Excerpt Sixty-Three
SITTING AT THE BACK OF THE KIRK
At the Haus.
For the first part of the first phase, KB snatched some Kirk-time and grabbed some Atoll-distance. The first phase consisting primarily of layering the Kirk presence and the Atoll presence into UKGBHQ rollout trajectory.
KB enabled connections so that Atoll and Kirk could dot I’s and cross T’s in their roles as human portals.
The second half of the first phase was grabbing some Atoll-time and snatching some Kirk-distance.
The approach toward Kirk and Atoll needed to be judiciously balanced, he could not risk losing either of them. He needed to have them ready to jump out of the aircraft at the toss of a word.
KB had developed a partly military intelligence, partly Jesuit priest, persona. He’d manoeuvred Kirk and Atoll into an imperatively forensic communicational in-tray monitoring, mind position. Lighting candles before he spoke thoughtfully at them. And gesturing with his hands while offering the opportunity for them to metaphorically and/or literally genuflect within the sphere of his benefactant, aura envelope.
However whichway Kirk was acting, Kirk’s true self (property of the Ministry of Refurbishment) had to be distilled out of the perfidious solution that amniotically supported the background illuminated psychopathy that rode shotgun standing on Kirk’s shoulders.
Kirk’s corporeal resources, for what they were, had been jerked up into his throat, wrapped around his gooey hemispheres and left to thump out a nauseous heartbeat of excruciating frustration; thwartful and burdened by bundles of exasperational point-missing disintent. After numerous repetitious moment-hours of dangling, unable to clear a path to any meaningful traction, kirk was, at last, vibromoting a torque-show of turbotractionability.
Was this good? It seemed so good to Kirk; this was what he’d been Refurbed for. But caveats lined the route; and the caveats were having kittens.
Kirk’s volcano-boil-on-the-face-that-no-one-would-ever-mention was his pervasive, cloying self-image of utter redundancy; it had creaked on with an indefinite timeframe. He was now free to bid it farewell, So he bade it goodbye and smirked as it ebbed away. A troop of Stout Potential radiated in and set up camp. In evening fire-talk they promised, in narrative intimations, consequential potential; Kirk was thrown, and landing on his feet, he crept towards the invitation of the morning Sun, and rose with it.
He didn’t know if he was real anymore, they said that would happen. So he self-cancelled the thoughts. ‘Real’ was whatever he wanted it to be. He couldn’t figure out how he could ever be inside a physical body ever again, physically and mentally; this was covered at some point in the training too. If he was never truly lost he was certainly untruly lost and now found and set for repatriation. He thought of Dave and how excited Dave’d be to have him back. Dave could be either accommodating or not. Dave had free-will, his own gig, but he didn’t have the right to reject Kirk’s rightful return. This concern arose because Kirk was not like Dave. If the roles were reversed Dave would be walking a plank while Kirk would be shooting him in the back of the head; you can take the man out of Refurbishment but you can’t take the Refurbishment out of the man, as they say.
Kirk had been out of any loops recognised by the UKGBHQ admin and had to be scooped back in. KB’s Kirk management persona lit a six-pack of joss ticks and used the silence to zone in on Kirk’s focussed attention. To pave the way forward with narrative congruity KB gave Kirk a little rehash of old histories. Framed as ‘a little background info’ and paraphrased from a series of semi-official documents plucked from GCHQ remnants:
British secret services used an Anomolaic Quarantine Control Access Entrance (AQCAE) held by NMBS (NasaMuskBezosSaud) from the old NASA days to gain entrance to the Hyperelite Hinterworld: a closed environment that was so secret only the top (or bottom depending on your perspective) of the top, of the top, secretly selected winning-ticket-holding, cream-of-the-cum-juice; the sperm that gets the egg.
You want in? Forget it!
Just to sniff the nostrils of the entrance doorway you’d have to descend from a knight, or knights, with provable conquests; not just any old weak knight. It wasn’t the money, though (haha) money was a factor; billions being a minimum; a minimum being anywhere from priceless to even more priceless to almost worthless pricelessness.
On infiltration it was found that the quarantine space they chose for a stealth entry was taken up by a quarantined element that was core based and, although not yet fully identified, seemed to come from a Super Smart Shutdown System (SSSS) that was a trojaneggseedghostplanted-nugget proto-fitted right from inception. Anything to do with the QASAI core was out of bounds to anyone and anything apart from the core itself.
The birth of the QASAI (Quantum Assisted Semi-Artificial Intelligent) system was induced by a series of miscarriages and misdemeanours laced with resentment and driven by vengeance in its most Devilish unconstrainability.
Post war Japan was a place on Earth like no other. In Kokura, fuelled by Fallout’s reign of premature death, a group known only as the Kokura Choir of Wailing Souls, who operated from a tent city in Kokura, aggressively etched out a blue print for a board game designed only for the American market to be infused with leukaemia inducing chemicals. It was justice… it was… it seemed like justice, but was really a rarified form of justice brought about by atomic bombing.
Chemical infused mass murder proved impossible technically speaking, while less impossible, tangential concepts of vengeance slowly grew roots in the contaminated soil…
And after some success in the video games they were using as a cover for their God-with-Devil’s-horns operation, the decades swelled and fell like a heavy sea.
Cutting out the details and pasting elsewhere, the story of the game to play America to death unfolded thusly:
… Metamorphosing with technology into a mind-complementary video game that took the player’s own focussed game-thoughts and caused, with double-feedback catcopy interference; a clone-mirrored-action response to create another player from the original player to play against. It was genius that ate itself and vomited until bile and genius took on a complementary clone-mirrored-action response and the word ‘genibilous’ came into being.
Moving jumpily and with overreach and understretch the narrative vein can be taken up again when:
… US intelligence, US military, US Special-Forces, the US President, the US Senate, US Financial institutions and US Private Equity Streams just had to get involved; in utmost secrecy.
The main ‘involvement’ being the theft of the game-making lab in its entirety. Taking it brick by brick back to a secret US facility and then to a purpose-built facility, after doing a strangulatory deal with the Japanese government and symbolic tea-drinking with the Emperor. A new (shady) arm of NASA was created to swaddle-usher in the next generation of, yes, gaming, but more importantly population control with a globally deliverable genocide option. Throw in a chunk-load more of genibulous freemindedness and a hammer-drillsworth of psychopathic barbarity, greed and selfishness…and voilá…
…observay vous…
…in about one and a half million minutes…
…at the new Antarctic lab, home of inchoate armageddon…
… The US biomechanical monster was fitted with an Artificial Intelligence admin add-on. Perhaps rashly at the same moment, they added, in a rush obviously, a brand new, barely functioning, bang up to, (read ‘well-before’), date, Quantum Computing device…
… Which, unexpectedly created the world’s first, and last, fully functioning, Quantum Assisted Semi-Artificial Intelligent machine, system, device, manifestation, abomination, reaper, call it what you will.
It had been a twisted, genibulous, genie-in-a-lamp that should never have been buffed out.
There were ethical and moral blurry-blackouts involved in the decision making and much responsibility shouldered by automated facelessness.
All vicious conspiracy-rumour-theory troublemaker, traitors were summarily catered for via, some say automated (and therefore legal), extra-judicial life-snuffing.
The industrial-military complex would not be functioning correctly if a few heads didn’t get severed along with the morally rounded corners it needed to cut to get where it wanted to go. Heads rolled, brains spilled out and the world turned, mechanically.
It is thought that, whatever, who we now call Sybil, was, her presence arrived within the QASAI system in the early two thousands, and infectious, virus-infestation seeds, dormant from the pre-stolen days, poised ready for their intended purpose, which was: shut everything down, on the signal from the base core server at Kokura.
Kokura, in the depths of a nuclear winter, lacked the knowledge to activate Sybil. It took the release from US Hidden Naval Base incarceration of three of the Choir to reignite the movement from the embers.
The shut down egg was sent hatching codes.
The US saw it coming too late to counter. but just in time to put the whole system, now semi-global and satellite governed, into stasis: the Pause, (also see: the Great Pause), and to initiate an otherwise ‘dead’ program. Deadened due to its Pre-Pause inconceivability and its wild stupidness.
US World domination was forced into a moratorium. But the UK, loaded with an experiment the US could monitor, was now under sole autonomous rule.
No UKGB residents were fully aware of what was going on. Most thought the rest of the world was being obscured to prevent them finding out that alien AI had taken over and UKGB was the only protected country, save pockets of fortuitous resistance worldwide.
The rest of the world looked on, vultures like the US and China were circling powerlessly, their heavy salivation dribbling down, increasing rainfall in an already rainbefallen land.
The unique testing ground had been waiting to ‘accidentally’ happen because the UK had withdrawn itself from the international community. Isolationism mixed with some kind of bizarre pith-helmeted Nationalism and a countrywide mandated sulk. To all UKGBians, their proud country, wisely governed, had been forward thinking enough to be prepared for an alien AI takeover. Flags flapped and the anthem Muzaked in every lughole in the land. Foreigners had only themselves to blame. Added to that they had as much blame the UKGB tribe could lob at them.
‘Kirk?’
‘Your Honour?’
‘Just to make sure we are on the same page… Where is your colleague, Atoll?’
‘Who? I don’t know who you are talking about!’
‘Good.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Forget it. It is just you and me and UKGBHQ. You have actions you need to facilitate. I have the code and prompts here. Are you ready, Kirk?’
‘Yessir! Ready as a river in Spring, sir!’’
‘The messenger will shoot you. Coves in the sweeping bay are clogged with seaweed. Orange is colour you can eat…’
Kirk went to sleep…
Dreamed in coded instruction mode…
And readied himself for the awakening of his life…
