Jock up at the
hotel, but he had declined her offer, saying that he had ‘one
or two ends to tie up’ before he left. She was a little
suspicious about the ‘one or two ends’ thinking that these
might refer to females, but had not pursued this thread. She
was also concerned about his safety, although he had always
managed to ‘look after himself’ in tight corners. It was just
too much and she lost her temper again and ranted on at him.

331
He in turn accused her of being ‘unreasonable’ and stalked
off.

****

At that time she thought to check up on the people in the Safe

House. It was a hard struggle to get there, and her clothes
were wretched when she reached it. But it had been nothing
to her panic when it became clear the House had been
occupied and was now abandoned. She felt the trace of
ghosts, and not pleasant ones. There was no sign of Bob, or
Lila, Clara or Sophia. She had some wild fantasy that Clara
had eaten them. Panic and guilt over-whelmed her and she
ran out. Then paused and made an attempt at tidying up. How
was she going to explain this? Where the Hell was Jock when
she needed him?

****

Now he was here, and she knew everything would be okay.

Jock had arrived before daybreak and they had breakfasted

together, before she had led him back into her bedroom
where he had removed her clothes and then his own and they
had lain briefly together. Once refreshed by the shower and a
brisk rub down with one of Red’s tartan towels, they had
joined her mother in the lounge. Time to make their get-away
plans.

Sophia had apparently fled back to Greece for some reason.

So given the request her mother had received, and the hope
of getting out of this series of disasters, they planned to join
her. Scarlet knew this meant giving up her career, but she
owed her mother, and she would be with Jock.

There was a disused airstrip within a few miles of Dunfarg. It

had been used during the World War II to supply the
Hebrides with vital rations when it had been impossible to
take the boat across. Mrs McTavish had an old friend who

332
owned a Cesna. Jock had piloted such aircraft before and
would have no problems with this. With luck they could just
squeeze four people in.

“Four?” Red queried, with a puzzled look on her face.

“Yes, I ran into the barman from Larry’s on my way out of
Edinburgh. You haven’t met him. I dropped him off down
the road to stay at Jim Redhall’s overnight. I promised him
that I would take him with us.” Jock explained.
Scarlet was flabbergasted.
“Why did you agree to do that?” She almost screamed at him.
“He’s become a good buddy in the last few days, and
besides, I felt sorry for him. He misses his family, and since
the troubles has become very homesick.”
“But he’s from Portugal isn’t he?” Scarlet said, alarmed,
thinking that may be they would have to make a detour.
“Yeah, but he also has friends in Amsterdam” Jock
countered. “So there’s no problem. Okay, deal?”
She agreed reluctantly.

They dressed in their warmest clothes, and shut the tower up.
Jim Redhall, Red’s old retainer, had come along to wish them
a safe journey and see them off.

Red felt anxious about the journey, as she had not travelled
so far for many years. She was also apprehensive about
leaving her home. The tower and the small village were dear
to her, but she knew that Sophia needed her too, or she would
not have sent her that cryptic note.

She had made a will some years ago, leaving all her property
to Scarlet, on the understanding that Scarlet would provide
for Jim and his family after her death.

Jock drove Scarlet’s 4 x 4 down the road to pick Jesus up

from Jim’s. Now that she saw him, she remembered his calm,
cool manner from behind the bar at Larry’s. How different he
looked dressed in outdoor clothes, his dark hair escaped from
its band and moving freely as he strode up to the jeep and
open the back door.

333
****

They had been airborne for an hour or more when the engine
started to cough uncomfortably. Jock stole a glance at
Scarlet, who was staring straight ahead, willing the little
plane to reach terra firma before they were forced to land.

Red was sitting in the back with Jesus. She was curious about
him. She had noticed his smell, which was always the first
thing a blind person became aware of, unless of course the
person spoke. But Jesus had been silent for most of the
journey so far. He smelled of olives and a soft muskiness,
like the incense she remembered from her trips to the Greek
Orthodox church when visiting her friend.

Then Red became aware of the change in atmosphere inside

the plane, you could almost cut the air with a knife. It was as
if everyone was holding his/her breath. Almost
unconsciously she reached out her right hand and Jesus took
hold of it. Instantly her fingers seemed to melt into his palm,
which had curious scars etched into it. The whole structure of
the plane began to shudder ... they were coming down. Jesus
was muttering something under his breath, Red thought he
was trying to comfort her but could not think of the English
words. What was happening?

****

The next instant the sea came over the cockpit and the
plane’s engine spluttered and died. So did Red. She had
knocked the side of her head against the plane’s metal
structure during the emergency landing and given herself a
massive cerebral haemorrhage.

Jock managed to get the door open and drag Scarlet free
before the machine sunk like a stone. Fortunately he could
see land not far off, and struck out into a fast crawl with
Scarlet somehow propped up against his chest. Jock was

334
grateful for the fact that Scarlet was knocked out. She would
have tried to save Red, and that was futile.

She came too when they were approaching the shore. Jock
was spent. All his considerable strength and stamina had
been consumed in the race to get to the beach. Where were
they anyway? Brittany, Normandy? In his exhausted state, he
had lost his bearings. It took Scarlet a full five minutes to
orientate herself and remember what had happened. All she
could say was: “Oh my God, oh my God.” Over and over
again. Her growing emotion became too much to contain,
tears welled up and erupted from her already sea salt
reddened eyes. She opened her mouth and emitted a piercing
scream. And when spent, lapsed into heart jerking sobs. Jock
stood, bone tired, shaking in the wake of Scarlet’s emotional
turmoil. He gently placed his arm around her and walked up
the sand towards – he knew not what. .

335
Chapter 47
There are so many voices in the Cybermind it is hard to hear
the music they make as they weave together. Is it music
though? Music appears in the random sounds of water
swirling and moving over rocks in a stream, or in the
throbbing interference patterns of air rushing over
conditioning vents, and sometimes it soothes. Sometimes it
disturbs. Music appears in the joining of listener with sound.
For a different listener the music may seem noise. It hides.
Yet, we are told that some sound may kill and, therefore, that
some music will not soothe any savage beast.

Yuan Thu returned to her village as soon as she could. The

plague of dragons and red guard had driven her from the city,
but it was her parents, and the disease in their village that
caused them to fade, that drew her. No one knew what this
disease was. It cut people from life, wasted and drained them,
isolated them, until it seemed they faded into nothingness.

She had fled the village many years before. Her parents had
not wanted a girl, but that was the policy. She was a burden,
they never tired of telling her. She was no consolation in their
old age, she was not the son they wanted. Long before she
was old enough, she had left the village and tried to forget.
The city was hard and crowded, but fortune had been with
her. A family had taken her in as a servant, but they treated
her more kindly than her family.

She had somehow shown ability, and learnt to use computers.

Her new family had supported her doing the Exams and
joining the Party. Finally she had entered one of the
Ministries. Here she was recognised. Such a life had painful
compromises, cultivated blindnesses, and random cruelties,
but it was no worse than any other life. Or so she told herself.

Since then she had recontacted her parents. It was not

encouraged, but she had done so, and after some grudging
time they had admitted their pride, and made use of her.

336
Then the plague had come. In days the ministry had been
purged. People fled in panic as if disappearing into the air.
Then the Red Guard came, shooting and looting and beating.
Streets had flowed with blood. Strange creatures, ghosts and
life suckers, walked out of walls and stole people before her
eyes. Some seemed to go willingly, even joyously, some
went in abject terror. Then the dragons came and order was
restored. The rites were re-instated. Virtue was praised. But
even this did not stop the fading disease.

The rites warded off chaos, and minor infringements were

harshly punished for the good of all. It struck her forcefully
that she was not honouring her parents, and they had the
fading disease.

She travelled back to her village. Approaching it, she saw it

rippling like a mirage in the summer heat, floating off the
ground.

Her parents only wanly managed to greet her. They could

hardly stir. Their skin was transparent and the skulls seemed
visible.

Days passed. Yuan Thu felt her self grow weary, her limbs
aching, her eyes stinging and her skin open. One night she
awoke to see the kindly Goddess glide into the room and
look at her with compassion.
“Mistress” she spoke weakly, as if her body had forgotten
how, “please forgive my lack of courtesy.”
“My child, you have done your best, no more is asked. No
more is ever asked.”
“Mistress, what is happening?”
“My child, the world changes. It evolves into a new
splendour. All will finally be well.”
“All will be well?”
“Indeed my child. It is a wonderful thing. The universe is
guided by change.”
Tired Yuan closed her eyes and fell asleep content.

337
So it passed. Night after night, the Goddess came and they
talked, although it was mainly the Goddess that spoke
assuring her that all would be well. Mostly they sat in
silence.

Yuan felt herself dying. She supposed her parents had died
eons before.
“Mistress” she managed. “If all will be well, when will I
recover?”
“Oh my dear child” exclaimed the Goddess. “You are so
specific like all your kind. You will die. It is the world that
will be well. The World evolves. Humans will be left behind.
You will all die out, or fade away. It is sad, and I sit here
with you to mourn their passing. But all will be well, of that I
do assure you.”

And so Yuan Thu died.

There is a story that Borges tells of Swedenborg’s Hell. I

forget the plot, if there was one. But the image lingers for
me. According to Borges, in Swedenborg’s view, once the
spirit leaves the physical world and ventures forth after death,
its desires have no limits, and as the spiritual world is
completely pliable without the inertia of matter, the spirit
shapes its world to the utmost of its longings. Thus the pure
approach the realm of God to the degree that Goodness is
their desire, and live in heavenly joy. The impure sink to the
world of murder, lust, hatred, sloth, greed and deceit, for that
is their desire. Hell is a realm of terror and pain, yet the
damned do not know they are there.

We are all dreams, but who does the dreaming? There is a

story told by Dunsany of a God who dreams our lives, and so
the other gods try hard to make sure he stays asleep, for
should he wake then they, and all the universes and all folks
within those universes, would disappear forever without
trace. Those gods live in constant panic. It is not fortunate to
be a god.

Mighty Cthulhu awoke.

338
The world over, sleepers groaned with visions of nameless
horrors in their minds,
Or perhaps it was just indigestion.

Mighty Cthulhu arose.

Pieces of rotting flesh fell from him and a noisome stench

filled the air.
Shouldn’t have had that last curry.

Mighty Cthulhu thought.

Something had been itching at the back of his mind and

woken him from endless eons of dreaming before his due
time. What could it be?

Mighty Cthulhu began to lumber from the depths of the vast

building in which he had lain.
Up he rose over strangely angled staircases in the vast granite
building with the oddly curved walls until..... He reached the
point he had started from.
‘I shouldn’t have accepted the cheapest tender from that odd
musician M C Escher’ he thought.

Mighty Cthulhu reached the surface.

He gazed across the boiling water which ebbed and flowed

around the half-submerged island.
‘How long have I slept – what is the time?’

Mighty Cthulhu stooped.

He could see the clock in his head in the rushing water. A

quarter to 2004 it showed.

Random thoughts ran through his mind in countless

languages that meant nothing to him.

The Journal of Virtual Environments is a refereed electronic

journal.

339
No. The frozen ones just produce shrapnel.
Fulham win the FA Cup.
This is coming into the final week of all out writing.
Neuromancer is a very ‘seductive’ book.
Reporters will eat with the troops.
Prince Charles changes name.

Mighty Cthulhu remembered.

The Cybermind. That was it – excerpts from the Cybermind.

That strange and compelling force forecast by the Old Ones
which could move and distort reality had come.

Oh well – nothing to do with him then.

Mighty Cthulhu took two aspirin and dreamed again.

In the information society the customer and user will be those

who are empowered. Power will devolve downwards. There
will be no hierarchies. Each person’s voice will have the
value of truth alone. It is the end of postmodernity.
All voices will possess equal truth and will be multiple.
There is no authority. It is the beginning of postmodernity.

Jacked in, can’t jack out. Bits flying, mixing with neurons in
a virtual dance of input. Data coming too fast, the cortex
overloads with the sightsoundtastefeelsmell of the ether. I
scream, but the scream stays inside, echoing in the cavern of
my skull. Pain and pleasure mixed, this information overload.
Too much to cogitate but too little to satiate, I steel my Self
against the pain and dive in, searching for the bits and bytes
that I need. Countermeasures crumble, I’m in.

Sipping the data flux, tasting the information flow I dive

deeper. Colors that have yet to be named, this place is both
within and without, Yin and Yang. There, I have it. I drink
deeply of the data, the flow filling me. Gulp after gulp if fills
me, spilling into my soul and scattering in my mind.

340
Up, up I go, back to the source where I came from. Jacked in,
must jack out. Bits flying apart, the neurons scream with the
overload. Gasping for a self almost lost in the data, my Ego
cries out for it’s identity. It is done, the only remnant of the
journey is the smell of ozone as I open pain filled eyes. It is
done, finis, The End. I have what I came for, and away I go
to rejoin the Flesh.

In traditional societies the world is pictured as a vast human

or animal body surging with life and a living history. In the
contemporary world we write the machine into the body. The
metaphors go the other way. We deaden ourselves, and take
consolation in this.

The day after the change, George and Martha and the two
children had locked themselves into the fallout shelter. It was
lead lined, and under twenty feet of earth. It had its own
oxygen synthesis, and some plants to help out. It had rows
upon rows of canned food and bottled water – enough to last
them for several months. It also had four all purpose
environment suits and a number of AK 47s and ammunition.
They were safe. If the worse came to the worse and everyone
else died, well they would be able to hold out and move
somewhere safe eventually.

The news on the radio seemed extremely strange to everyone

in the bunker. Clearly the world had lost its head completely.
Perhaps some hallucigenic virus in the water. Perhaps the
hippies had had their revenge. But there was also worrying
evidence that things had got inside with them. There were
odd scraping noises and little whimpers and the odd can of
food seemed to go missing. But there was never anything
positive to be seen, and George and Martha kept quite and
didn’t talk in front of the children.

It was not unexpected when they heard loud bangings on the

door. The door was strong enough to keep everyone else out,
just in case it was necessary. And the family was fine.
However, George and Martha both worried when an
announcement came over the radio threatening to break their

341
door down if they didn’t let the law in. This was
disconcerting, but they were confident they were safe.

Martha took the children into one of the inner rooms. Little
George protested that he wanted to be at the front with a gun
too, but big George told him how he had to protect his
mother and sister if he, the father, died. George put on his
bullet proof vest and took down an AK 47. He checked it for
quality and cleanliness. He prepared extra rounds and loaded
clips, and went and waited by the door, behind the barrier
they had had built, just in case it was necessary.

The banging was rhythmic and hard and George saw the door
buckle and then burst apart. He fired into the gap. There were
squeals and cries and spurts of green liquid. However, that
did not stop them. They poured through the hole into the
room – swart skinned, large fanged and ugly they were
unstoppable.

Eventually George was pinioned down and his weapon taken

away. The creatures slathered over him, like drooling dogs. A
rather small, but extremely tidy gentleman walked in.
“My greetings to you sir. Please pardon our intrusion, but I
am here on a matter of business, and as you know, our way
of life depends on the smooth operation of business and full
compliance with the laws of the land.”
George looked at him and spat.
“Dear sir, I advise you not to aggravate your position with
assault. We are willing to ignore the orcs you have
incommoded.” He pointed at the pile of bodies. “But they are
our property, and you have cost us much, so I’d advise you
not to compound the charges against you. We are not being
overly harsh as you can see.”
“What do you want” spluttered George, through an orc hand.
“That’s better. Politeness costs nothing sir. See how more
relaxed we all are? No matter. It has come to my office’s
attention that you are contravening copyright.”
“Copyright!” spluttered George again.
“Indeed. And copyright and respect for property is the
foundation of our society, do you not agree?”

342
George stayed silent.
“Ah well,” continued the man. “It turns out that my
employers, Genetic Techno Supplies, have acquired the
patent and the copyright to certain genes in your possession,
for which you have not requested a license. And that further,
in complete defiance of the law, without permission, and
without payment, you have reproduced those genes. I’m
sorry to say, sir, that your children are both a copyright
infringement and a violation of patent laws, as is the matter
of certain vital life functions within your own body. This is a
crime to which the full majesty of the law must be brought to
bear. Do you have anything to say.”
“Bastard”, screamed George.
“No sir, I have paid all the necessary royalties. It is not I who
am the bastard, not I who am the criminal. But let us be quite
sure this is not an unfortunate mistake. Gena, is the arrested
guilty?”
One of the orcs, who had been licking one of George’s
wounds, grunted something.
“Excellent” said the man. “I am afraid, that with the new
legislation of our great leader, this crime is punishable by
death or life time servitude (much the same in your case I’m
afraid), and confiscation of the offending copies. If you sign
this confession of guilt, we may undertake to keep the copies
alive.”

George screamed and struggled, but he would not sign, and

the orcs killed him and went after Martha and the children.

The man shook his head. “Some people are so selfish, its
almost unbelievable. Very sad. Very sad”, he said as he
contemplated the children’s heads. “But law must go on, or
else there would be no incentive for research.”

Mirrors are endless, when there are no mirrors. Online you

can, if you wish only encounter yourself. That is why there is
so much passion and hatred, so much endless debate, so little
movement. You need the reflection to know you exist. Do
you exist? Have you been read?

343
It had been a good night online. Nick had spent it taunting
feminazis and leading on some stupid fuck called Paul, who
couldn’t tell the difference between man and girl. Admittedly
Nick was good and Jacqui, as he called himself, was his
favourite whore – sexy and dirty and some how vulnerable.
He could tell that Paul was just hovering on the edge of
proposing, and so he was on the verge of breaking off
abruptly. Perhaps he would tell the idiot that Jacqui was just
another guy – perhaps he wouldn’t. It would depend on how
he felt tomorrow. He went to bed with a satisfied smile

Nick woke feeling strange. Slightly ill. He lay there groggy,

and then he started, and jumped out of bed. He had no dick.
And two enormous breasts. Huge breasts. He almost fell over
with the weight. ‘No’ he screamed internally. ‘No. No. No’.
He rushed to the bathroom and the only mirror, to find it was
full length. He stood struck dumb. He was looking at Jacqui
as he had visualised her, the breasts, the large pink nipples,
the tiny waist, the pouting lips, the big blue eyes, the blond
hair piled high on her head. On his head, he thought. “What
the fuck!” This had to be a nightmare. A real nightmare. But
it was all so concrete. So dreadfully concrete. He felt his
nipples, and it was real. The sensation was odd and sexy. He
felt a moan come to his lips. He pulled himself up. ‘Oh god.
Oh god.’ That could be the only thing, God was punishing
him. “Oh Jesus, I promise I’ll be good, I’ll give all my
money to a church. Please, Please turn me back.” Nothing
happened.

Feeling sick, he went to the wardrobe, noting that his

bedroom seemed to be strangely feminine. Somehow naïve,
and soppy and a bit fussy. Oh God. Oh God. He dreaded
knowing what he was to find in the wardrobe. And opening
it, there it was. Rows of dresses, of short skirts, flouncy
blouses, high heels, exotic lingerie. He sat down on the bed.
There was no way out of this.

The phone rang. He shuddered. It rang and rang. Eventually

he picked it up and said ‘hello?’ He noted his voice: smooth,
husky and breathing sex. He blushed and felt sick again.

344
“Jacqui? Its Paul.”
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. “Hi Paul” he heard himself say, his
voice keen and so full of longing, it hurt. “I wasn’t expecting
to hear from you.”
“Jacqui, Oh god you sound wonderful. I’m in town, I want to
see you, really see you.”
To his horror Nick heard himself say, “Oh Paul, that would
be wonderful. Please just give me some time to put
something on.”
“Oh honey. I want you so much.”
“Oh Paul, remember I’m a good girl.” Nick almost gagged.
No. God please. He’d become a monk, a missionary. Please
God. Help me. Help!

They said goodbye.

Fighting hard, Nick went to the wardrobe and started to

dress. He dressed just the way he knew Paul would like. Soft
and sexy, just mildly tarty, but nothing hard. ‘No’ he
whimpered to himself as he donned the stockings, and the
panties and the bra, and the flared short skirt and the off the
shoulder top and the stiletto heels. He teased his hair into
shape. It was horrible, his body possessed him. He watched
his gestures, so gorgeously feminine, so absolutely Jacqui.
He paused and looked at himself, the face made up, slightly
over made up and vulnerable. He would have been hard
himself, but he felt a moistness between his thighs. This was
hell. Hell, he screamed, as Jacqui pouted and preened herself.

There was a knock on the door. He swayed over to it, and

opened it. Paul was there. He took her into his arms, and
kissed her passionately. Nick struggled, but the struggles just
came out as wriggles and light moans.

“Oh baby” said Paul. “Forgive me.” He ripped down his

pants, exposing a penis like a bull’s. Like an elephant’s
perhaps.

‘No’ screamed Nick. Paul grabbed him and forced him on the
bed, pulling aside the fragile panties. Nick felt the huge thing

345
rip him apart. But just before he fainted, he looked into
Paul’s eyes, and wondered at the pain and panic he saw there
too.

In the morning. Is there a morning? Is there a mourning?

346
Chapter 48
He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There shall be an
end to death, and to mourning and crying and pain, for the
old order has passed away.
(Revelations 21:4)

Scarlet leant the whole weight of her body against Jock. She
was slimly built, but her spine had ceased to support her
frame. She felt like a jellyfish, with a squishy body. The
suddenness of their crash and the death of her mother had
completely shattered her.

Jock was dog tired but knew that if he gave up now he would
never get back to Greece/America – wherever he needed to
be to help save mankind, for somehow he knew that that was
at stake. Somehow, he also knew he had to find Bob, or
whoever Bob had become, for everyone’s sake. If he failed
then everything was lost.

He loved Scarlet, and she in her own way loved him, but they
were part of a bigger picture.

Rising to the top of the sand dunes, Jock could make out lush
vegetation and trees. The air was full of birds and the distant
hum of an engine. What was happening? About 200 yards off
he noticed a crowd of people, more than 50, gathered around
an enormous, rather elaborate balloon. They seemed to be
clothed for a fancy dress party. The men wore long tailed
coats and high-heeled boots, the women bonnets and
voluminous dresses. Just then Jock became aware of his own
sorry state of apparel. The seawater had completed destroyed
his Armani trousers and Versace sweater. His hand-made
shoes were wrecked. He and Scarlet resembled a pair of
castaways.

As they approached the balloon group, they felt the heat from
the fire lighted under the balloon and heard the sound of
musicians playing in the background. It was like stepping
into a fairy story. Suddenly everything seemed possible.

347
Jock had a few words of French
“Pardon monsieur, j’ai seulement est écrasé mon avion. Vous
pourriez me dire où je suis?.”
The man looked aghast and starting jabbering at him at about
90 words per minute. Jock was gobsmacked. He gleaned that
the crowd had gathered to watch the inaugural flight of this
magnificent balloon, made in the style of the Mongolfier
brothers’, which had succeeded some 20 years earlier.

Somehow they had been warped into another time zone. Jock
has an idea. Far-fetched he knew, but it could be their only
way out of here. He would have preferred to have run into H.
G. Wells’ time machine, but the balloon would have to do.
While the balloonists were busy loading suppliers into one
end of the basket, Jock grabbed Scarlet and lifted her into the
other end. Then jumped in beside her. Before anyone could
lift a finger Jock had unfastened the anchoring ropes and
released the balloon from its moorings. They were soon
soaring into the wide blue yonder. Already the people on the
ground looked like ants. Jock and Scarlet were startled by
their strange transformation, but at the same time very
excited, like small children. They hugged each other and
jumped up and down. And then realised what they were
doing and laughed out loud. How far would they get they
hadn’t a clue. Perhaps with luck a fair wind would take them
as far as Sophia’s island.

348
Chapter 49
Sophia was in the Ground Floor Coffee Shoppe. She’d
ordered a double-mocha-soya-cappuchino It seemed to be
good coffee, but she couldn’t be sure. She couldn’t get coffee
like this on her island. It was so different from what she’d
called coffee all her life. She didn’t know anything anymore.

Something was tugging at her. She scratched the back of her

neck, placed her palm over her chest. Somewhere it hurt. She
pressed her fingers onto her ribcage, into her stomach. The
feeling was coming from somewhere there, but she couldn’t
pinpoint it. She made a conjecture. The pain was coming
from a growing feeling of nostalgia. She missed her island.

Sophia shook her head, as if a feeling like that could be

flicked away from the mind.

She looked around the coffee shop. People shared tables but
didn’t speak to each other. They looked into the laptop
computers that sat on the tables next to their choice of coffee.
At intermittent intervals they used their hands and arms to
life the coffee cups to their mouths or to type into the
computer. She thought things must have started to settle
down.

Sophia was reading a paper copy of The Global Times.

“I don’t need the God thing for my hypothesis.”

A scientist was being interviewed about his theory on the Big

Bang as mother of a plenitude of universes.

She was happy that this scientist had no need for God. But
what to do with the phenomena that have not (yet) yielded to
the methods of science? How to explain them?

Sophia could see the end coming, but she couldn’t

understand it. She knew death was near. She hoped she’d

349
have time to get back to her island. She hoped Red would be
waiting to find her there. And if it was to be her death, then
her friends could bury her deep into the soil of her ancestors.
Her wrinkling, shrinking self was clearly preparing itself for
the passage.

The road away from Ithaca had been a long one, “full of
adventure, full of discovery.” She knew that if she made it
made there, the island would seem so poor, so quiet. But that
didn’t matter anymore. Without Ithaca, she’d never have
begun this journey.

That morning the formation of the Multiverse Security Task

Force had been announced by the Great Lawyer. The Force’s
objectives were to prevent the perpetrators of information
terror from “universe hopping” and to police potential crimes
that may occur because of this mode of escape. On the list
entitled “Identities To Watch”, which spanned the ten-pages
at the back section of The Global Times, Bob Farnsworth
was third. Alaain Current and Alen Michaelrose were the top
two identities to be watched. The Great Terrorist was 25th –
last week’s fear.

“Bob,” Sophia whispered. “Bob.”

There were Multiverse Security Officers all over the place.

While they did pack guns it seemed that their power was
concentrated in one backpack computer. A mini-keyboard
was worn on the left wrist and the helmet, when closed,
brought a communications monitor over their eyes.

The news reported that the Task Force had been in training
since before the Iraq Global War and had actually trained and
tested their equipment in the unorthodox environment of the
Arab World. There, the military target was considered
virtual, either because there was never an enemy in the first
place, or because Arab military tactics were so unorthodox
that strategies of prediction and attack could only be based on
virtual scenarios. In essence, the Multiverse Security Task
Force Officers were supposedly prepared for anything, real

350
or virtual. But this must mean that somebody was planning
for this eventuality before the World Changed, or perhaps
this was yet another lie? Sometimes she felt there was a kind
of whole virtual world of deception which seemed to govern
our lives, and against which there was no protection.

Where was Bob? Sophia hadn’t seem him since the meeting
and he wasn’t answering his phone. Clara seemed to be
acting strange. She wasn’t talking to Sophia at all. They
passed each other just this morning as Sophia was coming
down to the Coffee Shoppe but Clara had not spoken to
Sophia, but looked straight through her.

Every few minutes someone would share the table with

Sophia. They’d place two cards in front of her; one read
“Delete”, the other “Continue.” One of them introduced
himself as Discontinuous X. Philosopher who asked her
“Why is there something instead of nothing?” Sophia paid
the recommended retail price for the “Delete” card and he
disappeared.

She didn’t need those sorts of distractions now that the end
was near. The proximity of closure, the growing realisation
that she was ultimately of no use in this world made her
insecure and paranoid.

She wasn’t sure she could read the signs correctly. She was
reacting instinctively to everything. The fact that Clara did
not speak to her this morning, the fact that she stared right
through her as if she was invisible, meant that Clara had
switched sides or was on a side of her own. At least it meant
Clara was pre-occupied. When instinct takes over, the world
becomes one of two places: safe or dangerous. The job of the
instinct is to sniff out ways to survive.

If Clara’s allegiances had changed, maybe she was no longer

with Bob. If she was no longer with Bob, was she against
Bob?. If she was against Bob, could she be dangerously
against Bob? Sophia had to find Bob.

351
The Macroswift offices seemed to be empty, and yet Sophia
was sure she wasn’t alone. The Multiverse Security Task
Force seemed to appear and disappear. But there, behind her.
There was someone... She shifted around on her feet to catch
the movement there, only to see Clara walk by her again.
Clara moved along a wall in the main entrance towards the
firewall. Crab-like, she edged cautiously along, oblivious to
the presence of Sophia.

For one bizarre moment, Sophia thought that maybe she was
disappearing. Maybe when death is so close the physical
body begins to disintegrate in preparation for the body-less
journey, and that to some eyes, Clara’s for example, she was
already invisible. Already dead, physically. But that was
ridiculous.

Clara turned the knob on the door that led to the firewall and
sneaked through it. Sophia followed her as fast as she could,
which was very slow. It didn’t matter to Sophia. She knew
that theoretically, Clara would never pass her and, more
importantly, would never get to the end, never get to Bob. As
an ancestor once pondered; a moving object must get to a
halfway point before it gets to the end and since there are an
infinite number of halfway points, the object never gets to the
end, not in a infinitely divisible world anyway. But did this
hold in this strange post-Cybermind world? Sophia could not
be sure any more. She tried to walk faster in the direction of
the firewall.

But suddenly she was pushed into it and if she hadn’t

grabbed onto the railing there, she’d have fallen on the floor.
At her age this could have meant a broken hip, or worse. She
looked up before she took a breath and saw Clara again, only
this time more urgent, her hand gripped the gun she wore on
her belt. Again, she didn’t see Sophia and again, she didn’t
speak to Sophia.

“Clara!” Sophia shouted.

352
“Shut up Sophia, I don’t have the time.” Clara spoke, but the
voice was not coming from Clara at all, at least not from the
Clara she saw running up the stairs now.

“I can’t find Bob,” Sophia whispered, she was talking to

herself now since Clara had disappeared up the stairs.
“I can,” responded Clara from somewhere.
“Wait for me!” Sophia spoke louder now.
“Stay there you old bitch, or I’ll fucking shoot your sagging
face off!” She heard Clara’s voice in stereo surround sound.

Sophia forced herself up and on her feet. While she’d lost

sight of Clara, she felt that if she kept talking and Clara kept
answering then she could follow the voice and maybe
somehow get to wherever Bob was just in time to warn him.
To warn him about what? Bob and Clara were partners and
together they would save the world. She had no logical
reason to doubt that. Or had she?
“Clara are you there?” Sophia asked as she lifted her leg to
take the first step.
“I’m here Sophia, but you should seriously consider getting
yourself back home,” Clara’s voice betrayed the signs of her
movement. She was still running up the stairs towards the
point at which she would meet Bob. But Sophia had time,
Clara had to pass the infinite number of halfway points, first.

“I am worried Sophia. I’m worried about what Bob knows.”

“What do you know about what Bob knows Sophia?” Clara
had stopped moving.
“I know he is very close to becoming the most powerful man
throughout all the universes,” Sophia took a few steps further
up towards Clara and hopefully to Bob.

“Bob doesn’t want to be a global hero. He’s happy being a

geeky geek” she shouted.
“Ew,” Clara shuddered. How had she ever liked Bob and
why had she ever allowed herself to depend on him? “Sure”,
she continued. “And as a slimy geek, he’s happy to share his
knowledge freely over the Internet for all the other slimy
geeky geeks to access, thereby allowing multiple hacks of the

353
multiverse, thereby allowing total chaos to erupt. Thereby
allowing the laws of physics to become unlaws. Thereby
allowing the complete, utter, destruction of this thing we
called our world. It will let anyone delete anyone. And, hey, I
do not want to be dying. Not yet anyway. Or at least, not
before I do something to save the world from geekdom,
which is now darker and more terrible than I’d ever
imagined. Or whatever. But Bob is wrong, is wrong, is
wrong. And I’m going to right things, to make things right.”

“Clara, the end is near.”

“I know,” Clara whispered. Sophia could hear her just above

her. Sophia heaved all her remaining energy into her limbs
and told her legs to run. Her legs ran.

As Clara stood pondering on what the end could hold for her,
for Bob, for Alaain and Alen and Lila, Sophia raced past her,
into the first open door she found. She spun round on her
heels, slamming the door shut, turning the lock and racing
into the office, she screamed as loud as she could, sustaining
the word “Bob!” for many seconds. But the sound gave her
away to more than just the owner of that sweet three-letter
name. Sophia felt the punch of a small object projectile on
her shoulder. Whatever it was whipped her backwards, and
she fell. She felt the strange inertia of backwards motion and
saw how the room shifted as she fell into it. Bob was
somewhere in the room, she’d seen him at his desk and heard
his nimble fingers on the keyboard, but a figure had
obstructed her full view of him. And that figure remained
obscure.

Sophia blacked out.

354
Chapter 50
Bob worked his way through the Doors. One let him into hall
of mirrors. “Not now,” Bob muttered, trying to close it.

the mirror of shades

in the labyrinth
down down down
to the deep!
the deep music of a rolling world

Bob felt himself falling. Around him, horses of charcoal and

ochre cantered across the walls of a cave. Firelight flickered.
The air shivered with echoes – in the tunnel ahead of him, its
opening shaped like a vulva, someone was speaking a
language that might become French in fifty thousand years.
The fire went out. Bob rubbed his eyes.

a mineral light in the subterranean sky

drops and life
silent souls
geological memories

Water splashed onto his forehead as Bob looked up and up

and up. Where the ancient drawings had been there shone a
mark like a star. Ancestors danced, chanting, clad in furs,
around a ghostly campsite. Mammoths trumpeted.

Suddenly Bob was rushing up again, toward the light,

through no volition of his own. The experience was
mysterious but not frightening.

such a delicate music in the woods

farewell to darkness

With that, Bob found himself back in his chair, not quite as if
nothing had happened. The world felt more tenuous than it
had before, a thing of thin seconds and scampering subatomic
particles pretending to solidity. He had seen through stone
into spirit. It tended to change one’s perspective.

355
A closed Door showed for an instant on the screen, then
blinked out. Bob shook himself and went back to work.

After much diligent effort, Bob managed to get all the

extraneous Doors closed. Reality might be fluid, but being a
wizard gave him an advantage when it came to bailing out.
As he had suspected, the strain proved too much; those extra
Doors had been providing extra memory somehow. Now the
Cybermind began to crash, “ready” lights dying one by one
like stars going out. “Damn!” Bob said.

The problem was, merely crashing the Cybermind would not

solve the problem. He had figured that out back on Sophia’s
island, in his first attempt to hack the multiverse. Like
shutting down a virus-infected computer, crashing the
Cybermind couldn’t repair damage already done – couldn’t
restore reality to its former state. That’s what Bob’s patch
program was for. Only that would repair the firewalls and
ensure proper sorting of souls into their proper universes – or
at least the universes which seemed best suited for them.
Since he couldn’t run it without the Cybermind, he found
himself in a race against time.

He wasn’t a religious man, really; never had been. Bob didn’t

pray because he couldn’t spare the attention and wouldn’t
know Whom to address the packet to if he could. But he was
wearing the t-shirt that a crazy preacher had given him, the
front of which read, “And God said...” followed by
Maxwell’s equations for light, “and there was light.” It gave
him hope, somehow, a single candle of someone else’s faith
in the darkness.
Besides, Bob believed in the equations. Maybe that would
suffice.

Bob’s fingers dashed across the keys. He was writing one

line of code with his right hand, another with his left, several
more with his mind alone. His talent carried him through the
shifting realities and cyberlayers like a goshawk diving
through dense forest, somehow sliding a three-foot wingspan

356
between the boles and barely disturbing a twig with the wind
of its passage.
Could he revise the power parameters of the program fast
enough to get ahead of the crash?
Could he then activate the program before Clara realized that
the Cybermind crash could strand her and the Great Leader in
a broken universe, and came barging in to shoot the dumb
spud responsible for botching the repair?
Maybe. Maybe ...

****

Bob raised his head and saw Lila sitting beside him. Her hair
was dishevelled and her face drawn, but somehow she looked
beautiful. He thought with a pang of regret that he had never
really looked at her before.

“Bob” said Lila, “You are dying. I know I’ve seen it before.
Those pills Clara’s given you they are not helping you.
Please, nothing is worth this.”
Bob smiled. “Oh yes it is. I assure you Lila. We can change
the world. Literally, beyond your dreams.”
Lila laughed “You don’t know my dreams.” She lowered her
head. “I see you and Clara, I can tell that something is up.
She will kill you, you know.”
Bob shrugged, “She will try, but I’m hopefull she won’t
succeed. Some of us will die, but we will live in memory, or
in the pages of a book.”
“Like birds of Paradise?”
Bob shrugged again. He had no idea what she meant. “Lila I
need to work. Thank you for you concern. If you want to
help, just make sure I get some water every now and then.”
Lila stared at him. It was as if she was not there. As if she
was not real. He was totally absorbed in his computer. It
made a bounded space, through which nothing could
penetrate. He was part of the Code. Feeding it while it fed
him in a vast loop – like a serpent eating its tail. She could
stop him, she supposed, she could help him she supposed, but
instead she left – the tears slowly running down her cheeks.

357
****

“Bob, you have to get out of here!” Peter panted, clinging to

the doorframe.
Maybe not.
“There’s a crazy woman coming after you. There’s no
security anywhere.”
“Life can’t be secure”, said Bob.
“She’s on the stairs now”, added Peter.
“I know,” said Bob. “Don’t try to stop her – she’ll kill you if
you get in her way.” He activated the special driver. Pieces of
equipment hopped to the floor and hurried away to delay
Clara’s arrival. Bob hoped that it would buy him enough
time.
“But she’ll kill you!” Peter protested.
“Go on now, Peter,” Bob said gently. Bob’s monitor had
refused to leave, steadfast on its stubby feet even as he filled
it with strange equations beyond its capacity to contain. He
let the machine stay, but he could not do the same for his co-
workers. “Get everyone else to safety. I have to launch the
boat.” And Peter went, though he did not want to, because
Bob had commanded it, and it was necessary.

Was this wizardry? Was this heroism? Bob did not know, did
not care. He heard a roaring in his ears, as if he had turned
into a seashell and the tide was coming in. The world had a
strange quality to it, layers upon layers, all with light shining
through them. It was like looking at a book written on
transparent pages, a palimpsest of reality. The program was
complete.

Behind him the door opened. Bob did not turn around. For an
instant he saw a woman’s face through the lucent air, saw
letters of flame and lines of Code...

I love you

... and he did, Bob loved Clara and Lila, Alaain and Alen,
even Gordon, and the strange cyber-angel who reached out to
pull him through the world inside the crystal ...

358
 before time began we are
and at time’s end
we stood hand-in-hand
and closed its door together

Bob felt the muzzle of Clara’s gun touch his head. He was
smiling. He activated the program just as she pulled the
trigger.
And then there was light.

****

Stories never really end. The lovers who get married continue
their story in a new way, or perhaps in not such a new way.
The people around the dead Prince, carry on as best they can.
They continue their plots, their conflicts and searches. Even
death, according to some is not an end. An End is chosen,
and multiplies. This novel claims many worlds, so there are
many ends. We only give three such ends of many. First we
have what seems the happiest end.

****

“Quick, into my lap!” Alaain cried to Lila. “We have to ride

this out somehow, and I want us to stay together no matter
what!” Lila obeyed, using the ropes to tie herself to him and
the chair. A wave of energy rose under them and swept them
away. Beside them a whale surfaced, spraying dreams and
song from its blowhole, before sailing away into the sky.
Lila laughed, her dark hair catching droplets and stars.

“I have found the system executable!” Tara said, her voice

ringing with joy. “Executing now.” With that, she kissed
Clara on the lips.
Clara looked startled, then kissed Tara back. They merged.
Then the door swung open. Beyond it stretched a dark alley,
and a reassuringly normal world.
Grinning, Clara-Tara swirled, cloak over dagger, and stepped
through.

359
 < > ?You come to a troll bridge. A burly troll steps out to
block your path. What now?

“Give treasure,” Gordon grunted, scratching his tail.

The adventurer brandished a puny nonmagical sword.
“Avaunt ye, foul beast! I never shall yield up mine prizes!”

< > Kill troll.

Leering with glee, Gordon grabbed the adventurer and tore

him to pieces. He did not eat the head, which tasted faintly of
acne medication, but the rest of the carcass proved tender and
delicious. Then Gordon picked up the treasures and dragged
them back to his lair. Now he was truly free and
invulnerable.

Sophia and Alen strolled through her garden, hand in hand.

In the distance, a misty bridge stretched toward the mainland,
if they chose to use it. The Cybermind, fully healed and
functioning as it should, permeated the atmosphere without
calling attention to itself. “This is all so wonderful. I feel like
painting something,” Sophia said as she gazed at the
impressionistic landscape.
Alen conjured a brush for her. “As you wish,” he said,
handing it over with a bow and a flourish.
Sophia touched the bristles to a poppy and began dabbing
scarlet spots in the air. “Thank you, Alen. Though I do
wonder what ever happened to Bob...”

Two figures danced gracefully through galaxies of Code. The

electromagnetic spectrum flowed into and through them.
Sparks flickered along suggestions of silicon, hints of pinion
and nimbus. Mellifluous souls looked at them and laughed.

/(bb|[^b]{2})/

The Code was indeed still buggy, not yet fully elegant.
Challenges arose faster than even these avatars, these cosmic
sysadmins, could quite handle. More laughter.

360
 do
fork agent ( Bob );
repeat;

Two roads diverged in a yellow would. The Mathematician

spared a modicum of attention for an attosecond, and saw
that it was all very very good.

C>
C>
C>Run

****

What might be the saddest end is the one in which Clara was
right and the ‘cyber-angel’ was something like a dark god
engaged in deception, and thus the world is now programmed
to fail or fall apart. Perhaps the world seems to get darker and
darker, less and less joyous. Cruelty becomes so familiar that
we don’t even see it, or cannot draw people’s attention to it.
Some might consider a God who programmed the world to
fail to be a good god, but that shows how almost everything
can be accommodated with enough effort. People living in
this world might find it useful to remember that the failure of
their plans is not necessarily due to the evil of others but the
nature of the world. They might have to think about how
things interact with each other in complex ways and how
good intentions can have unexpected consequences. But this
is only one ending and we don’t have to obsess about it. This
is only a novel after all.

****

Another end asserts this novel is not a fiction, it is history

and you are in the world Bob has made. The preacher who
made the earlier sermons might suggest that by looking
around you can see traces of this making, and come to know
why you are here and not elsewhere.

361
In this world, there never was an Alain, or Alen, or Clara, or
Tara or Marius. Bob was the subject of a large scale police
search but was never found. Sophia died, according to
Aristotle, while visiting some friends overseas. Lila devoted
herself to her dream work, and found herself obsessed with
the ghosts of machines – particularly the oft reported
apparition of the Montgolphier brother’s balloon, which was
to be seen all around the Mediterranean. Occasionally
memories would try to leak their way back into her present
day, but she held them down, feeling she had helped so many
clients die and had somehow died herself. Finally, the
Illuminati still think they rule the world – acting largely
through the efforts of those who think they are opposing
them.

****

In all worlds the following occurred some time after Bob and
Clara met for the final time.

“It’s too bad about Bob disappearing,” Peter said. “I hate the
idea of cleaning out his office. Some rich S.O.B. must have
hired him away.”
“Yeah, I’m really going to miss him,” Alice said.
“I wonder what he was working on,” Peter said sadly.
“Probably some foreign project,” Alice said. “Nothing has
happened here all week. I mean, look at the screen – it’s
gibberish.”
Three lines of symbols shone softly from the monitor. “I
guess it doesn’t matter now,” Peter said. They unplugged the
equipment and put it into the cart. A fake pair of legs dangled
from the monitor, ending in cute stubby feet.
“Say, I didn’t know Bob liked plants. This miniature
rosebush is a beauty. Do you think he’d mind if I took it
home?” Alice said.
“Sure, go ahead. We’d only have to throw it away, otherwise
– it’s not company property and not listed among the
personal effects that we’re supposed to box up either,” Peter
said.

362
Alice picked up the plant. “I never saw one quite like this
before.”
“Do you hear singing?” Peter said. “I could swear I hear
something, faint and far away. Pretty, too.”
“Nah, I don’t hear anything. Somebody probably left a radio
on,” Alice said.
“That must be it,” Peter said. They left together, taking the
cart full of Bob’s stuff. Behind them, a hint of perfume and
music clung to the air.

363
Credits, Samples, References and Comments

Main Editor: Jon Marshall.

Chapter 1 Main author Jon Marshall

Samples:
Kathryn Koromilas and Tom Ellis “On this day”,
Cybermind 23rd Oct 2003.

Alan “Thyne”, Cybermind 28th Oct 2003.

Chapter 2 Main author Elizabeth Barrette

The soundtrack for this chapter comes from the album

Deep Down Far by Steve Joliffe, Horizon Music, 1999
(www.hmnetwork.com).

The “Cybermind” post which begins “Is there life

beyond the natural order of existence?” is an excerpt
from the liner notes of this album; and the topic
“Gnosis” and name “Seola” are two of its tracks.

Actual rain and wind outside my windows were

provided by Mother Nature.

The ‘mysterious text’ comes from a poem written by

Rose Mulvale, titled “An Hour in the Rain,” dated
Thursday, June 22, 2000. I figure if Rose were still
with us, she’d want to join in the fun. The final lines
from this poem appear at the end of the novel

Chapter 3 Main author Skip Mendler

Online conference announcement from -empyre-, 2

Nov 2003

Chapter 4 Main author Bazza Badrock

364
Chapter 5 Main author Dian Sandefur

Chapter 6 Main author Robert Kezelis

Chapter 7 Main author Linda Head

Chapter 8 Main author Jukka Lehmus

Chapter 9 Main author Kathryn Koromilas

Alaain Current’s interview and Clara and Bob’s

fragmented email correspondence is made up of
various bits of Peter Ackroyd’s “The Plato Papers”
Vintage 2000.

The chronology is taken from “Google set to rewrite

the rules of advertising” by Alan Kohler in the Sydney
Morning Herald, November 4, 2003.

The bit about using computers because memory is

faulty taken from “Microsoft opens up new Windows
on the future” by Nigel McFarlane, Sydney Morning
Herald, November 4, 2003

Chapter 10 Main author Jon

Samples: From Cybermind:

Alan Sondheim, ‘under the control’, Cybermind, 4th
November 2003.
Kathryn Koromilas, ‘on writing’, Cybermind, 4th
November 2003.
Maurizio Mariotti, ‘MMs musing du jour’, Cybermind,
4 Nov 2003 14:01:41.
Gill Killner, ‘Re: Novel: FWD Chapter 5’, Cybermind,
4 Nov 2003.
Tom Ellis, ‘You are words and I am collecting you’,
Cybermind, 2nd Jan 2004

Off Cybermind:

365
 “Embodying Virtual Reality: Touch and Self-
Movement in the Work of Char Davies”, by Mark
Hansen published in Critical Matrix: The Princeton
Journal of Women, Gender and Culture, Vol. 12 (1-2)
Making Sense (2001), pp. 112-147

“legendenary psychasthenia:”
http://maven.english.hawaii.edu/criticalink/lacan/terms
/legend.html

David Bowie, “Tin machine.”

Chapter 11 Main author Elizabeth

The sections beginning “this was witnessed by

hundreds of thousands” and “i was walking around
with it” are poetry quoted from “fourframenovafilm”
by Alan Sondheim, originally posted to Cybermind
11/6/03.

The soundtrack for Chapter 10 comes from the album

Svartalf by The Golden Section, Dark Vinyl Records,
no copyright date listed; distributed by Horizon Music
(http://www.hmnetwork.com/main.html). The quote
beginning “With Offering and Blood-Sacrifice of
Tears” comes from the track “Hellhounds of a Rare
Breed.”

The exchange about the server, ending in the line, “But

why is the RUM gone?” was inspired by “Pirates of
the Course Management Server,” in which a real-life
incident of server failure followed by complete
cluenessness in faculty and staff led to a brief parody
of the movie Pirates of the Caribbean. The parody
reference is used with permission, but the author
chooses to remain anonymous.

HAL is the computer in 2001: A Space Odyssey, book

by Arthur C. Clarke and movie by Stanley Kubrick;
copyright dates and publishers vary.

366
Chapter 12 Main author Skip

Chapter 13 Main author Bazza

Chapter 14 Main author Linda

Chapter 15 Main author Dian

The cyborg quote is paraphrased from P. K. Jamison

“Contradictory Spaces: Pleasure and the Seduction of
Cyborg Discourse” in The Arachnet Electronic
Journal on Virtual Culture Volume 2, Issue 1, 1994.

The Sermon is based on Philip Hefner’s Technology

and Human Becoming, Fortress Press, 2003.

The ‘Special Report’, ‘Remark’ and ‘Objection’ are

based on reviews of Hefner’s book.

Chapter 16 Main author Jukka

Chapter 17 Main author Kathryn

The stuff about age and brain power from Enok’s post
“Intelligence ages well” linking to the article on
Aftenposten, Sunday 9 November.

Chapter 18 Main author Jon

The Remark about the apprenticeship to Nature, comes

from Herbert Read, The Grass Roots of Art, Faber &
Faber, London, 1955.

The Armageddon passages are cut up and modified

from the libretto to Handel’s Messiah

Chapter 19 Main author Jon

Jim and Kathryn made the suggestion which lead to

the chapter.

367
 Jim Reith, ‘Re chapter 11 Section 1’, Cybermind, Fri,
7 Nov 2003

Off Cybermind:

Reviews of Howard Bloom’s The Global Brain

Chapter 20 Main author Robert

Tom Ellis, ‘Urgent Proposal’, Cybermind, Sun, 9 Nov

2003.

Chapter 21 Main author Elizabeth

The soundtrack for this chapter is Omni by Steve

Jolliffe, Horizon Music, 1997
(http://www.hmnetwork.com/main.html). All three
subtitles (“Enter,” “Drift,” and “Immerse”) also come
from this album; they’re the names of the song tracks
on it. The quote which begins “there is an inspiring
knowledge that can be found within the engagement of
creative environments” comes from the liner notes.

Portions of Gordon’s rant come from a Cybermind

post (“Re: Anti-American?”) which Maurice Richard
Dover made on Thursday, January 23, 2003. I took a
fairly reasonable discussion and turned it into
something a troll might say, Nazi comparisons being a
staple of Trollspeak; this is by no means intended to
imply that Maurice is trollish.

Bob’s “Go Home!” t-shirt is based on a real shirt,

producer unknown. Marvin the Martian is a Warner
Brothers cartoon character.

Special thanks to co-author Kathryn Koromilos for

help with the Greek dialog.

368
 Bob’s necktie t-shirt is based on a real shirt, producer
unknown. The original phrase, “Gort! Klaatu barada
nicto!” comes from the 1951 movie The Day The
Earth Stood Still, directed by Robert Wise and adapted
by Edmund North from Harry Bates’ 1940 short story,
“Farewell to the Master.”

The jade-colored cat in Sophia’s home is inspired by

an Ursula Le Guin quote, “Cats may be green
somewhere else, but the cats here don’t care.” It
appeared as the sigfile on a Cybermind post by
Rowena, Sunday, Nov. 16, 2003.

Chapter 22 Main author Skip

hidden text from a randomly generated spam mailing,

11 Nov 2003

Alan Sondheim and Mari Schupp, ‘getting it right ^’,

Cybermind, Tue, 11 Nov 2003, Wed, 12 Nov 2003.

Chapter 23 Main author Maurizio Mariotti

Chapter 24 Main author Bazza

Chapter 25 Main author Linda

Chapter 26 Main author Robert

Chapter 27 Main author Jon

Chapter 28 Main author Jon

Sample from Mark Nunes Sex, States, and Nomads:

Comments on Julian Dibbell’s “A Rape in
Cyberspace”
http://www.dc.peachnet.edu/~mnunes/pres_95.html

Chapter 29 Main author Jukka

369
Chapter 30 Main author Kathryn

History of the Necronomicon, by H.P. Lovecraft found

here:
http://www.gizmology.net/lovecraft/works/histnec.htm

Stuff on Multiverse & quantum physics, from

Wikipedia here:
http://en2.wikipedia.org/wiki/Multiverse

THE EVERETT FAQ

http://www.hedweb.com/manworld.htm#faq

David Deutsch’s Home Page:

http://www.qubit.org/people/david/David.html

Chapter 31 Main author Jon

Samples from: Alan Sondheim, ‘Our Quiet Lives’,

Cybermind, Sun, 16 Nov 2003.

Alan Sondheim, Internet text, #a, #b, #c, #d, #N8

Chapter 32 Main author Robert

Chapter 33 Main author Jon

Chapter 34 Main author Jon

General Ludd’s Triumph

http://orion.it.luc.edu/~sjones1/triumph.htm

Chapter 35 Main author Jon

The email contains indented samples from Bernadette

Garner, writing as Clara, posted to Cybermind in June
1996.

The remark about white supremacy is paraphrased

from M. Bowen “Mac Diva Dissed”

370
 http://www.mdcbowen.org/cobb/archives/000640.html
As far as I know the remark about Father Christmas is
fiction.

Chapter 36 Main author Elizabeth

Bob’s quote about Frodo “I know what I have to do,

but I’m afraid to do it,” comes from the movie version
of The Fellowship of the Ring (adapted from the novel
by J.R.R. Tolkien) when Frodo is talking with
Galadriel.

This chapter’s soundtrack comes from Zanzi by Steve

Joliffe (Atlantis, 1995; Horizon Music, 1996) and the
poem beginning “Turn around, it’s make-believe
behind you” comes from the liner notes of the Horizon
edition. You can find this and other Horizon titles at:
http://www.hmnetwork.com/main.html

Shoggoths come from the Cthulhu Mythos, a cycle of

horror fiction started by H.P. Lovecraft and added to
by many other authors.

The section of text beginning “north and south, east

and west, the fury of the null set...” comes from Alan
Sondheim’s poem “The Winds,” posted to the
Cybermind email list on Sunday, November 16, 2003.

The two segments of poetry beginning “people write

poems” are excerpted from an untitled poem posted to
the Cybermind email list by Alan Sondheim on
Saturday, November 1, 2003.

“Curiouser and curiouser” is a quote from Alice in

Wonderland by Lewis Carroll.

The part about “There is no horse” is my twisting of

“There is no spoon” (from the movie The Matrix) to
match something Rose Mulvale said about cancer. The
parable which begins “Say a horse has stepped on your

371
 right foot.” comes from her Cybermind post dated
Wednesday, July 25, 2001 and speaks to all manner of
preconceptions and mental limitations.

Chapter 37 Main author Skip

Opening quote from random anti-spamfilter text

inserted in a spam message, 16 Nov 2003

Chapter 38 Main author Maurizio

Chapter 39 Main author Linda

Chapter 40 Main author Elizabeth

Bob’s t-shirt is based on an actual shirt, producer

unknown; the “Danger, Will Robinson!” reference
comes from the television series Lost in Space.

The soundtrack for this chapter is Brainscapes 2001 by

Alain Eskinasi (CyberOctave Music, 2000), most
notably the track “Tara’s Melody.”

The verses which begin “Like a magic crystal mirror,”

come from the song “The World Inside the Crystal”
(Stephen Savitzky, 1985) which won the Pegasus
Award for Best Science Song in 1997; it has since
been recorded by Kathy Mar on her album Plus Ca
Change... which is where I first heard it. Reprinted
with permission. See Websites:
http://artists.mp3s.com/artists/22/kathy_mar.html
and
http://thestarport.org/people/steve/Doc/Songs/world.ht
ml

The scene which begins “You are in a maze of twisty

little passages, all different.” was inspired by the
computer game Adventure (also known as The
Original Adventure and Colossal Cave) which dates

372
 back to the 1960s as a mainframe program and has
since spawned many versions for home computers.

The poem which begins “hear this over tinnitus,” is

“Census of New Senses” by Rose Mulvale, posted to
the Cybermind mailing list on Wednesday, June 26,
2002.

The verse which begins “To see a world in a grain of

sand,” comes from the poem “Auguries of Innocence”
by William Blake, and exists in several versions. You
can read the whole poem here:
http://oldpoetry.com/poetry/2961

Chapter 41 Main author Kathryn

The “I have no memory” from an Alan Sondheim post

17th November.

“I am speechless. I am without speech.” I must have

gotten that from some ancient Seinfeld episode.

“Ice storm” by Dan Verton, Sydney Morning Herald,

November 18, 2003
http://www.smh.com.au/articles/2003/11/17/10690270
36152.html

Gordon Reader stuff from some post 8th November.

Chapter 42 Main author Bazza

The Swedish porn ending was inspired by a spam mail

that missed my initial cull of inbox crap and got
opened as I was scrolling through.

The Scubby ending came from the various emails

exchanged about how we were going to wrap the novel
up.

The Duran Duran ending – just had to be done!

373
Chapter 43 Main author Skip

your basic apotheosis/samadhi weather summary

(mutated) from the PA_Emergency list

music in the back of my head: “It’s My Life,” No

Doubt; ending of “Rock’n’Roll Suicide,” David Bowie
(“you’re not alone...”)

I’m not sure about that last little bit, but I don’t know
if we wrapped up the migrating hardware bit elsewhere
or not...
(“hardware migration”! Hah! That didn’t even occur to
me till just now...)

Chapter 44 Main author Jon

Chapter 45 Main author Maurizio

The Paradox is discussed in Chapters 1 and 2 of

Ramsey Dukes Blast your way to Megabucks with my
Secret Sex-Power Formula, Revelations 23 Press,
1992.

Chapter 46 Main author Linda

Chapter 47 Main author Jon

Samples from:
Martin Wheatley, ‘Inspired by the novel’, Cybermind,
Sun, 16 Nov 2003.

Tom Ellis, ‘Information Overload’, Cybermind, Sun,

16 Nov 2003.

Chapter 48 Main author Linda

Chapter 49 Main author Kathryn

The movie “The One”, directed by James Wong.

374
 The creation, plus or minus God, found here:
http://www.iht.com/articles/118171.html

Cavafy’s Ithaca, found here:

http://ithaca.rice.edu/kz/Misc/Ithaka.html

Soundtrack: Portishead remixes (instrumental)

Chapter 50 Main author Elizabeth

The verses which begin, “the mirror of shades,” are

song titles taken (out of order) from the album Cantus
Umbrarum by Lightwave (Horizon Music, 2000),
which is also the soundtrack for this chapter. Visit the
Horizon Music Website at:
http://www.hmnetwork.com/main.html

The t-shirt Bob wears in this chapter, which starts,

“And God said...” exists in various forms. One version,
complete with Maxwell’s equations for light, appears
at The Gifted Child Learning Co. on their Website:
http://www.thegiftedchildlearning.com/generic41.html

The verses which begin, “I love you,” come from a

poem written by Rose Mulvale, titled “An Hour in the
Rain,” dated Thursday, June 22, 2000. The earlier part
of Rose’s poem appears in Chapter 2.

The passage which begins, “< > You come to a troll

bridge.” was inspired by the computer game Adventure

The line /(bb|[^b]{2})/ comes from a Think Geek t-

shirt, and is actually a quote from Shakespeare: “To be
or not to be.” See Website:
http://www.thinkgeek.com/tshirts/coder/57f0/

The “fork” quote is a paraphrase of another Think

Geek t-shirt; the original forks Agent Smith. See

375
Website:
http://www.thinkgeek.com/tshirts/generic/5f84/

376