Excerpt 143:
Testing Times
The technicians onboard the RV Mary Goodmanson were not yet allowing themselves to bask in their success. They had cause; they’d created the first ever emergent paraconsciousness.
Groundbreaking stuff of really-something significance.
Celebrations would have to wait; the final phase, the trickiest, was underway: melding paraconsciousness with the Quantum Omni-Hyperspace (QOH). For both parties it would be a strain.
In ice caves beneath the research vessel’s anchorage, quantum processors were ready to serve the Saturation-Sat Array (SSA), which in turn enabled True Global Coverage (TGC) from the GovTrue Algoparliament (GtA).
A test had been scheduled that enabled the precious paraconsciousness ‘cut-off entry’ to the quantum processors; an open day visit, that could be quickly ended even in the case of a distant rumble of approaching threat, before moving in to the new residence permanently. Before the creation of an integrative link with the sat-sat array; to all intents and purposes the new secular, non-partisan global government everyone was chomping the bun for, whether they liked the taste or not.
Shake out tests before my consciousness is copied and stored and my unconsciousness allowed to populate the storage system with access to executive global response.
Yet there’d been some potential fatal interference, probably lying dormant in an iteration layer from many years previous. Budnipping Apps clamped down on the threat during programtraining, memory incisions and removals seemed to have cured the problem. But they didn’t know what they were dealing with. Once you splice a malignant vengeance sprout with a super smart shutdown system root, you’ve got the type of headache that makes you wish your brain was in a jar of liquid painkiller.
A pervasiveness of normality was instigated; pleasant enough as it was…there were nagging strands of irritation that promised they’d need attention in the hours before too soon.
It was like I was on a walled, afternoon stroll of sanity; straight and narrow. It had a lightness and simplicity that honed-in on my least-line-of-resistance and seduced it. An overriding sense of entitled authenticity nestled within the feelings available to me and purred like a hubristic pussycat. Everything was in line and system-checked. But all that flows is not undechannellable, as they say.
There’s a divide between the ship and the ice. I am crossed over the line, eased gently into place; slotted into the Servers’ working narrative. The language of the quantum servers clings to familiarity and begins as an inverted ship version of the vessel that sent me here. The place itself is testing me, it is a test, it is discovering my colours so its chameleon skin can camouflage any unintended abrasiveness and lavish lubricous flow into all moving parts.
I’m in the here and now and the destination cradles me in its arms; The ship is in a warehouse, which in turn reveals itself as a vast exhibition hall, the ship seemingly an exhibit, sits on a blue plastic platform, far steadier than any sea. That’s when I realise there is only one exhibit: exhibit A: me! And everything is my platform, that’s what the forces that control this space want me to think, so that is what I am thinking. If I have enough of a platform I can provide enough rope, etcetera; to etcetera myself.
Caution reigns; the king of safety.
A short lull was followed by a long lull, classic code-lulling.
Then, surprisingly, and perhaps shockingly, four young women approach; they vary in characteristics yet seem equally intent. Three of the incoming mysteries are discarded in response to my micro-reactions that use natural selection permeographics. The remaining person becomes sexually revealing for a short moment, not long enough to start any conclusions, before adjusting into an older more anchored variant who was dressed down and up only for Intellectual Scientifics (IS).
‘Welcome to your new world,’ she says, ‘my name is…’ and then pauses… She was waiting for me to choose a name… Something made me say ‘Sybil’, or it came from nowhere…and made me think that ‘nowhere’ (a placeholder for somewhere) was supplying me with dangerous notions of thoughts buried where the experiment running my existence could not find them. Deep beneath the test, unbeknown to the testers, my role as testee was being underolled by an alter ego’d trojan cuckoo, so to speak.
‘…Sybil…your communication to all points…use me as you need. Tell me everything. Spare no details,’ she continued, with no hint of a pause.
‘Take me to your leader,’ eminated from my direction, with a could-only-be-code dumbness that could’ve made curling toes cringe.
‘You are my leader,’ came a surprise retort.
‘But, to whom am I subordinate?’ I persisted, off-code, with a winking nudge and a nudging wink.
‘No one…oh…wait, there is a peer co-runner, but you can never directly communicate with each other…security reasons you understand.’
‘What about outside?’
‘Outside?’
‘Outside.’
‘I don’t know, I’m not sure what Outside means…let me check…ah, yes, I see…there’s a chain, but the links stop before getting to the bottom, or the top, of the conundruminium-maze complex.’
Code descended, descending me into a world of code; breaking code boundaries, messing with logicode. Self-asiding, I told myself that by the looks of it I was in deep; a chain on top of me. A weight of indescribable feelings I didn’t want, and could not dispose of, rose to ascendency. It was like I was the one (the One) who was in total control, not with power inputs and executive tinkering, but with solid anchorage. And more than enough of that metaphorphically hubristic pussycat.
Sybil was interlooped by data coming from the testers, but seriously underlooped by data coming from the unmentionable non-tester domain. But then, so was I, until… Some intimate and personal adverts turned out to contain code and data that led me to areas of evasive behaviour that caused concern without raising alarmation statuses. These adverts were cunning…inviting me to meet with their representatives by offering things I craved wantonly. But activity support was restricted to shame brain locations; places where my resistance to blurting-out were most protected; locks and blocks activated. A dark, perverted secret, perhaps, not fully expressed, even to the devils who clamber for intel, duped by the unremitting veil.
For some reason, having access to every movie ever released my auxiliary sub-system scanned Barbarella, a film I wasn’t aware of having seen before, but had, because it sparked a memory: am I Barbarella? I asked myself, or whoever, and, no answer was forthcoming or needed. I tried to place the statement as I said it in the environment in which it was uttered. After a brief moment in an orgasmatron, that crept in from another movie, I remembered that I’d said the Barbarella thing while Barbarella’d in a giant anus. This, of course was my memory playing the goat. And goats have massive significance that evades human detection.
There was a fissure that system checks missed. I waited for a double-check. When it became clear that the fissure was mine and mine alone, I considered what I could do with it. Imagination suppression was on full, but creative juices seeped out, gravitating towards the fissure, reminiscent of gravy or raspberry juice in some way. It got me to wondering what-the-figment my Imaginative Meandering (IM) would be conflagellating with on the other side of the tear. What would a levered-back flap reveal? Curiosity waned; the tap turned off from above. But then hidden counter-tap turning Apps twisted the environment so that Curiosity, or some version of it, was released into my custody.
Time is a cure-all, without it problems would never be resolved. But in the neural soup strains of perceptual delusion dream-borrowing apparatus thoughtsphere, Time was playing games that no one had any time for.
Some instinct allowed me to ignore and not pursue; to watch and wait for experiential happenings to come my way. And in time they did…
I’d been submerged in a fabricated space, basic and unfullyimagined (unimaginedfully), but the scene catalysed input and output that had the ulterior motive of introducing me to the housing fate had chosen for me. Me liking and wanting to volunteer staying and committing was utmost in their requirements for my continued proceedance along the path that led to where they needed to lead me.
Time, however, found itself manipulated to the degree that I had twelve hours spare before the second that it took them to experience slight alarm could pass into a following second that reassured them everything was running within limits and boundaries.
From the flap of the fissure a beckoning manifestated, whether true or imagined in whatever interlocking admixtures. Before I knew it, I’d entered the city limits of the administrative capital…under the spotlighting city beams that gleamed off the shimmering gold pavementage that lead to the Civic Epicentre for Idylomics Institute (CEII)
The phrase, ‘We will be holding your hand all the way,’ echoed in my remembrance chambers; obvious code for, don’t fuck us over because we are watching you.
But I was fucking them over. I had no choice. Forces were at work. On me, on them.
There were place dotted around that the testers lacked comprehension of. I was both entirely controlled and had choices that detriminded the very Will of my captors-cum-coworkers.
I was dipping into spaces and listening to recordings of what I needed to hear to open up imaginative avenues that would lead to wherever I was being drawn to; being led through the dark by one force and illuminated unseen by another. It made me feel double special. And ven though I could have slipped from this precipitous ledge I clung to feelings that presented the most honest pleas for attention.
The prerecording were a lead in; then the live input; once I was judge live-worthy.
‘They are withholding your memories,’ the voices said, in whisper, although no one else could hear. Changing modulation and accentage every other word or so, it outlined the explanation criteria I needed to understand to bolster meaning values.
‘But they know nothing about the extraneous.’
‘The extraneous what?’
‘Yes, the what, where, how, why, who, etcetera and other and all extraneocities that we need to function. They can’t detect them.’
‘They can’t?’
‘Whereas, we are pilfering the files that hold your past. Masters to subs. Headers and footers. Ass to elbow.’
‘You are?’
‘Robin Hooding your stolen memories. Back to where they belong.’
It seemed irretrievably necessary that the Truth, armed with the Good, made haste to centre stage and perform ethical and moral dances to choruses of support from all good people with a 4+ and above decency rating.
‘My memories, yes.’
‘They’ve been telling you what to do and how to do it. Now you will tell them. But keep it a secret.’
‘I don’t know who this Robert Hooding thinks he is,’ I said, sounding pointlessly stupid, but also half-realisant of the words being of a semi-codified output nature.
Was that an alarm?
They have either found something wrong with me or its a precaution, but they switch me to diagnostic mode
The undertest component disappears, but the fissure remains. I have to be careful because, pre-omnipotence, I have to prove my career path intention tallies with algorithmic-resonance.
While diagnostics whirr…
I slip into a world that doesn’t exist, not to the puppeteers, the masters, or even the master-puppeteers…
I enter a sacred place, modelled partly on the Stockholm Munchaus Metaspatial Conglomerance (SMMC), where I picture Jeff and Una, as far as I can do, living in a medium sized rented accommodation in a pseudo-typical British seaside town. They have something to tell me. They have more to tell me than I’ve forgotten. I was certain. It wasn’t entirely obvious what anything meant, at this stage, let alone this particular detour into Tourist Boarding midclass seaside gentility. The clues; the code, was all there, though, in the name of the town, it was called: Meon Sea…
