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Pocketing his goggles and tossing the ear plugs into the sea he approaches the conning tower ladder. Climbing up and standing on the small deck he raps an
old signal on the hatch. He can hear Aloysius muttering as he fumbles with locks and hydraulics.
Gazing through the mounted eyepieces he sees several small storms repairing the
superficial wounds inflicted on the barrier.
Trevor asks “Do you want me to open it manually?”
The hatch opens and Aloysius’s tiny hand waves him inward as The Archivist is stepping back downward. Both shipmates solidly footed Trevor picks up the bespectacled four foot eight inch librarian still readied for work in his three
piece gabardine
suit replete with a gold chronometer and burgundy tie .
“How are you, Boss?”
“I’m in fine form Master Aloysius Stone.”
The young fellow shakes his head back and forth, bobbing slightly, imitating a parrot.
Trevor retrieves his black bowler and umbrella from the deck handing it back reassuringly.
Facially and proportionally the two boys are identical. The basic antithesis of
their dispositions and tasks personify the discongruity of the S.X. Skytrax’s
purpose. The necessary asymmetry is embodied by Mr. Eight’s role as The Overlord and Supreme
Military Commander of all matters threatening the system of intraphased lightmachs. Aloysius’s raison d'etre is to subtly cultivate every conceivable
political option or service required as a counterbalancing force to prevent the
ship and crew from
being drawn into costly overt military actions. He is the Inspector General and Superintendent Director of Oceania. Setting Aloysius down, Trevor moves up and down the hatch ladder with spirited vigor; returning with the model longboat. Taking the wet handkerchief from his pocket he pretends to remove several small spots and
fusses over the lines and sails.
Holding out his arms reluctantly the crestfallen archivist accepts his model longboat.
Aloysius somberly offers, “I’ll return it to the mantle in the wardroom where it belongs.”
Moving towards the ships center Trevor follows asking, “What investments do
you need?”
The two thoughtful old friends can hear Mr. Eight moaning outside the prime junction. Each is observing the others demeanor for clues with which to formulate a game plan. Aloysius impetuously darts in and out of the wardroom replacing the model on its
stand returning swiftly.
Readied for action he whispers, “There was a conflict!”
Trevor nods attentively, “Take your time we are safe now.”
Opening his weighty gold ships chronometer, “Seventeen minutes fifty five seconds elapsed”
Trevor knows using the 10-80 verses 1-0-8-0 modular formatting a core meltdown occurs at precisely the eighteen minute mark if the ships internal clock is not rewound. Both sailors observe smoky gray veins of salt and pepper
hair inching along the
polished metal floor towards them. Trevor stoops low and his partner clambers up onto his back. Recovering his normal comprehension and usual depth of perception he speaks deliberately with studied discernment.
“The injury is minor. The Alliant should escape this Zero easily. If ATM was of the human form the injury would be the equivalent of a plantar’s wart.
With proper scalpelling, sanding, medication and a clean bandage; everything shall be well.
Should the virus have spread further The Origin would have disgorged our core and destroyed us like a hungry bird spitting out a few loose grains of sand clinging sullyingly to a fat fresh worm. Truly… five seconds is not an acceptable margin of error
for a consortium of only five players.” Aloysius finished with a sense of qualified poise. Trevor could feel him finally exhale and release a resigned shrug.
“Were a pocket size posse of rogue gunslingers dodging a few stray bullets then.”
“There were many strange and bizarre manifestations, I scribbled and drew like a madman.
I could barely keep abreast of the cacophony. I would like you to review my observations.”
Trevor intoned gravely, “Absolutely!” Aloysius slid down his back onto the deck.
The tatters of Mr. Eights black uniform and golden insignias were scattered about. He came into view cutting and slicing away at the gray aural hair covering every inch of his body. He is pursued by the young captains of the expeditionary vessels.
Without warning he is airborne lunging at the twenty foot high black onyx wall gaining a perch on the red onyx bench that circles it. Azrok Steppe and Juzya Kydd catching hold of fresh handfuls of the noxious putrescent filaments set about reeling him in
again. He breaks free running in chaotic zig zagging half circles warbling and trilling various high pitched undecipherable mantras and obscure quixotic incantatas.
”Hold him down.” Trevor barks.
The two young pilots struggle grappling with the bristling glom. They try valiantly to reach through the extraordinary interwoven clutter so they can trip Mr. Eight smoothly into a prone position. Digging inward Azrok angrily probes his way through the
snarled morass of twisted entanglements finally collaring his neck with a forearm and tumbling backwards sweeping Mr. Eight off his feet and cushioning the fall with his own body. Juzya swings swiftly around gliding to the deck and
sitting above Mr.
Eight’s head, snatching an unyielding grip on both forearms. Trevor tosses his rain slicker aside, opening the chrome fob; spilling two bits into his mouth he starts rapidly chewing the pieces of toxic gum. Hurriedly wetting his fingers with the poison
he forces his fingers into the boy’s mouth.
Six more plunges and the trembling seizures and strange utterances abruptly cease. Trevor slides the thick wad under Mr. Eight’s tongue and stands up. Catching his breath he unknowingly presses his hand against the black onyx barrier and enters The
Zero.
The ATM body is in repose on the black memory monument the head facing the bow. The All waits for indications to navigate by. Trevor is able to raise and twist the body sideways until it is resting on one elbow looking across the zero horizons at Mr.
Eight sitting at one of the twenty consoles. The All sees the shock and awe on Mr. Eights face as the wave sweeps inward.
The All perceives Trevor and Mr. Eight exchanging positions. Trevor is now in
The Overlord body at the console. He can see the ATM. A flood of both euphoric and terrified sensations accelerate and swirl invisibly between The Pilot and The Navigator as
they try to absorb the experience in the past and future. The juxtaposition concludes placing The All back outside his hand on the black onyx wall. No time
elapsed in the pure geometry of The Zero .
Trevor pulls his hand off the wall firmly replacing it with conspicuous wonderment.
Inside the ATM body again Trevor is unable to move the great colossus. The All has complete awareness of Trevor’s consciousness and knows his frame of mind is balanced and oscillating comfortably between wisdom and curiosity. The
All respects the
innate soundness of The Owls natural predilections. Michelle chose this ally with a keen sense of practical shrewdness.
The All is ready. The ATM raises its head, arches its back and lifts its legs
spinning ninety degrees until it sits on the edge of the monument feet firmly planted on the lowest deck of the five circular steps forming the substratum inside the horizon.
The eighteen inches of white mist that were surrounding the monument on Trevor’s previous immersion into the pure geometry of timelessness is now gone. The All realizes Trevor has barely taken note of that detail.
Measured against the first insertion the current ease of motion of The ATM body is unforeseen.
Trevor’s mind is beginning to quantify cause and effect in a realm where that is automated.
The All knows that each thought this close to The Core concealing and protecting The Origin could take a single day, a century, a millennium; or even
a completion of one entire deployment of The Construct to play out in natural time. The All stood up
hoping the silent partner was present. The ATM began its locomotion in a counter clockwise direction around the monument. Trevor could now see black clad military personnel blocking his view of the consoles beyond the horizons. He sees clearly now that
each face is his face. Paranoia rises as The ATM is nearing completion of the first lap. The head lowers its gaze so that Trevor can only peak out of the corners of the eyes. Each version of Trevor is holding a saluted right hand to
its brow at rigid
attention gaze fixed on the undefined distance. The first lap is almost over when Trevor spies the version of himself at the northwestern 10:30 position. It is holding an eighteen inch high symbol with its left hand. Its right hand is frozen in a salute.
The metallic device is resting on the floating horizon of the core clock. Trevor initiates an accounting of the other versions of his body as the ATM proceeds into a second lap. He tallies twenty saluting selves including the northwestern one with the
symbol. Reaching the symbol again he realizes he can't stop walking. The All can feel enough capacity rising in Trevor to know the silent partner is now here. He compresses his own thoughts and emotions into silent navigable rhythum-balanced-momentums. A
weak shallow sense of distress angers Trevor. The ATM halts its motion.
Trevor finds himself under a bright sun in casual clothing entering an intersection surrounded by high corn fields ready for harvest. An elderly black man is twenty feet away.
He points at Trevor’s right hand. Looking downward he notices he is holding a plastic soda bottle with no label and a red cap filled with water.
"I've been seeing a lot of those red cap juice bottles lately. Is that one of
them?"
The old black man spoke vibrantly and expectantly with a sagacity that bore benign authority.
"Yes it is." Trevor replies feigning insight.
"Where did you buy that; at BJ's wholesale?"
Trevor gives up the pointless pretense,” No I did not."
The old man stumbles expecting acquiescence before recovering adroitly.
“You have a good day now.”
The sun is gone and the night sky is filled by the Milky Way. An old native stands silently five feet away from him. It is cold and windy. The stranger nods once. Back in the core clock anger and frenzied mania accost him. Deciding
this could all be an
elaborate trap his ambient presence turns the ATM one hundred eighty degrees. Hedging his bet and adjusting his strategy he moves the ATM and sets about walking clockwise. Circling the monument Trevor can see black disks stacked in columns above and
below each wide console behind the selves in black uniforms.
The ATM returning to the place it started from sits back down. Trevor is back
outside again with his hand against the black onyx wall. The All feels the ATM lay back down in repose to resume its contemplation. Satisfied The All is back outside again
with his hand against the black onyx wall. Trevor slides slowly sideways and down his back coming to rest comfortably against the red onyx bench. The All can see the gossamer circuitry attached to Mr. Eight crystalizing.
“Privacy!” The All spoke without rebuke or reprimand.
Azrok Steppe secured a nearby trundle. He and Juzya nimbly placed the recovering pilot on its bed swiping at the crusty hardening filaments, knocking
them away like icicles. On the spur of the moment both young captains removed their jackets covering
Mr. Eight from neck to knee.
Aloysius slips out of his coat and pants. Folding the pants and jacket into a pillow placed under the pilots head, placing the shoes by his feet. His stiff, static, thoroughly comatose appearance could not rob from the three lifelong companions the image
they hold of the pilot as their true beacon and faithful lighthouse. The indefatigable funeral procession rolls merrily away towards the salon trampling
underfoot the sophisticated merciless murderous labyrinth of attacks.
Trevor calls out “Timekeeper.”
Aloysius switches to mind speech “Three point seven remaining.”
The All rises turns and places his hand on the black wall. He can hear Trevor’s thought because Aloysius failed to close the abridgement. On the deck small gemstones are forming as the snake and octopus shape tonal data crypts become complex
symphonic tone recordings of the inaccurate and unregulated clocks used to design them. The All is waiting for Trevor to continue.
Seeing his reflection in the polished onyx The All knows his face is now identical to Trevor’s face from core clock journey two. This sequence shall transpire when Trevor is eight, twenty-five and fifty-five years of age. The face of the previous
player is obviously Alex Mathias.
Trevor’s mind has fallen silent and he begins listening to The All’s monologue. Not sure if he is awake or asleep, alive or dead, sane or psychotic he lifts his hand two feet off of the onyx wall and slowly begins moving it back. Momentarily he is
in Las Vegas his right hand on a slot machine lever. Being alone for the first time since the longboat he decides to linger. The All is patient. He can now accurately guess. Trevor slams the slot handle down,” I AM ALL IN.”
Trevor is calm but mildly discombobulated. Everything has completely changed.
Seated at a console a boy is sitting on his left leg with his head on Trevor’s chest near his heart. His arm encircles the boy, his left hand resting on the boys left
shoulder. He can’t tell if it is Mr. Eight or Aloysius. Motion seems severely restricted again. He has felt his mind rapidly photographing this well-lit larger version of The Zero. He performs the one motion possible, clasping the boys shoulder
tighter, and pulling him closer. Instantaneously he is replaced by a uniformed saluting Mr. Eight. His last perception is a boyish exultant smile from a fine young gentleman.
The All pulls his hand off the cooling wall of black onyx. Sprinklings of precious gems clutter the floor. Delicately clearing two small patches of deck with his feet he inhales and exhales.
The All commands 2085 “All Transit 64 Prime Junction All Transit 64”
Trevor sees the two old men from the previous clock appear five feet apart. The native is still in a fleece lined brown leather bomber jacket above blue jeans and thick soled hiking boots. The black man has changed from farming garments into a suit
conspicuously resembling Aloysius’s tastes. They are both holding a mixed stack of blue red and gold disks the size of coffee dishes. From the direction of the conning tower hatch in the distance, a silver translucent cloud appears oscillating to blue
with white points of presence partially concealed. The black man walks to
the native transferring his stack over to him adding his charges to the old native’s charges.
“Satan.”
“Lucifer.”
The 2085 speaks “Almighty True Mystery.”
The native carries the combined load to The All.
The three men, the blue cloud, and unseen 2085 speak in unison “One Unconquerable One.”

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