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Trevor wishes there was a single authoritative source to seek counsel from and silences the wondering asking Ted, Frank and Alex, “Where to, Misty Hob or The Octagon?” All four feeling the need to recuperate and collect their thoughts agree on a
temporary retreat to Misty Hob.
Michelle and The Alliant stand at the northern and southern edge of The Core as it is being carved and hollowed. They both squat holding their right hands aloft and plunge them down and withdraw them. They walk to the center, shake hands then dry their
hands with silk hand cloths. Michelle sings a final song to those graduating from level-2: The Full Self to The True Self.
“As I was walking down the road… Trying to save my very soul.
I was talking to rock and roll… He said it's time to pay the toll.
Told him about the day my Mama cried… Told him that was the day I started to die.
Now I can barely feel the pain… Now I can barely try to explain.
He said stop right there… Do you really think I care.
No matter what may be your goal… Your gonna stop and pay the toll.
So that's why I'm walking down the road, that's why I’m talking the rock and roll.
An though I bear a heavy load, he's still gonna make me pay the toll.
Came upon the fork in the road, where they open up your soul.
There’s a man with flames for hair, sitting on the black stone spindled chair.
He floated across the road an over to me, I stooped down upon a sorely bended knee.
Stuck his fiery hand into the gaping hole, stitched me cold with a needle and silver bowl.
Gave a wave-said it’s time to hit the road, it was the only time he ever appeared as a toad.
Waving a lost poor boy down the golden road, never turned back-out of fear and deadly dread.
Was way to glad, I still had my soul and aching head.
Wandered along wondering about the burning thread.
Did he sew up my soul, to get a toll, an throw me down.
Or would I see him again, in some other, mist hewn, holy town.”
Michelle and The Alliant hold hands as they exit the building process of the new core to insure parity between the three primary information mixtures of All
Black and All Clear with All White performing the actual carving and placement function for
future equipment and transaction lines.
The Old Chief in a Body Fortress is allowed to see through anyone’s eyes who allows him to and asks for a quick vote from the players to send Artrex in case a quick physical evacuation is required to prevent imminent death. The vote is unanimous to
allow the precaution, and Artrex appears on the inside compass near the east wall of the subterranean station a few yards from the tunnel entrance. The 2085
begins transmitting momentum meters to Azrok Steppe so he can exit the fortress
he is using and
jump to another before an absolute zero crystallization is reached.
Artrex walks over to Trevor huddling with Ted, Frank and Alex, pointing to his own palm requesting they view a 2085 transmission together simultaneously. He waves Morbiditus and Jack Barret over and waits for them. When all six tap in: 2085 begins a
summary broadcast detailing an armed intrusion at Misty Hob; by an NID special event detachment, sent to demand intel after receiving no response from the safe house, for over three hours. A brief visual floor plan display shows three
body armored
automatic wielding intruders per room.
Artrex agrees to relocate Ted, Frank, Alex and Morbiditus who remains in good
health to Misty Hob to deal with their intelligence community associates. Returning a few moments later, Artrex hands Trevor a note from Mr. Eight. “Let’s meet at The
Octagon to wait for the dust to settle.”
McBain sits beside Lisa Templeton and she is unable to do anything but stare straight ahead. Artrex sits directly in front of them looking backward, his chin resting on his forearm laid along the bench’s back rail. Moses calls to Trevor, “Take a
break and come back were covered here.”
Trevor checks his satchel, clutching the paradome he commands; “Vault – Station – Octagon.”
Trevor landing at The Octagon in the safety zone between the three golden bells finds Mr. Eight is waiting patiently. Cuffing his arm three times to switch to casual clothing and pointing to the three short granite steps The Pilot sits. Mcbain sits
close beside him putting the vault in the black satchel and laying it aside. Holding his tobacco pouch out with two hands he chucks his chin.
“Please.” Eight is trying to calculate in his mind when the wave of debris should pass over the dome and gives up realizing Aloysius has instruments set up to measure the times and forces. Pursing his lips The Pilot heaves a deep sigh and shakes
his head just before Trevor hands him the first cigarette rolled. Eight lights it takes a few drags and hands it to Trevor who inhales twice and hands it back. Casualties are light for the compact airborne warriors of AR20. The soldiers in the dome are
the barely injured hoping for immediate care and a quick turnaround to rejoin their units. The consensus opinion among the forces is this battle was the cleverest display they had ever witnessed. Mr. Eight feels a vague sense of dishonor wondering if he
should have agreed to stay off the battlefield and allow the ATM to terrify the
four armies into submission.
“We completed Vault Four manually without assistance in the No Time outside
the structure of The Construct. It became like an ocean liner that passengers wouldn’t board; to ticket their hand luggage into set compartments, with each
passenger,
instead; claiming ownership over more than their own selves and demanding a portion of the total ship. The systems would balk at that quick and seize up. They don’t understand and I don’t blame them.” Mr. Eight pensive and forlorn conjures an
ashtray to extinguish his smoke. Trevor quick at rolling hands him three more.
“Who wrote the code?” Trevor lights up grateful for the vague familiarity
of The Octagon.
“You wrote the code and it evolved as a system.”
“Why?”
“It’s written on one of the early plates; “A System To Measure Consciousness.” Do you have any gum McBain. Too much smoke gets me nauseous. ” Trevor fishes his pockets handing the boy a fresh package of spearmint, asking “What’s the
underlying reason, what spurred it on?”
Mr. Eight vaguely picks at his blue cotton baseball jacket covered with team patches.
“To the best of my knowledge we recreated ATM-55 and then ATM recreated 8-25. It is like a game of leap frog when the system fails. Pardon me for a second.” Mr. Eight jogs over to the eastern patio returning with a small cooler and three bags of
warm sandwiches and hot food.
“What is the reliance on fives and threes?” Trevor chooses pastrami and mustard from the bag.
“States and transitions. I can only help you when you’re ready to receive
answers. A checksum in our system is “To present truth at a point of non-acceptance is truth weaponized.””
“Tricking an opponent into misplacing priorities?” Trevor adds watching Eight over a soda.
“Yes it is an eclectic stratagem but when it proves effective it is devastating long term.”
The ATM unscrews and parts the dome from above, releasing healed EMV units and receiving fresh ones for light doctoring; before securing it and leaving to
return to the halfway monument.
“What should we do about Doc?” Trevor asks resigned partly filled with perplexed amazement.
“We should let him serve as chief of operations to dismantle The Tower Of Absolute. If not that, then he is going to be walking off those injuries for at
least a year. I also have partial cures available using The Roulette gate and my densely packed
Train World barrier system computers.
Just like everything else on lightmach-24 they change people, rather permanently actually.”
Trevor starting his second sandwich surprised at his own hunger. “How did I
write the code?”
“You can and did exist outside The Construct, that’s how it gets deployed; actually ingrained in the unperceivable, unfathomable, like a super nova. The writing is slow; it authenticates ATM.”
Trevor finished with two pastrami sandwiches and two sodas is beginning to relax a little:
“How about the Master Index?” McBain searches his khaki windbreaker for a
pen and pad.
“It’s about me, you and ATM: plus the computation you participated in at the Grand Canyon.
Pure – True – Natural as me, you and ATM; with the qualifier that Natural refers to information systems and realms supported by information.” Eight nervously anticipating the next question.
“Isn’t that a rare instance of absolutism, every system is supported by an information system.”
Mr. Eight is grinning but not laughing; Trevor adds: “So we called ATM’s state “Natural?”’
He shakes his head smiling, while continuing to obviously pick at the baseball patches on his coat. Mac realizes it and isn’t ready to take the bait; wanting to proceed in an orderly fashion.
“So… Verify this if correct: In 32313 The Full and The Whole are the transitional states.”
“Yes functions represented by the two and the one are transitions between threes. For me, you and ATM those two transitions represent The Construct deployed and The Construct accessed. For the customer passengers it is their Pure Self deployed
reaching Whole Self as a total system accessible for travel, study, business and recreation.” Mr. Eight frowns hoping he spoke clearly.


\\\
He takes Trevor’s pad and pen held at the ready and draws. … .. …
. … … “Choo Choo.”
“The process in shorthand looks like an old steam train rolling down an antique railbed in 1800.”
Trevor is paused squinting at Mr. Eight wondering if the boy is pulling his leg to cheer him up.
“Where’s that cigarette case I’m in need of an official emergency cigarette from THE TRAIN.”
Finally unable to restrain himself Eight starts laughing slapping Trevor’s knee before composing himself and trying to continue. Trevor gives him the cigarette he requested and stares at the train etched on the cases cover, before turning it over to
find the full 323133 dot code low on the back.
Trevor lights Mr. Eight’s cigarette, The boy studies him making sure no offense has been taken.
“So with Vault Four, we confirmed the code, the measuring indexes for me, you and ATM?”
Eight shakes his head vigorously; “Yes, one hundred percent correct. We’re in optimal form.”
“So what are we doing now?” Trevor knows it is a broad indefinite question and watches Eight look about trying to formulate a reasonable answer. The boy holds up a finger pausing further.
Trevor can see by the pursed lips and glazed eyes that ATM is presenting and sorting through a range of answers. He puts his hand on Mr. Eights shoulder; “It’s alright it was a lame question.”
“The technical answer is that as operators of The Construct we are… Wait,
it’s best to repeat this verbatim for accuracy, “As a sorting function we are exploring the range of contextualities between search terms: “Eternal Verses Infinite””
It’s like a math quest.” Eight smiles a warning.
“It’s like an endangered species protection, for mathematicians who might
shoot or hang themselves; by getting lost in the semantics and mechanics of value assignments, in a system utilizing sizeless objects as computational variables.” Eight
sputters and exhales theatrically.
Trevor slaps him on the back softly. Eight taking the bait to continue, smiles with a modest degree of polite pathos, and sad eyed continues with dauntless determination and stouthearted grit. “Our system works! But, if we want other beings to use it
we have to sell it to them and prove it to them periodically; like now for instance. That’s the human answer to the question, “What are we doing now?” We’re not GOD, although I have strong suspicions about ATM.”
Eight softly punches McBain on the shoulder. Above the sound of huge pieces of
debris striking the outside of the diamond dome can be heard as counterpoint to
the treatise on their purposes.
Several large direct hits shatter and fall like a rain storm on a tin metal roof or thin sky light.
“We don’t ask for faith we invest it. ATM has faith in us so that we can have faith in them”
Trevor is looking up at the domes now murky light, filtering the always indirect radiance of the five small suns; through the thin layers of organic material, that are held aloft perpetually by the air currents. “Why the Grand
Canyon Mr. Eight?”
“It’s not necessary it’s a courtesy to those people who want to build a
core and have their main consciousness pattern deployed as a distinct sub-construct. Rya Talon a commander on today’s battlefield is a player who owns a sub-construct.”
Eight is looking up too see if the storm is over.
“But the location serves a logical purpose?” McBain is following the domes debris strewn fate.
“Yes in the emotional sense, it’s a permission granting device, with a sense of deep solemnity.
For repeat customers it’s a pleasant formality and sound verification of processes. For new found customers it’s a rite of passage. Sometimes when people are looking for answers they need to be really inventive, maybe even get
a little bit crazy. But
as Shakespeare said: “There’s the rub. ”
Can they stop at the edge of The Abyss, can they leap into The Abyss, with a testable plan of action; a schema, a blueprint. So yes there is emotional intuitive logic to the choice of the site, but also a cold dark intellectual logic, because the leap is
one of The Essence and The Presence, not an actual hurling of one’s body; against the hard, unforgiving, life-extinguishing stone floor.”
Eight briefly regales Trevor while the last pitter patter of falling battlefield debris dies out.
“To sleep, perchance to dream; aye, there's the rub, for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause. There's the respect that makes calamity of so long life.” Eight starts picking at
the patches of his baseball jacket again.
Trevor gives Mr. Eight an ingratiating cheesy smile to let him know he is going to take the bait and ask Mr. Eight the all-important question to sound the crux and get to the heart of the matter.
“Where am I really?” Eight raises his hands and head skyward dropping them in mock relief.
Trevor laughs and Mr. Eight replies, “I need to use an answer I learned from you and made an essential part of my permanent repertoire.” Both briefly look up as ATM is gently brushing debris off the dome readying it to be
opened for releasing the
bandaged and stitched before intaking a fresh round of slightly injured AR20 EMV pilots and a few odd RN6 paratroopers.
Eight slides an extra foot of distance between himself and McBain and holds both arms out wide to the sides with palms up. “OK this is how you explained it to me. Where am I? Am I where my right hand is or where my left hand is? The
answer is I am
wherever I focus my total attention.” ATM’s closing of the dome ends with a
glass on glass squeal and a final squeak.

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