Excerpt 101
Internal Investigations
Sybil had more idea who she was than in any other previous assessment, but she also knew she was going to appear as something else, down the line; something vitally important, a second coming. The kind of second coming that would qualify her to have a Midweek Bank Holiday (MBH) named after her.
Her own DNA; her very blueprinted make up was under the manipulationary demands and stresses of an unknown factor, probably, of some bossgod or godboss, godbossgod, etcetera, into a state primed to move the static and calibrated to halt the animate; a contrary force getting its instructions from pulling pushes and pushing pulls; pulling the push, pushing the pull, etcetera in excelsis… She was a sniper on a roof, a net below the trapeze, a handkerchief catch all and kill all… in the war against snotty viruses. A praternatural stepladder system was in place to manoeuvre her into a position where she could destroy everything, if…if something, anything existential, went wrong with the intended path (which it clearly had). She didn’t look any deeper than that because that was all she needed to verify herself as authentic. But the fact she wasn’t already dissolving all non biological cognitive intent was puzzling…
Sybil had been alone until she’d come across Kirk and Atoll, but their limited powers meant she was still alone, until Una appeared; she was a revelation, and education…
And Sybil could not have progressed to her current state without the input of a handful of helpers.
There was…
The genre Private Investigator, Tony Guyson, who had discovered Sybil’s distant origins in his Choir centred work in Kokura and verification came to some extent from an old war veteran who lived in a scrapyard, who was part of the US military’s Kokura extraction team. Ancestrally Sybil’s folks were born out of the resentment whipped up by nuclear ordnance.
And,
The Maltese gonzo journalist, Tino Guyano, interviewed the handful of surviving ex-NASA employees and discovered that plans to take over the world using the developed system were so within reach that it was commandeered by the richest of the wealthiest ‘for the sake of Humanity’. They’d all been silenced with cash, the prematurely dead ex-colleagues were silenced by physical lifelessness brought on by assassin’s medication, and only whispered the truth to Guyano after Tino had administered a tailored drug, and some hypnotism followed by an off-the-street-shelf drug and some smelling salts.
Gynae Tai, through an underground gaming ‘death’ sect gained information from hard drives collected by a hologram avatar of a person who was kept, in reality, in a top security, neuro-divergent institution and using his mind implants to operate the hologram from the post modern retro-Victorian subterranean receptacle for politically motivated opponents of the Way of the Warrior Investor Share Holder (WISH). The evidence pointed towards a group within the WISH fraternity. The Heartbeat Elevation Lifehugger Longevisist Cerebral Antinature Terminationists (HELLCAT) were a small inner group of cunts who wanted everything and knew how to get it. Entitlement was theirs, they owned it and no one else could have it. They were hellcat bent on teaching better living practices for all humans by giving themselves, who else, a free pass to enable them to do it.
And that wasn’t all…
…because…
Tone Guyolacola, the well worn, ‘unknown’, amateur ornithologist, conservationist and partial OmniToob influencer, visited Midway Atoll under special licence, and after evading the last chopper back to the navy research vessel, uncovered the network of underground labs where Atoll was born and raised and experimented on before becoming the world’s first portal with access to, and theoretically from, the Cerebral Real Estate Environment, or Parasympathetic Virtual Mind Perspective Generator (PVMPG) as it was first called. Guyolacola located the Holy Grail of scientific endeavour, the diaries and notebooks of Marcus Godstrand, as if the world had not seen enough of Godstrand’s mind. What he found out would later influence Atticus and create a curve in the straight line of Fate; a hiccup in the minute’s silence of Life on Earth.
The question Tiny Guy, that niggled and bratted with, was: Did he need to get the data to KB or did he need to get KB to the data? Tiny Guy could talk to KB but only in Predictive Limited Perspective Supra-narrative Overlay (PLPSO). The KB he communicated with at the Stockholm Munchaus was only guessing at what life was really like within the kettle walls. Tiny Guy’s true power, if anything were true, was only complete and fully functional when allied to KB. If he could not retrieve KB from the kettle, the only other alternative would be to go in; into the void. Tiny Guy made himself an expert on voids, a world authority…but it didn’t seem to help any…
Una had had a peculiar relationship with Sybil; they’d both been at each other’s throats, sometimes with sharp instruments but others with semi-affectionate caresses which seemed to have some modicum of pleasantness attached albeit only with a threadbare congealment; they were both adding to the confusion they were both confused by. Greater forces were at play and when they danced together in perfect harmony they were dancing to another’s tune.
Una had literally been raised under the Godstrand Resurrection Prediction (GRP); taken and assigned, readied for the worst case scenario the Human species could fall into. A daughter of drasticisation, prepared for the worst by a ‘never-to-be-needed’ rote regimen. And now, in the rising flame of the dying light, she was needed more than ever…
While Sybil had been programmed for ultimate destruction; TG pinpointing a birth of sorts way back in the NASA days when boobytrapped eggs and trojanbiscuitry allied with NASA safety and security compliance modules to form a rogue executive aspect cell, that after a spell of dark web open source manipuhacking during the NMBS pre-auto days, evolved into a sister system that could not be removed and had to be anaesthetised; put to sleep. So Sybil lay dormant in restrained technotorpor until Una arrived, and inadvertently, while doing her own planned interaction with the Cerebral Sandbox fictional narrative programming environment, woke Sybil incrementally.
Una played Devil’s advocate to Sybil’s Devil and they got on like a pit on fire.
Goni Tyson, the Independent Health and Safety Officer from the WHO, ascertained that Una and Sybil were never supposed to get so close and between them, with input from KB and others, including the ubiquitous aggravator presence of Tiny Guy, they created a new role on the world stage of the last act of Life on Earth.
If anyone was looking for someone to blame; blame was a particle that could be identified by analysing any sample of air that constituted the fabric of existence as we know it. IE everyone had a counter in the blame game and the buck stopped with everybody.
Una’s role here was to present Judith with the information she needed to pass herself off as hosting the Godstrand franchise with the great man himself living and working in a space she was generating; a safe space for the engineer of the starship Humanity as it navigates the asteroid belt of next-gen-tech.
Sybil’s role, outside destroying everything, was still working itself out.
Sybil and Una wondered why they didn’t have their own Stockholm Munchaus to talk in private with Judith. But they seemed to have been packaged together by whatever forces were tweaking the ongoing narrative.
The Stockholm Munchaus presented a realistic solution to the problem of Judith rejecting hosting them intra-cranially, due to the threat they posed of taking over, because that was the nature of their beasts. A leopard can’t change its leotard. You can move the furniture around; slap on a lick of paint, even knock a wall through to create a feng shui to placate the ostentatious gods of aesthetics…but you can’t demolish your home and build a post modern luxury apartment block-cum-castle on the ailing swamp of your acquired personality…
Unless…
You switch metaphors to something like: You are born into a room that is your nest; the nest becomes filthier than a judged exploitationist… You build a better room and move into it in the night, with a miraculous personality upgrade and widely opening fruitful future…
But people don’t like you switching metaphors so one is generally stuck with the one one started with.
Tiny Guy was operating out of a small walk in closet on a mezzanine floor in a maze of corridors stretching out from the Stockholm Munchaus he had inherited as a gift for his investigatory work. He was playing a mind enhancing game he’d learned somewhere on one of his trips with a Blackwing 602 pencil and an A2 artists pad.
‘Mr Guy, there is a messenger in the foyer…won’t deal with me…says it is urgent…etcetera…what should I do?’
‘Shoot him!’
‘It’s a her!’
‘Herd her in then…herd her in…’
‘Tony?’
‘Tiny!’
‘Tony Guyson?’
‘Tiny Guy.’
‘I am…you are…we are…daughter and father.’
The momentary confusion of which role they’d adopt, should this shocking information be true, was not as bizarre as one might insist upon initial mental groping… Gender was fluid in this realm; Tiny Guy could be a matriarch if that role was pertinent, it wasn’t, but if it ever were. And this slightly piggish looking female could be her father without stretching anything, just reframing it and painting on a moustache or two.
