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Ivan setting his book and snacks aside makes his way to Artrex’s right preparing to welcome his opponent’s reinforcements into battle. Hearing the bag is still vibrating he looks at the five man party. “The courier bag is active. I’m stalling
on reading Mr. Eight’s declaration to savor it.”
Danes expecting to land in a bunker or war planning situation room asks, “Is this a good time?”
Ivan quizzically, “None the better sir; I see a military bearing in your dress and appearance?”
Ivan the First, and Ivan the Seventh, are wearing casual two piece suits drawing in close behind Vulchario. Grigori dripping wet with pure essence and a
beach size towel stares at Azrok with a glimmer of recognition, “Carnivores verses Herbivores,”
referencing the dinosaur tournaments.
Juzya gestures towards Azrok, “Six consecutive overall Titan Medals.”
Igor replies, “Good piece of work that.” Close to The Presence in Crystal
Spring he cuffs into the rough and tumble corduroys of a boy at play in the fields. “You’ll run a clock for your pals?”
Grigori does not want anyone to find themselves displaced and disposed from the
natural world.
Azrok triggers a seven wheel chronometer after it registers The Presence at 99.999 percent.
Dr. Vulchario leads the new arrivals through a series of polished stone corridors into the grand parlor set aside for just such rare occurrences as these. He can feel The Presence inside Pierce’s leather attaché and would have preferred he leave them
safely at home. In the corner of the room by an extravagant gigantic fireplace,
Dr. Vulchario with Danes and Trevor’s help, configure the
substantial overstuffed chairs, into a three quarter circle, around a thick rosewood table, holding models of: The Tower Of Absolute, Library City, Clocktown, Crystal Spring and troop maps.
Mr. Eight and Aloysius are sitting on the three granite stairs of The Octagon
watching two divisions of AR20 special forces engage in large scale maneuvers. Eight sees a flicker; then a flash and turns to the safe landing zone between the three golden
bells, watching it represent the change of locales of: Azrok, Juzya, Danes, Pierce and Trevor. “Dr. V’s a little slow lately.”
Aloysius unable to get Eight interested in Penny Poker is playing Solitaire.
“He has a lot on his plate figuring out what adjustments were made when Michelle resigned.”
“It’s a bait and switch. She ditches the dead wood in her old consortium and then reemerges on LM23 stronger than ever. She spread herself thin and Ivan
hammered her on LM24. She would never put Witchland at risk. If she had kept pestering Dr. V.
he would have taken Seers Citadel and she’d be stuck trying to dream her gear
into The Construct at Templeton’s or on The Rover. She has to get her Essence
Presence from one well or another.” Eight finished agitated because The Vulture had not
replied to his War Call with a standard Rules Of Engagement memorandum.
Aloysius bored with Solitaire, “Hopefully Ivan can help Trevor and Pierce get on the fast track with their mechanical duties. Sitting here watching military drills is driving me totally nuts.”
Eight trying to boost his cohort, “Those EMV hoods and suits are awesome. Once they can grab some magnetic lines and swarm it’s going to change the battlefield.” Eight stares at Aloysius.
“Well if we are clever we’ll keep the dome and use the; ten minutes dome time, per natural day, to mass troops: even if we have to beehive them on platforms. The other trick is to use Disk-1 to carve the dome so ATM can open and close it. ATM can
do that without breaking the ROE yes?”
Eight likes Aloysius’s plan knowing how hard it is to feed large troop deployments.
“How many EMV suits can The Archer and The Signet churn out in a natural day on LM23?”
“More than we could transport or use; maybe five million a day. But we need
a bridging plan.”
Artrex transports Alex, Frank and Lucian back to The Octagon from Misty Hob. The Old Chief making note of the ATM’s increasingly healthy momentum levels standing amidst the encamped division looks to The Pilot. “What’s the plan Mr. Eight?”
Aloysius shoos Mr. Eight onward.
Approaching Lucian he holds out his palm which the chief places his index finger on; patiently observing Aloysius’s schematics for slicing the dome halfway up around the four hundred foot mark; using disk one as a circuitry scalpel, to ridge its way
up and down in waves; as it circles outward from the inner edge to the outer edge, creating a jar and screw top lid effect. Drilling down through the displayed blueprints; The Navigator has included dual hand grips for the four recharged Body Fortresses,
to turn and open the dome in an emergency, at the north, south, east and west. A large single bar shaped handle at the central peak above The Octagon, is designed
for the ATM to turn the diamond shell by degrees; permitting an influx of motion dynamics from The Construct to adjusts the time flows inside. For sudden
strikes or defense the large bar handle and ridged borders gives Mr. Eight and ATM the option of
lifting the dome to release attacking waves and tightly securing it back on its
ribbed bands restoring motion close to a zero time flow.
The Old Chief takes his index finger off Mr. Eight’s palm, “A serious and
profound display of advanced architectonic engineering. It’s a great plan Aloysius, but is it doable Mr. Eight?”
Putting the metal to his spine, tilting his head back with a mischievous grin, looking The Old Chief square in the eye, the most peerless of raconteur’s replies, “Piece of cake old friend.”
The chief takes out his distance vision glasses surveying the crystal skull’s
potential for brain surgery and deep cranial stimulation. “OK. We still need burrow pipes below ground for tactical deceptions and reconnaissance. Also the statues need to
be inventoried and protected.” Mr. Eight grateful for productive work for him
and Aloysius pumps Lucian’s hand to finalize the accord.
Michelle, Lisa and Aurian are shuffling back and forth behind the platform and rostrum Bill Templeton is answering audience questions from deep in the Western Protected States border area that divides farming and mining interests.
The election is over
a year away and nothing is being left to chance; Templeton is making five to ten stops per day to large noisy enthusiastic audiences of long term supporters
and newcomers alike. William Templeton already chairs the oversight committee tasked with
monitoring NID, as President he would appoint its director.
The periodic disappearance and reappearance of low mid and high level members,
in the six active consortiums, is slowly fraying nerves; while also limiting each organization’s ability to fill the vacuums left by the destruction of OWL. Security,
covert operations, dispute settlement and major asset storage and transportation were handled by Michelle’s employees.
Some are finding open slots in the other consortiums while others have taken up freelancing.
Former members of OWL are whispering that Michelle has joined LX7 and they are considered expendable and marked for extinction. Bootlegging and black marketing the several strains and variants of the ZB 12A virus has become the main order business for a
deeply networked group of former OWL inner circle operators determined to survive intact. With hired guns and hired hands as disposable staff members there are very few serious hindrances obstructing the quickly solidifying pseudo-consortium from
burrowing into a position that will be difficult for the other consortiums to extricate them from. On the streets above and below ground the shadowy remnant of OWL is becoming known as ZB12 due to trafficking in the pure virus and easy to synthesize but less expensive variations. Clandestine laboratories are trying to refine the effects of ZB 12A.
Lisa Templeton takes the rostrum to rousing applause speaking for twenty minutes on the depth of the candidate’s devotion to family and the campaigns friendship toward the disenfranchised.
Pope Tyrus Demus is sitting looking out the window into the garden. He is waiting in a private study across from his apartment in Vatican City. His two fact finding, intelligence gathering emissaries to the Protected States are due
momentarily. Both
churchmen are reported to have been at death’s door twice since returning to Rome. They are recovering from the Vision’s Flu
a powerful illness that assails both the mind and body. Tyrus is wearing a paper veil under a cotton surgical mask by physician’s instructions; Brother Aesop and Friar Dormante are likewise shielded from receiving or transmitting infection. Having
studiously read their reports he has several questions for them. The two men are led in by a priest who pours them tea and departs.
The Pope bright eyed expectant. “What do you two make of this strange business overseas?”
BrotherAesop Mercurius and Friar Dormante have debated at length in heated discussions how much to tell the eighty-five year old pontiff. They know that this version of their report must be in accord with their other reports and dovetail smoothly so that
those who have eyes to see and ears to hear can do so and those who do not can wander and wonder until they do.
“The entire old cast is there as usual. If The Lord is amongst them then he
is not conspicuously so in a way that others would presume upon him or detect him.” Mercurius bold but guarded.
Even under a double mask his broad grin is visible and laughter pours forth as he slaps his knee before pointing at the tea cooling in its cups. “Drink, drink, I swear on my ragged misshapen soul it is not poisoned.” The two younger clerics are
taken aback moderately but beginning to relax.
“A man can become Pope without dreaming his way into The Garden. But to be a good Pope is to be at peace with the vast machinery of creation and to go home at least once to remember. For us believers in holiness the aggregate body
is a requirement
and creation never ends. We guide, guard and protect life as the very purpose of life and we know the meaning of life is to live.”
“In my day we didn’t need viruses or drugs to dream dreams we played, we studied and we worked hard and when we laid our bodies down to rest, rest they did, and our spirits soared free exploring the oceans in the sky. There I found
The Devil giving
his youth away by handfuls, entangled in a paradox, haunted and begirt by presences, yet measured and urbane, empty of thought, dimly mistrustful of it even. A friend I made of him, and so did The Lord.”
“We saw the one as three, but the three as one we did not meet.” Mercurius proclaims humbly.
The Pope refreshes each priest’s tea and points to his mask, “The bow and the stern are not separated by the keel: they are joined. If I had more years in my hourglass I would leap from a great height into these days of the shallow
water. But alas,
my job is to serve a multitude. Your job now is to accommodate them, to help find the lost arcana, the inscrutable missing details, to go directly and unvaryingly as the course of a homing pigeon to what must be rediscovered.”
“I speak for both of us having had these discussions at length. We can put our times of youthful misperceptions underfoot and walk boldly into any furnace
to know a new version of creation.”
Friar Dormante spoke gravely; reassuring the pontiff they understood only now, that it was not a single ship that was lost and scuttled, but the heart and mind of a great ocean going fleet.
“As chimney sweepers come to dust we have begun developing our immunity to the plague.
At first it’s as delightful to the mind as cool well-water to thirsty lips, then: it becomes as distinct as night and morning. The value of any postulate can be measured by the mind as a candle to the wind. The flame that survives is
the answer.”
Dormante sputters stammering racked by a cough.
The Pope not envying their descent into Hell, “The chambers of the house are haunted by an incessant echoing, a dripping cavern of wasted living waters.
Wear the plague as a breast-plate of righteousness; carry your cross until the light is alive
once more.” Tyrus waves leaving the room.
Danes and Trevor relaxing find Dr. Vulchario more of a curiosity than an ogre.
Azrok and Juzya are almost buried in their overstuffed chairs. Pierce has remained standing his legs pressed against the thick rosewood table holding the
models. Ivan the Seventh returns with refreshments. Pierce begins opening the segments of The Tower
Of Absolute.
Artrex Alliant points to each man in the room “Let the record show that present in this room…”
Listing each by name, place of birth and date of birth; before selecting a glass of natural spring water and a plate of raisin biscuits. A cautionary note is added to the record by Artrex.
“Be yea of The Natural forewarned that consumption of The Essence or The Presence leads ultimately and inexorably to death in the daily world of origin.” Technical legalities satisfied he busies himself with his biscuits.
Ivan stands beside Pierce
opening a door on the tower model.
“That is where the apex of the problem originated. It is a place where gates that were paired between locations were disposed of as orphans. Leaving an active gate in parts unknown feeding a discarded orphan gate. Unable to decode and dismantle the
gates lost travelers suddenly found and still find themselves appearing in the tower.” Pierce, mouth open, eyes wide tries to respond.
“What happens to them?” Dr. Vulchario fields the question adroitly, “The worst of outcomes.”
Withdrawing a pipe of cherry tobacco and lighting it he waves McBain and Danes to Pierce’s side before translating the towers functions. Pointing to the center, “This section contains the oldest gates some are ten billion years old. Mind you, these
devices unattended can let any creature through; you could accidentally pass through a concealed gate to its discarded orphan and find yourself in a confined tower space with an angry hungry Tyrannosaurus or a…”
Pierce fascinated, “Who built the tower.” Vulchario smiles, “Time built
the tower. Billions of years of erosion in Sealand wore away all the rock faces
surrounding it until it stood all alone.”
“This world is a buffer or estuary of times passages. Here time breathes in
and out, but slowly passes; this world being a median between the world below which ticks along and the world above which is the cold barren dark eternal. No
offense intended
toward its present residents.”
Vulchario losing his stride, “A graveyard of dead gates, between abandoned locations, became an impossible nightmare of deviations and aberrations The Construct lost track of. The distillery is for the most part a natural formation.” Danes
interrupts, “How did you build the city above?”
“Similar to the Crystal Skull, the flow of information hardened into self-recording gemstones. The dome that holds Library City was a sphere partially emptied by auxiliary engines for internal rescue attempts; eventually
halved and inverted, then
left to the sands of time. Grigori and I built Clocktown and Library City through an idiosyncrasy; a sort of irregularity of The Construct.”

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