From: intraphase@gmail.com

Outside the circle to the right he pens: Navigator – Aloysius. “Now watch!” Bob gasps gurgling.
Drawing a bracket on the entire right side enclosing The Whole, he records: Captain – Artrex.
Bob raises his clenched fist and Trevor slides the diagram away; as he slams it down cracking the card table’s surface. As the exercise was unfolding and the waifish media mogul Bitterman was growing more exorbitantly infuriated; a peculiar, serene,
celestial calm overtook Pierce, while doing his deep belly breathing exercises.
Having already memorized Bob’s manic, frenzied, but finished diagram; he gets
up from the injured table attaché in hand and walks over to the reflecting pool and frog pond.
Standing looking at the humungous red circles flecked with tiny yellow flakes,
periodically blinking, he says out loud. “My name is Pierce I am a student.”
Lifting only her eyes above water she whispers in mind speech, “I am Gretchen I eat the dead.”
Pierce deciding if he is in for a penny, he is in for a pound, “Are they tasty Miss Gretchen?”
“Not particularly but it keeps their essence presence from being trapped between dead gates.”
Pierce nods very slowly fathoming the several levels of implications in her response and returns to the card table. Trevor has made two more copies of the diagram; returning the original. Mac not getting lost in details adroitly probes Bitterman’s
need to exhume and expurgate this trauma.
“OK we grasp the basic picture of the old situation. How do the five disks create a new one?”
Turning the sheet of paper, Bitterman shakily draws a tiny circle on the upper left and writes: “Finite - Pilot.” His tears are flowing copiously staining the page with agony. On its left side he draws another tiny circle labeling it “Infinite -
Navigator.” He draws a large ring around both
small circles, filling the top half of the page: almost ready to collapse he adds five tiny circles at the inside bottom of the ring; one for each new disk labeling the group; “Boundary – Captain.”
Trevor leans across the corner of the table sympathetic but menacing, “Don’t stop Bitterman.”
Bob licks the pen rubs it on his leg and draws a large ring covering the lower half of the page; that overlaps the upper ring, where the five circular disks rest: The 2085 watching the dead ship.
Pierce uncomfortable with the situation tries to ask an innocuous question. “Who is 2085?”
Bob signs his name on the lower right hand corner of the snow owl shaped diagram. Turning the crisp page over, he pens his signature to the lower right corner of the old ship configuration; adding seven AKA’s in a list below the top signature,
including The Raven and Enoch. Looking up at Pierce Daniels from seven thousand
years ago; jumping to this very moment, “The Future.”
Mac takes Bitterman’s one page confession and one page surrender; folding it correspondence style edge over edge. Pierce takes the amber book that translates other books out of the stubby flight case. Writing with a red pen in
an open space he writes;
“Assess Accuracy of Document.” and places the document inside. Trevor gives everyone a home rolled cigarette of his own private blending of Turkish, Norwegian and Virginian tobaccos. Bitterman coming gradually back down to earth, shows Pierce his
favorite zippo lighter, with an eternal flame engraved into it. McBain withdraws his emergency five cigarette holding steal case with a train etched into it; eliciting a ragged laugh from the exhausted waifish media mogul. Bob lights everyone’s
cigarettes and the three men hear Gretchen whisper, “Goodnight.” Three small colored orbulets fabricate to trace a clockwise circle concluding the transaction then dissolve into the unseen liquid horizon of points.
Pierce wonders who is supposed to open the amber book and shakes the question
off unclipping the tiny hasps. On the document three blue clouds are drawn, “Accuracy equals 99.07071979” is inscribed in each cloud. Three index card sized copies and
three sheet size copies are included in the response. Pierce looks at Bitterman
who shakes his head in the negative, “He could be here.”
Trevor unsure; stretches like a large jungle cat, so he can land a reassuring
hand on the old man’s shoulder, “The Game is like a roadhouse. At closing time there’s always a last call so any patron who needs one for the road, can
walk out of
their own free will and drive home safely.”
Augustus, monitoring activity at the diamond dome, protecting the failed zero; is watching while Mr. Eight and Aloysius methodically circle and take individual readings from each of the thirty-two consoles; to compare with the master recording, The
Player has already escaped with. Time is crawling in the dome. Adding the four Body Fortress’s to the zero clock reached the thirty-six connection limit; which overloaded the zero’s sequencing connection to The Rover.
The connections chain from The Octagon to The Rover to The Skytrax to The Artrex blew apart like a fuse box becoming a popcorn popper. The Manta and The Hunter are still operational.
Augustus after only two hours in the crystal skull has had to clip his fingernails seven times.
Why Vulchario was not ready to attack, and has not laid siege to the skeletonized clock, is plaguing Gus. Stacking zero’s has aged Gus two years in two hours. Being attached to his own zero, the shards of this zero; and The Mantas zero is a technical
nightmare. Two years wasted just to find out the rail system is operational. The Old Chief can load in an inexhaustible supply of native eternals, eager to die in honorable battle, awakening reborn: en masse; heart, mind and Essence-Presence in a new
version of The Construct. It occurs as a fledgling thought, then a deep searing
hot brand on his vision; these two hours may consume the margin of error between his victory and defeat. When, and who, shall deduce correctly, the thirty-two consoles plus
the four fortresses, equals the overload of thirty-six: and that then, and only
then, did the overload begin and start reaching back in time; collapsing the barriers, holding the sizeless Zero Point, built to conduct transactions with The Origin? If
this is a trap then he swallowed it hook line and sinker. Mr. Eight and Aloysius finished double checking the console records are watching Augustus from the top of the stadium as he tries to leave. The Player is following him and touches his arm as
early crystallization begins; heel clicking out, he deposits Gus safely back at
The Arboretum.
Artrex returns a moment later, holding hands with Alex Mathias and Frank Harris, who have been stationed at The Arboretum for two months, divided into twelve hour shifts; not knowing when or if Augustus would give up, surrender, or try to take his own
life. Harris got him safely ensconced on his oversized bed at the shack in the hothouse. Frank called in Dr. Ruhig who gave him a thorough physical and mild sedative. Alex suspected, and Harris was positive; the light ships swarming The
Kookers concert,
were Augustus’s wing of the completely annihilated and forever defunct OWL Consortium; desperate to acquire horses as human mounts. Dr. Ruhig
assessing the patient referrals load at The Farm, estimated that only ten percent of OWL refugees acquired permanent mounts. The other ninety percent were fought off naturally by the equal or superior internal strength of their unknowing victims. The
psychiatric enterprises in the Fairfield area experienced a rush of customers reporting short psychotic breaks and episodes of hearing voices. The successful
ten percent of body jumpers are all former upper echelon OWL’s.
They’ll lay low, and stay silent; until they can maneuver their mount towards an open gate and leap through, or switch horses for better internal comfort and external opportunities. Few body hijackers have the patience, skill, determination, and cold
blooded precision required to break a human mount and retrain it as a supple, pliable, willing and loyal partner; the level of trust between a mount and rider, where the horse values its master’s life, more than its own.
Augustus and Bitterman had served Michelle faithfully; Harris, Danes and Mathias would’ve been potent additions to her arsenal, if she’d had time to
properly train them to fight Vulchario.
Michelle’s ultimate conclusion after triggering, mapping and auditing a Zero Core explosion is that it’s better to usurp a core: leaving all of its assets in place and then manage them more justly and mercifully. The dynamics betwixt justice and
mercy and its sub-constructs intrigues her now.
Mr. Eight and Aloysius scramble to greet Alex and Frank, eager to erect their
war machine and set it in motion, so they can get out of the stifling confines of the diamond dome’s dead zero. Unable to use the amber books for intel Eight asks Aloysius
for the Declaration Of War. Folding it with an artisan’s candor and flair he looks at The Old Chief. “I’m ready if you are LaGrange!”
The Old Chief is happy Mr. Eight has survived, and stoops low, so The Pilot can
ride on his shoulders. Rising up, Eight points Lucian towards a particular gap in the consoles. He backs up slowly raising his right hand. Mr. Eight pushes the hand away and
the chief trots and then runs.
Approaching the three circular granite steps, Lucian starts to arc away and Mr.
Eight releases the foot long, rugged, paper plane of high quality parchment and
it sails aloft straight and true: flying directly into the orbital path of the three auxiliary
dynamos supplying life giving momentum to the interior of the sealed diamond; and disappear. Aloysius says exultantly, “Bravo Mr. Eight!”
It could be a long time before they receive a formal reply; so they gather between the golden bells for a fast conference and battle chore assignments. With one million troops in the dome and DATAFACE a distant threat Lucian offers, “I can match his
twenty-five million troops in a day of real time, running them down the railbed
from Oldham to Oldwood; heavier armaments we are going to have to dig up, steal, and move in by rail.” Mr. Eight gravely gives Lucian and Artrex the thumbs up. Artrex
points to the stalled ATM on the frozen croclodytes, its legs buried by the trees. Aloysius suggests, “We get in close, dig a hole inward, and hope it has absorbed enough light from the dynamos; to resynch with The Construct long enough to open the
dome.”
Climbing the mass of huge croclodyte reptiles stacked to form a stairway and platform; the three boys and three men take turns, reaching from one giant stair to the next: chiseling away.
A thin spot on the outer ball of the right foot shows promise as they use their
diamond picks.
Frank Harris strikes the lucky blow and is knocked backwards by a gust of frigid snow colored white light. It begins dripping on the stairs and pooling on the ground. Harris caught by Lucian and Alex looks to Eight for advice. “ATM shall synch now.”
They carefully walk back down the monolith of croclodyte steps. Reaching the bottom the pooled light begins retreating into the ball of the right foot. Eight sends precautions to the dynamos. “Credibulus Bulbucus Testimonia.”
The 2085 replies, “Credible Cowherd Credentials.” the trailing ring of dull light created by the three small engines releases a thin cloud of stored momentum. It moves smoothly across to the ATM body and engulfs it in a thin protective sheath. The
ATM transmits a picture of it stormily shattering the dust and hardened diamond
clothing it is encased in. “Retreat to Misty Hob.”
The 2085 speaks as a verbal clarification to the new War Council. Frank, Alex and Lucian place a hand on Artrex’s shoulder and he clicks them over to Misty
Hob. Eight and Aloysius lay on the fourth stair from the bottom extending their
white and black
light bodies across the entire dome a few feet above the encampments. “2085 – ATM Relay All Clear – Initialize.”
The ATM joined to the dynamos begins slowly increasing its momentum drawing capacity.
Eight links to the ATM, “Resize, contract fifty, and expand fifty.” Executing; a deafening glass on glass screeching fills the sixteen hundred foot
cavity. Eight repeats the command sequence and the human shaped crystal tomb shatters into a
trillion deadly shards, ricocheting off The Pilot and The Navigators extended light carpet. The conjunction between the dynamos and The ATM
releases. Eight and Aloysius withdraw the extended floors of light and a fresh layer of diamond dust and shards settles to the ground. Mr. Eight summons the ATM and it walks surefooted down the croclodyte stairs, reliably navigating the
troop camps and
clustered soldiers; it stops, bends, and lowers its right hand. Eight calls, “2085 – Relay – All Clear” and boards The Eternal Titan.
Misty Hob was originally built during the 1820’s by Fairfield University’s Professor Emeritus of Physics Vladimir Vulchario, a half mile south of the secluded Great Fork Falls. A vague trace of a grassy pathway can be found east of the falls where
the stone was quarried to build the spacious square castle shaped twelve foot walls. Inside the protection of the enclosed stone runway, a bevy of small hills rise to a tidy plain of rambling pine trees. Nestled in the middle of a small fruit orchard,
the four story eighteen room house rests peacefully in the morning mists.
The piano conservatory is settled into the northwest corner’s extension, the southwest corner’s extension is a glass enclosed winter garden. The eastern half of the house was built with two stout wooden towers, capped by two
small houses, perched
on the north and southeast. The tiny eight window rooms are just enough for two
small chairs, or a large comfortable chair and book table. They are called the Widow’s Watch. There is a small outside walkway surrounding each watch, and a gangway
linking them across the eastern view with a telescope porch in between at the roofs peak two feet below. From this highest elevation, Fairfield’s harbor, hurricane dike and downtown area are viewable over a small copse of Weeping Willows. The air base,
the industrial park, the farm, the university and the rolling city park’s meadows and buttonwood thickets; create a bountiful varied pallet, to indulge the eyes, and gaze upon reflectively while relaxing.

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