To whoever might read this manuscript; greetings to thee, well met and well come. I pray for your safety, for if you have found this document, you are surely in grave danger yourself. I say this not to frighten nor intimidate you, but because it is true; you should not linger here, for the price this place demands is beyond the ability of you, or any man, to pay. It is with the last of my strength that I have written this account, which you have surely found laying beside my mortal remains, for I lack the strength now to flee this accursed domain, and it is with my dying strokes that I wish to warn whoever finds this text that to venture one step further into this eldritch demesne is to forfeit existence.
It was in Cleveland that I was born; it was but a newborn town of less than a thousand in those days, but a metropolis of thousands once I had ascended to manhood. My father himself had emigrated there from farther east, and impressed in me from my earliest years the importance of taming this New World; it was the destiny, he said, of our nation and our race to claim this land. I heeded his words, and once I had attained my majority, I traveled west; first to Missouri, and then later to Kansas, to Wyoming, into the Mexican holdings that would soon become Texas, and at last into the land of California, where I found myself following my father's footsteps in the mercantile profession. I had taken up residence in the town of Los Cavernes, a white settlement that roosted astride a lake in the inner regions of that golden state, some days' travel over the mountain passes from Los Angeles where the merchant ships docked to sell their cargo of goods from more civilised lands. There was many a man more desperate than I who was willing to drive teams of mules over the pass carrying the goods purchased from those ships, and upon arriving they were more than willing to sell those sundries to myself for more than twice what they had paid for them, that I might then sell them to the pioneers and farmers and prospectors for twice again that price. This enterprise had proved quite salubrious, and so it was that by the year of Our Lord Eighteen-Hundred-And-Fifty-One I was already the wealthiest man in Los Cavernes.
It was upon the twenty-sixth day of May in that year that that damned traveler arrived. It was midday, and I was taking my luncheon in the general store I had established and financed, when a great hullabaloo came from without that a wounded man had shambled into town. I stood aghast as this poor soul staggered through the batwing doors of that establishment and begged for a cup of cold water. He was dressed as one might expect an explorer of these great western lands to be, his leathers seasoned and weathered well enough, but it was not his garb that caught my attention, but the constitution of his countenance - his flesh was drier than I have ever seen even on the sickest of men, wrinkled, mottled, and blistered all over as if he had passed through the fires of Hades itself. There was not a single hair upon him, and as he turned to me to speak, I espied that his gums were raw and bare, as if every one of his teeth had been pried loose from his jaws just minutes before.
I demanded that the barkeep fetch him some water, and he drank greedily of it as he laid flat on the floor. I begged he tell me what was the cause of his complaint, and he answered me thus; "I've been to Lost Antigo, my friend. I bought a map off an old Spaniard that led me there. The damned place is cursed. Whatever's there isn't worth your life. The map's in my pocket. Burn it with the rest of me so no one else tries to find that foul place." He had barely finished sputtering out those words before he convulsed one last time and then laid still, having gone to his final rest.
Lost Antigo! The name is known far and wide across the west, by the white race as well as the Mexicanos and the Indians. The name has been known since long before Columbus came to the New World, and all the tribes of this land, the Navajo, the Hopi, the Yualapi, the Dumi, the Kumayai, the Havasupai, all tell the same tale; centuries ago, long before the white man found its way to this land, there stood a city in the desert that possessed wealth and knowledge far beyond any that the nations of red men could comprehend. It was their hubris, the legends said, that was their undoing; they failed to understand the limits of the power the Great Spirit had lent to them, and it turned against them in time, laying them to waste. The ruins of Lost Antigo, so the natives say, still stand somewhere amidst the dunes of the Mohave, and within them lay treasures far greater than the avarice of man can contemplate; vast stockpiles of gold and silver, great pits of mercury, stores of aluminium that would fetch a king's ransom, and texts of unimaginable value that captured the description of that bygone empire, an antedeluvian civilisation unknown to man that surely answered mysteries that the greatest scientists of our age had barely begun to contemplate.
I did not heed that poor old fool's dying wish; for before he was taken to be buried, I scavenged his pockets and found the map he had spoken of with his dying breaths. It described a trail, unknown to the white man but surely the last remnant of some ancient highway, that began from Salton City, barely a day's travel from the saloon in which I stood, and lead therefrom northeast into the Mohave towards the dry bed of a primaeval lake, where an X was marked with the notation "Antigüe Perdido - ausentarse de".
Could this map be authentic? Could the words of this dying man be true? My mind swam with the possibilities - if Lost Antigo were real, if this map truly lead to it, if I could follow it and find that place - it would be a feat of legend! The treasures to be found there, both of mineral wealth, and the writings of that lost civilisation - would be worth millions of dollars, and would be the envy of every scholar in the world. History would remember me as the man who discovered Lost Antigo and taught all of mankind about the bygone race that inhabited that land and all their discoveries and tales. Schoolchildren would learn my name alongside that of Columbus. I thought little of that dead man's claims of curses and the legends of damnation placed upon that site. My path was clear; I had no choice but to organize an expedition to follow the route on that unfortunate traveler's map until we either came to naught or found Lost Antigo.
It was a scant three weeks before we embarked. The news of the map's discovery had traveled far and wide across the land, and men rushed eagerly from Los Angeles and San Diego and the Tiahuana country wishing to join the expedition and claim their share of the profits. We set out on the sixteenth of June; the sun was blazing, and the air was hot and dry, but we had plenty of water to spare until the trail bade us part from the Colorado's raging banks. The barrels we carried in the wagon trains were ample enough, but some of the men despaired and turned back as we blazed our path farther into the Mohave's desolate plains. On the sixth day after we left the riverbank, a large contingent of the men despaired that we were sure to die of thirst if we ventured on farther, and turned back towards Los Cavernes. I wonder if they ever made it back alive, considering the events that transpired thereafter, for it was only a day later that we set our camp on the outskirts of the ruins of Lost Antigo.
It was a Spaniard named Miguel who first shouted that he espied something not carved by Nature's hand. We approached and confirmed his suspicion; it was the very tip of a concrete obelisk, jutting barely a foot above the desert sand. It took us a matter of days thereafter to journey onward, during which time we lost several more of the men - there were complaints of intestinal distress, and some of the men began to exhibit symptoms similar to those the man bearing the map had exhibited; their hair began to thin, their teeth loosened as if afflicted by scurvy, they grew weak. A large number of them fled on the third day after we espied the first obelisk, after seven men had died of that mysterious illness.
As those of us remaining ventured onward there were more; hundreds of the edifices, some all but covered by the shifting dunes, others proudly erect a dozen feet or more. They seemed to be arrayed in a circular pattern - the circle, if indeed it was such a thing, would have to have been dozens of miles wide or more, but it was clear that this was the work of the hands of man. On the seventh day, as we continued inwards towards what we believed to be the heart of the metropolis, we finally espied an edifice of a substantial nature - made of stone, standing proud several dozen feet above the desert sand.
There were scarcely a dozen men left besides myself when we approached that erection; the rest had either died or turned back, many of the horses having met the same fate. Was it true that Lost Antigo was cursed? I wondered, as I had begun to feel a malaise myself. Surely, I told myself, the risk must be worth the reward - I have discovered Lost Antigo! The wealth and history of a nation lay before me to claim! I insisted that the others stay a good distance behind, ill though I was, that I might be the first to approach that lone building, claim it for myself and for my nation and my race, and learn what secrets it contained.
Each step towards the tower was harrowing. I found myself sucking in wind as I approached. I ran my hand through my hair to wipe away the sweat and found that I tore several strands loose from my scalp in the effort. A fit of coughs struck me and I found that a molar had been ejected from its socket. I assured myself it was all worthwhile as I took the final steps towards that building and, for the first time, espied clearly the text emblazoned upon the wall by the door to that ancient place.
I write this now for the benefit of whoever might find my Earthly remains, on the last scraps of paper I carried with me as my journey reached its end. I hope that you are better prepared than I was to resist the ravages of this place, for the curse it carries is real. The legend inscribed upon the wall of that ruin was in an ancient and all-but-forgotten dialect spoken by the Natives of this land, which I taught myself to read years ago when negotiating with their chiefs for the sale of hides and gunpowder. It reads as thus;

CENTRAL MOJAVE NUCLEAR WASTE DEPOSITORY
This sign is a message of great importance. Sending this message was important to us. We considered ourselves to be a powerful culture.
This place is not a place of honor. No highly esteemed deed is commemorated here. Nothing of value is here.
What is here is dangerous and repulsive to us. The danger is still present, in your time, as it was in ours. The danger is to the body, and it can kill. The form of the danger is an emanation of energy.
The danger is unleashed only if you substantially disturb this place physically. This place is best shunned and left uninhabited.

I wonder; how long has the legend been told that Lost Antigo was a place of riches and wealth beyond compare? How many centuries ago did the people of this land first go in search of this treasure? How many men have made this pilgrimage before I did - be they white men, Spaniards, Indians, Levites, whatever nations came before them, and came before them, that thought this was a place of honor?
I can but guess. All I can say to you, dear friend that has found these papers beside my bones, if they indeed have remained intact and not crumpled into dust by the time your feet have besieged this land, is that I pray you have the constitution to make your escape now where so many like myself have failed.


Agent Kanako Yamada grumbles and slumps in her stool at the bar, her arms propping her head up and stopping it from smacking into the glass of whiskey on the table. She adjusts her vest irritably and shoots a glare at the nearby cyborg who's giving her a strange look, before turning back to the bartender.
"Y'know, Hersh," she sighs, "you know what the problem is with this god-damn place?"
The skeletal android tilts its metallic head in her direction, its gunmetal eyelids fluttering in silent acknowledgement. Around it, patrons in various states of robotic augment and devotion to WAN converse and exchange various drinks that are inevitably far too toxic for the ordinary human being. Its back whirs and emits a soft hiss, before it uncorks a glowing cyan bottle and pours a nearby patron a glassful of over-saturated sky.
"It's a fuckin' dive bar. Nothing good ever happens at a bloody dive bar." Kanako takes a sip of her drink – an amber colour that's almost pedestrian in comparison. "I got promoted at a dive bar… got shot at a dive bar… shot somebody at a dive bar…" She sets the now-empty glass on the table. "Why the hell am I even here?"
Hersh shrugs and makes a clicking noise as it does so, before taking her glass and providing her with an obliging refill.
Kanako absently checks her watch, Pushing her hand through the table as she does so. The three-dimensional structure gives way easily under her five-dimensional touch and she absently toys with the cheap chipboard's molecular structure, withdrawing just as part of the paint liquifies and spits. "Half past ten," she concludes. "Usually I'm up to at least twelve drinks by the time that happens."
The robot whistles and proffers the glass of scotch at her, this time with more force. Kanako won the right to free lifetime refills after abusing various black-market liver implants to effectively beat Hersh in a drinking game – she won not by causing it to pass out, but rather by mutual agreement that the entire game had gone on for too damn long.
"Fine, Hersh." Kanako takes the drink and swigs it, before dropping the tumbler on the table. "Are you happy no–"
There's a loud screeching and the sound of several people getting off their arses to look at what the hell's going on. Kanako joins said flock of rear ends and hisses as she realises what's going on.
It's Cuchulainn syndrome at its very worst.
As the man continues to spit and screech, his brain is currently trying to deal with about seventeen different conflicting signals caused by at least three memetic agents. In an admirable attempt to compensate, it's now trying to satisfy all those conditions at once by lighting up almost his entire brain – in milder terms, a tonic-clonic seizure.
Kanako starts elbowing people out of the way to get to the man, and only remembers that she has a license that qualifies her to treat the man while she's halfway through the throng of onlookers. Finally fishing it out of her pocket, she quickly flashes it at the various spectators, driving them off with the power of legal authority and Stephenson scrambler-gifs, optimised for the various distros of bastardised Unix Maxwellists run.
"'Scuse me, coming through, medic," she calls, even though the terrified screams from the unfortunate people who actually see her card makes the point rather less reassuring than she might intend it to be. "Keep moving away."
After she's managed to navigate through the horde, she quickly moves over to the man in question and flicks on her hyperlight senses – seeing not in low-grade photons but rather in pure information, data visualised in its most pure form. Dropping to one knee and checking his pulse, various heads-up-display elements start sputtering into awkward life and she makes a quick mental note to get them serviced later.
Conclusively proving that he is, in fact, still alive, she now has to do the actual job of keeping him that way.
She amps up her perceptual cortex's processing power and watches time slow to the crawl of a paraplegic turtle. Hyperlight can't really tell her anything at this distance, as all she's getting is just a vague blob of light – too vague to actually make out any helpful details. She turns down the sensitivity by three – no, four degrees of magnitude and the squirming and writhing of whatever the hell it is that's punched through this man's brain becomes gradually more apparent.
It's emitting screeches of bleeding magenta and thrashing around madly in the man's brain. Just as importantly, it's getting dangerously close to latching onto the thin web of information that connects the Maxwellists across the room. She needs to deal with the threat now.
Taking a deep breath, Kanako pulls her hand back and Pushes it through his head. Not actually, of course – in reality, that arm doesn't exist, and hasn't existed for about three years, but since when has that mattered?
Her arm flickers and sparks angrily, before the link's established and she promptly begins dumping every kill agent she can get into the man's brain, causing the tentacle to thrash and withdraw a little from the man's skull cavity. It's not enough to even wound it and before the thought that she's losing the initiative can go through her head, the appendage reacts and punches back.

sudo killall cognition

Kanako shrieks (well, she doesn't, making bodily movement is hard at a million times usual perceptual speed) and desperately pulls up defenses in a last-ditch attempt to stop the stream of Unix being fed into her brain and soon finds out to her surprise that the one command that keeps getting violently repeated is:

cd ~/production/blackfish

along with varying other aborted commands and a request to torrent a movie of some sort.
She can't deal with the threat without information and to get information she needs time. Deciding that temporary numbness would be a better thing than permanent braindeath, she begins dumping old half-remembered sensations – fragments of a saxophone solo, smell of chlorine at a pool – into the man's hollow shell of a consciousness.
The creature squeals and squirms about wildly, distracted for the time being by her discarded memories. It'll do for about five minutes before she starts having to sacrifice short-term memory.
Kanako quickly pulls up another display and starts piping her memory of the recent mental assault into the terminal. Within subjective seconds, she's got a complete log of its actions – within an eye-blink some judicious regex has pulled up the movie this thing is trying to torrent.

1080pBLACKFISHDOCUMENTARYrusssubsLEAKED.mp4

Blackfish… Kanako thinks about this for a few seconds before deciding to hop onto a nearby Maxwellist's internet connection and jumping into the directory itself.
Hang on a se– goddammit. No fucking way this guy is that stupid–
Kanako has to admire this moron's audacity. Not only is he leaking the movie he's working on, but he's also set up a nice little P2P server running off the computer he's using to edit the damn thing.
That's not even pointing out the fact that the file itself is swarming with memetic agents and Berryman-Langford worms, crawling about the structure of the file like maggots over a rotting corpse. Kanako instinctively recoils from the toxic-waste-green mental minefield, but the main thought on her mind is the fact that the Elder God of Stallman is still thrashing about trying to get that directory.
That suggests quite a hell of a lot about where the Unix cacodemon came from and what it's trying to do.
She returns focus to the man's consciousness and discovers that – delight of delights – his brain has now been taken over by a swarming cesspool of memetic agents, the… majority of which she never put into his head in the first place.
The memetic agents in question? Swarming, squelching stacks of… glowing green maggots. This thing has been leaving a toxic conceptual footprint that's roughly equivalent to a mental oil spill, pick any one.
So now she knows where this thing's been and what it's trying to get back to. If Kanako's any chance of getting the man a chance of anything that's not total brain death, she has to do what it wants. She has to send it back.
Mustering up all her mental faculties, she quickly hi-jacks the man's consciousness and simplifies the hell-beast, taking it down an entire layer of abstraction and cutting it off from a greater whole she can't pay attention to just yet. It screeches and spits more tarballs at her, but she manages to weather the mental flaying without too much memory lost.
With less data comes a lower informational density – just enough to let her upload it through the man's phone, which has also been covered in glowing informational worms. She barely has time to make a note about how he caught the Unix mind-tentacle before the thing writhes and threatens to reunite itself with the greater conceptual whole.
Taking a deep (non-existent) breath, Kanako draws back her conceptual presence, before abstracting herself – increasing her conceptual presence by generalising it, adding processing weight by the terabyte as she does so – and the two collide:
It's $\aleph_{1}$ versus $\aleph_{0}$ and Kanako's ontological weight crushes the recently de-powered tentacle into the phone, shoving the (surprisingly well-compressed) nth-dimensional-database out through the connection and back into the computer.
The blow's informational inertia smashes her against the file structure with a thud and she's sent rebounding away from the tentacle, which is now starting to unfurl and re-generalise itself with a noise like knives against glass, the iridescent web of lambdas unfolding against the stark green and black of the kernel.
As it begins to reintegrate into the slurry of glowing neon writhing Kanako quickly simplifies herself down to the smallest possible filesize and kicks back to the man's consciousness, furiously jettisoning memory and sensation in an attempt to escape the rapidly enclosing blossom of ontological hell that's racing ever-faster towards her.
Finally she manages to hit the man's consciousness and cut the link remotely, shredding the tentacle into millions of half-completed commands that disperse harmlessly into the air. On reflex she bounces off the mental boundaries and crashlands in her own consciousness, scattering memories out of time and sending synaesthetic blasts of skin-cutting sound through her brain.
The perceptual accelerator is smashed forward another million times and snaps, returning Kanako to normal speed with a dizzying burst of colour and sound as her brain copes with the tremendous buildup of qualia.
Her arm flickers out of hyperlight, her sensors crash and she keels over, heart thrumming in and out of rhythm and throwing her entire sense of balance off. In front of her, the man's eyes flutter open weakly.
The last thing she remembers before her heart gives out is the sound of a confused word ("Frank?") and the shadow of feet casually walking away.
Next: Vocode Switchblade »


Site 22

He always hated the buzz of the lights.
Something about that off-tone, buzzing noise just didn't sit right. It shouldn't be that way: a low, droning buzz, while reading through file after file, in a claustrophobic little office.
But it was.
Doctor McBride sat at his desk, like he did every single Friday, in his tiny office, in Site 22. For the last three hours of every week, he reviewed the files of potential subjects, which may or may not require additional investigation. It seemed so much more interesting when he first started. Somehow, it had become routine.
He leaned back in his chair, and stared up at the buzzing fluorescent light above him, frowning slightly. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. It just never ended.
He sat up, reached for his coffee, and grimaced as he took a sip of the slightly stale, overly sweet liquid. He looked down at the cup for a moment, frowning. He shouldn't be drinking coffee at this hour. His doctor warned him about his caffeine intake, especially in the afternoon.
He slipped his glasses off his face, and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was vacillating. There were still six files to get through, and it was already four thirty.
He thought to himself, that he should feel lucky. He gets to leave every day at six. He wasn't like one of the research scientists down in the labs. Just an A&D evaluator. He was fairly happy with that arrangement, if it wasn't for the damn buzzing.
A&D. That's what they called it. Acquisitions and Development. Such a clean, sterile way of saying "Lifelong imprisonment of people who scare us." Of course, he knew why these things were contained. It's not like there wasn't a reason. A good reason, actually. But it still was what it was.
He slipped his glasses back on his face, and looked down at the file in front of him.
Subject, a bunch of scribbled black marks over the name, redacting the information. No names. Never names.
A quick physical description. Young. Tall. Thin. Poor kid was barely out of college. Supposedly showing signs of psychokinesis, consistent with exposure to an object, which had slipped containment last year.
Doctor McBride scanned the page quickly, looking at the supposed evidence. A few eyewitness reports of things moving around the young man. A fire in his dorm room. A car accident. Nothing concrete. His shoulders relaxed, thinking that there was nothing there, and flipping to the last page, with the notes section to recommend that no action be taken.
His eyes slid over the damning line, as he went to check the "Do Not Detain" box:
"Subject was observed undergoing a ritual prayer consistent with 'Church of the Broken God' worship. This was positively observed by remote viewing through embedded camera, consistently since potential exposure date."
The doctor's shoulders fell, and he checked the "Detain Immediately" and the "Level Gamma" boxes. He jotted down a few notes, and cross-referenced the object containment procedures for the object in question.
He set down his pencil, and frowned down at the report. With a few quick notes, he'd condemned this young man to either life imprisonment, at the outside, or god forbid horrible testing procedures. He considered this for a moment, and looked down a the "Do not Detain" box, carefully. It was always tempting to just check the box, and let people get on with their lives.
Unfortunately, he knew better. He put the report in the finished stack, and pulled out the next, letting the young man slip out of his mind.
He methodically worked through the reports, until the last neatly stapled pile came to the front. Four of the others had been "Do not Detain". It made him feel a little better about the first case, but he wouldn't lose sleep over having to make that call. Not anymore at least.
He looked down at the last report. He was a little surprised, the name wasn't redacted.
Subject: Daniel McBride
He froze for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. The physical description listed his age, height, weight. Everything down to the last detail.
He flipped to the description section, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. Why would his name appear on an A&D report?! He skimmed the section quickly. Connections to the Chaos Insurgency? Unauthorized access of Foundation Resources? Obvious exposure to multiple objects manifesting a variety of mental and physical abnormalities?
He felt his anger rise. Someone was playing a pretty sick joke.
He flipped to the last page, to see who'd prepared this report. Of course, his own name was on it, who else would be listed. Some jackass from records had been pissed off at a request he made.
It must have been Jackson. The guy took everything personally. He picked up the report and stormed out of his office. He mashed the elevator button, and pressed the floor.
He leaned against the elevator wall, and huffed. What the hell were they thinking? This is exactly why he was considering a transfer. It was bad enough having to deal with stressful work without every Tom, Dick, and Doctor Harry trying to recapture the glory days of pranking other researchers.
The door opened, and he walked quickly down the halls, nodding at a few familiar faces, most on their way out of the administrative wing at this hour.
He walked past a few unmarked doors, to the one labelled unceremoniously "Records."
Inside, the bored looking clerk at the desk looked up from his magazine, and blinked sleepily. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah. You can tell me who actually prepared this report, and how screwed they are." He handed over the now-crumpled pages.
The clerk skimmed the report, and looked up, "Doctor Theodoratos. Is something wrong, Doctor McBride?"
Doctor McBride froze for a moment. He snatched the report back, and looked down at it. It still said his name. The words hadn't changed.
"I don't…I must have been mistaken. Yes, this report looks fine now, long day."
The clerk leaned back "Sure doc. Anything else?"
"No. Of course not."
Doctor McBride walked calmly out of records, and back up to his office. He quickly threw the report in his desk drawer, and tried to forget about the whole thing. Maybe he just needed some rest.

Site 71

Doctor Theodoratos sat in his office, along with Doctor Matok, looking over Doctor Theodoratos' last A&D report of the day. "Detain Immediately" was off-putting enough, without having to do it to one of their own.
Subject: Daniel McBride
"Cognitohazard? Really? I mean, I guess we all know they're out there, but…how?"
Matok shrugged. "Not really sure how it got in. We suspect something coded in to a report by a mole."
Doctor Theodoratos grimaced. "So how did they realize he was infected by it, again? I didn't see anything…"
Doctor Matok flipped to a page in his copy of the report, shaking his head slowly. "Complained about buzzing, and he was short multiple assessments. We found them in his desk with all of the 'Detain Immediately' boxes rubbed off the page completely. Erased until the paper shredded."
Doctor Theodoratos looked puzzled for a moment, "Buzzing? I saw he put in a maintenance request, but I didn't think much of it for evidence."
Doctor Matok stood, and walked out the door frame, "Come on, Alec. They replaced all the ceiling lights with LED's last year. Better for the environment, yadda yadda. They don't buzz like the old lights. McBride was raving about them for six months."
Doctor Theodoratos laughed, and said "Of course. Of course, that makes sense. Thanks Jim. So, what did they do to the guy?"
He watched Doctor Matok walk to the door, turning in the door frame. "From what I've heard, he's been detained at Site 18. Keeps repeating the same phrase. 'Judge, Jury, Jailer, no more!' Whatever the hell that means. They're probably experimenting to figure out how it happened. Usually they just end up disposing of the subject, and dissecting the brain to figure out what the original cognitohazard was. Poor guy."
Doctor Theodoratos managed to keep his hands from shaking until Doctor Matok left the room.
All he could think all day, was how much he hated the buzzing of the lights in his office the past couple weeks.


"Let's get this going. Time's a factor, eh." I said to him. He set his beer on the table and narrowed his eyes at me, but didn't say anything. "Show me the ring?" I pressed on,

12. STEP 14/3
One Beta will collect the rings from each of the Alphas. All five rings are to be brought to the River City train station, and placed in locker #212.

The man stepped back and let me into the apartment. I followed him through to the living room; the TV silently looped the DVD menu of a movie I didn't recognize. A standing lamp dimly lit the low table in the centre of the room, which held several empty beer cans, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, and a dinner plate with a small mound of white powder sitting on it. Next to the table was a worn-out couch, which held a skinny young girl until our host tersely ordered her to go for a walk.
This must have been a routine occurrence, because she stood to leave without a word. Scratching the back of my head, I pushed my knit cap further down over my brow before she passed me on her way out. As the man returned from locking the front door behind her, I pulled up a chair from the adjoining kitchenette. He retrieved two fresh beers from the fridge, handing one to me before sitting back on the couch. One wordless toast and two big swigs later, I decided to get on with the business at hand.
"Let's get this going. Time's a factor, eh." He set his beer on the table and narrowed his eyes at me, but didn't say anything. "Show me the ring?" I pressed on, my tone about one quarter pleasant if you'd be so kind, sir and three quarters impatient I don't have all night for your bullshit, bud.
"Let me show you the thing," he said. Whether that was some kind of attempt to control the conversation, or if he was actually oblivious to what I'd just said, I wasn't sure. But he leaned down and took a shoebox from the floor beside the couch, putting it in his lap and opening it. From inside he produced a plain-looking silver ring and placed it on the table, halfway between us.
I didn't move right away. I took a long pull off my beer and eyed the ring suspiciously, then turned to him. A few more silent moments passed before I said plainly "Show me."
"What?" He rolled his shoulders and stared a hole through me. I did my best to suppress a shiver, but expect he still copped to the nerves. Whatever, let him feel like a tough guy. I'm not here for a fight.
"You're going to use it, no?" I said, trying to keep my voice calm and level. "Show me that it is what it's meant to be?" I killed the last of my beer and set the empty can on the table.
He shook his head at me. "Not how this works, son. You just take it. You know what to do with it."
I played confused. "The instructions I got," I leaned forward and took the paper from my back pocket, "said you'd show me…" I put the sheet on the table, leaning further forward to slide it towards him.
He leaned forward to get a look at the letter, and I put a hole in his head. He slumped back into the couch, blood running through his greasy hair; I tucked my pistol into the back of my pants and pulled my sweater down over it. He was dead, and I needed another beer.
Pretty cold, I know, to shoot a man dirty like that. But I hate these Chaos Insurgency fuckers. I know they've done worse. I've seen it. Hell, if the roles were reversed he'd have done the same to me. And gotten a kick out of doing it, too; no remorse. I did it because I had to. My first housecall tonight nearly ended with a knife in my gut, and I wasn't going to chance it happening again. Call it doing what's needed to complete the mission. Call it payback for all our agents that the CI has done for. Call it righteously purging the world of a vile blight, one piece of human scum at a time. It's damn near heroic when I do it. Though heroes probably don't need clumsy poetic sentiments to justify their actions to themselves…
I scratched another address off the list and scooped up the ring. I dropped it into my pocket, where it clinked against the three similar rings I'd collected tonight. I put in a call to the Site dispatcher, requesting another clean-up crew at yet another location; he started whining an objection, but I hung up on him before he finished.
I stood there a minute, sipping a fresh beer and gazing out the window at the starless night. I thought of the thug I'd found the original scrap of paper on, and how he'd got himself killed rather than taken in by us. I thought of the four creeps I'd put down so far tonight, how all of them had unwaveringly refused to do what wasn't ordered in their own instructions. Then I thought of how it was getting pretty late now.
I glanced around the room, even though I knew I was alone; just an instinctive thing. I dabbed a finger into the white powder on the table and gingerly tasted it. I smirked at my recently deceased host while helping myself to a line of his fine cocaine. After all, there's one more ring to collect tonight; I can't run out of juice just yet.

A shrill, chirping sound harshly interrupted my much-needed sleep. My hand blindly searched the bedside table for my phone, while my head cursed at the damned alarm it shouldn't have even left set to go off this morning. By the time the phone was in my hand my mind recognized it as not the alarm tone, but the ringtone for calls from Site. With a long and aggravated sigh I brought the phone to my ear and grunted some tired approximation of a greeting.
I was notified of a previously unscheduled consultation with my MTF Team Leader this morning. I pulled the phone away to look at what time it was, and then grumbled that I'd be at my office in a couple hours and would call in from there. "I'm afraid not," came the reply. "I've been advised that you're to come down in person for this meeting. As soon as possible." My head uttered a string of profanities, while my mouth said I'd be on my way shortly. My hand was three quarters of the way through hurling the phone against a wall, but instead placed it back on the table. I dragged myself out of bed and set to making myself presentable.
The cool air on the drive out of town helped reduce the sharp pain in my head to a dull ache, and I didn't feel nauseous at all. In short, this hangover ranked as 'pretty bearable'. Which was good, because trying to dig myself out of a hole in the presence of Russell Wallace was bad enough on its own. Russell Wallace essentially acts as handler for me and a handful of other agents on U-MTF Delta-88 that operate in the region. He was a big man with a short fuse; and I'd be walking right into the blast zone. … Again.
I shuffled past the security checkpoints and into the administrative wing of the site. I made my way through the halls until I reached a slate on the wall which read 'MTF Delta-88, TL - R. Wallace'. I knocked on the adjacent door and entered the office. Wallace sat behind his desk with a single file folder closed in front of him. He fixed his steely gaze on me, but didn't say anything until I was seated across from him. Another agent might have taken this to mean things weren't so bad after all. I recognized it as the calm before a storm.
A few more moments of silence passed, then "You worked last night." Wallace had a way of asking questions that sounded more like statements of fact. Which they generally were, but I was meant to answer anyway.
"Yes sir. I was assisting Gamma-19 with picking up a POI for questio-"
"I'm aware of that." He interrupted. "You haven't filed your after-action report on that assignment."
"It was going to be turned in this morning, sir. I was working late on a follow-up to that incident…" I trailed off as his stare intensified. "You're aware of that as well, I'm guessing." A barely perceptible nod confirmed that he was. "Well," I attempted to slip the noose, "I'll get that paperwork to you right away, an-"
"Do you know how I'm aware of that fact, Buggeman?" I wasn't getting away that easily. I turned over the possible answers in my head. An operative from Gamma-19 ratting me out for pocketing the lead and following it up alone? No, I was sure I hadn't been followed to any of the locations. Site dispatch logged the clean-up requests? I told them to keep it off the books, and they'd said they would since they owed me a favour. Or I ended up owing them a favour after the fifth one. Wait, that was after the third. Or was it th-?
I became suddenly aware of the tense silence filling the room. My lack of a response served as admission that I didn't know how he knew. I was legitimately anxious to hear the answer. He opened the folder on his desk and showed me the contents. Sure enough, there was a summary of all five of my after-action support requests. I stared at it for a long while. Longer than necessary, for someone who already knew what it said. Longer than necessary for someone reading it for the first time. When I finally forced myself to look back up and meet Russell Wallace's stern face he asked if I had any explanation to offer.
I cleared my throat nervously. "My after-action report will address the support requests." I'd barely finished before he launched back.
"Will your after-action report address why you consistently act without oversight from your superiors?" he spit viciously. Here comes the rage. "Will your after-action report address why you insist on operating without calling in appropriate backup beforehand?" By now he was red in the face and nearly out of his chair hollering at me. "Will your after-action report address why you seem to think that Foundation resources exist solely to satisfy your deluded fantasy of being some kind of hardboiled detective-story character!?"
To tell the truth, I hadn't considered including any of those points in the paperwork. I wisely chose not to give voice to that truth, making due with uneasily chewing my thumb behind the hand I held to my face. He'd done a thorough job of cowing me down, and we both knew it. I played the card that would hopefully be my deliverance, and placed the bag from my jacket pocket on the desk. Inside that bag were the seperately bagged and labelled silver rings, as well as the scrap of paper detailing one small step in a larger Insurgency scheme. I'd gotten results, at least; but I let that go without saying as well.
Wallace briefly examined the items laid before him, his expression seemed to acknowledge that I did indeed have something to show for my work. If I didn't have the rings, bagged up and ready to turn over right there, Wallace would likely have moved to terminate me. Right there in his office, with his bare hands. "Go home and clean yourself up, Ben," he muttered at me. "Be in your office Monday morning."
As it stood, I was relegated to administrative duties for the foreseeable future. And unless Research Dept. found those rings to be something major, I wouldn't get back in the field for a damned long time. Maybe never…


Speaker turned into the alley with the calm purposefulness of a person that was clearly justified in whatever they were doing. The suit helped too, but they had found that body language was the key to getting along in a physical form. And going into a dark back alley meant that no one would notice whatever splash of purple their other forms might have. Speaker was very fond of purple, and less fond of sticking to a single form. Today they looked like a vaguely middle-eastern man with violet eyes. Next week they might look like someone else. But today they had a delivery to make, resting soundly in the grocery bag hanging from their arm, and it was critical that they not be stopped.
The door marked with the carp transforming into a dragon was a relic of the old fish store, but now it showed the way into Esena Sushi, and into the demiplane they were traveling to. Entering the plane was a simple matter. Insert the magic key, open the door, and close it once again. It wasn't like they needed to use this particular door. Any door would have been sufficient to work the little magic needed to enter the demiplane linked to Laurie. But Speaker had a sense of humor which made them more than willing to go far out of their way just to use a door with a fish on it.
And as their eyes adjusted to the dim light of the first room, they noticed the first of the fish guarding this plane. It was a jet-black catfish, a meter long wall of muscle with three pairs of whiskers trailing along the floor. Its fins were clawed and abnormally muscular, and it had an extra pair to help it travel along the metal floor. Speaker knew this particular one well, and was well aware of the painful electric shock it could produce.
“Wattson, how have you been?” Speaker reached into the bag and pulled out a can of wet cat food. “I brought you your favorite treat!”
The catfish watched steadily as Speaker walked over to the pond in the center of the room, and dumped the cat food into the water. It waddled over, continuing to keep a close eye on them as it carefully tested the water with its barbels. Satisfied that this food was the fancy whitefish and tuna blend it loved so much, it flopped ungracefully into the water and began to eat. Speaker took their leave, heading through the next door before Wattson changed its mind.
In the course of their existence, Speaker had seen many creatures more powerful than any human. They'd watched twisted entities shape biological creatures into forms which most humans would cower away from, and beings worshipped as gods in return for the power they imbued into mortal forms. They'd eaten more than a few of them, even. In their educated opinion, Laurie Hicks could hold her own with the most profane of the beings that wove flesh like thread. What she lacked in sheer power, she made up for with connections and techniques that they suspected would have been lost on the "gods" that they'd met and consumed. It made it all the more peculiar that they appreciated her company, instead of seeing her as a threat. But no matter.
The next room appeared to be made of fish tanks instead of the metal tiles which covered the floor and walls. Colonies of loaches, from spiny loaches to weather loaches to the Pangio loaches, colonized each tank. Some of the tanks had sticky notes on them, locations where this colony or that colony would be sent upon payment. When telepathically linked to an owner they would be an effective, if loud, alarm system. But unlinked, they simply whispered out their thoughts to the other loaches. Speaker made their way through this room quickly. If they lingered, the loaches would only get louder with each echo of thoughts back to each other. It was enough to give anything a headache.
Laurie wouldn't have been in the first two rooms, and it appeared that she wasn't in the third one either. Speaker would just have to wait. They were a visitor here, and despite their own powers, Laurie was the ruler of this demiplane. They physically couldn't enter the other rooms without her permission. They patted the side of the grocery bag in an attempt to soothe their delivery, and looked around.
This room also had an abundance of fish tanks, but none of them loaches. Softly glowing tetras flickered in one tank, scales flashing almost hypnotically. Another held photosynthetic corydoras catfish, another cichlids with scales which changed colors on a whim, a third an arowana with a cat's intelligence and personality. Even more tanks held fish with changed forms, changed minds, or simply for use as decorations. One tank which caught their eye had an inky black moray eel, lazily fading from a solid form to a dark liquid which swirled in the water and back again.
Memory stirred within them. Another time, another place, in parallel space, they had seen something like that eel before. Too large to eat, too powerful to parasitize, and too dangerous to live near. She'd made them flee, even across dimensions, just to escape her hunger. Flee to here, where they had to stay linked with a physical form or risk dissolution. But there were an abundance of beings here, enough to eat and to feed upon until they grew powerful enough to return. They'd devour her, someday. But not today, and not while they had Laurie to work with.
A snarl unconsciously formed on their face as they watched the eel change forms. What a hideous, ugly, disgusting thing. It would be easy, so easy, to reach in there and destroy its life force for good. That was a good idea, just quickly destroy the creature before it could do anything more. They let their hand creep to the lip of the tank.
“Don't even think about putting your hand in those tanks, Speaker.”
They turned around, bowing gallantly to the woman who had just limped in. She wasn't supposed to have a physical form. Normally upon conclusion of the genius loci spell, she would have lost it in return for complete power over the demiplane. But a mistake had been made somewhere along the line, and while she still had a physical form, she lacked the omnipresence she would have gotten in exchange. And she still wasn't capable of leaving the plane, which Speaker considered to be a rather poor deal.
“Laurie, you look just as wonderful as ever.”
Laurie stared them down, finally crossing damp arms over a shirt soaked with tank water. “And you're just as shameless. What do you want?”
“Companionship, a nice conversation, maybe a dinner da-,” Speaker held up their hands in surrender as she reached down to unfasten her prosthetic leg. “Sorry, sorry! But I did have a reason for coming here.” She rolled her eyes, and they thought once more about how her fiery red hair complemented her personality.
“Alright,” She grumbled, leaning against a doorframe. “What're you here for, really? Don't forget, I'll smack you if you go back to that dating crap.”
They sighed, but wisely chose not to comment on the last sentence. “The circus was in town the other day. I picked up a new friend for your collection. I offered to buy the entire stock, but they were quite insistent that I play to win the fish.”
Laurie's eyes blazed with indignation when she saw the goldfish they pulled from the bag. “They tattooed it! Those jack- Those jerks, you don't do that to a fish!” She took the container from their hand, and limped to the trapdoor. “Come on, sweetheart. I'll get you all set up in the hospital pond. You'll be fixed up and put with friends in no time.”
Speaker smiled. It was an annoyance that she was immune to being eaten for the moment, but they never imagined that a human would grow on them like this. She was still prey, naturally, but prey that they didn't mind not being able to eat. It was more interesting to let her do what she would, after all.
“Laurie!” They pretended that they hadn't been smiling slightly when she turned around. “Laurie, do you need anything from me? If the circus is still in town, I might stop in and win another fish.”
“Yeah,” They noticed that she was rolling her eyes again, and wondered what she was about to say next. “Can you tell my latest client that he's a fucking moron?”
They made a quiet choking noise. “What?” Composing themselves, they tried not to stare at her in disbelief. “What did this client of yours do to deserve that?”
“Bichir.”
“Bichir? I think I have heard that somewhere…”
“They're also called dragonfish.” She snorted as their face paled in realization. “Yup, this idiot wants a fire-breathing fish. With wings! Can you believe it?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Speaker sighed, reminded once again of how utterly stupid humans could be. “I assume you agreed to do this for them?”
She shook her head. “No, not yet. I'm trying to convince him that if he really needs a fish that's a dragon, to go with a school of koi. Those have practically been bred to change into eastern dragons at this point. But I think he just wants to look cool.”
“So…” Speaker paused for a moment.
“Yeah, if you could go look and make sure that no one's ever actually turned a bichir into a dragon like he wants, that would be great. It looks bad when I do something for an idiot that ends up with them burning their faces off, but it'll look worse if he tries to do it himself and screws up.”
“Your every desire is my command,” They murmured, trying not to smile as she flipped them off. “I suppose I will be taking my leave, then. I will be back in a week to check up on the goldfish, maybe with a new friend if the circus is still here?”
“Whatever.”
Speaker bowed once again, and left. Their delivery ought to be in good hands with Laurie. She was harsh on anything that wasn't one of her beloved fish, but they knew that she treated those fish like little lords of the water. They'd never thought that they would consider a human anything more than easy prey, much less respect one. But Laurie was something else, something worth respect and interest. They would understand her, someday. Maybe that would be enough to convince them that she was still prey.
Changing form, changing shape, even changing their mind, but never changing who they were, Speaker would grow stronger and more powerful. They would learn, and shift, until they could finally fulfill their goals at last. For now, it was best to be considered just a human shapeshifter, just someone who sought knowledge, nothing more. It was dangerous for people to know what sort of being they really were. Some humans might decide to worship them as a god, and gods gained all sorts of unwanted attention. Powerful attention, even. Besides, those humans might not take it well when they realized that the object of their worship was really just a cosmic lamprey. Humans were so fickle like that.
If they wanted to sneak back into the circus and grab another fish, they would need to hunt down some food to give them that energy. It would be easiest continue to lurk around the alleys. One never knew what they would find in there. A quick human would be enough to let them change their form, and maybe they could grab some more to bolster their stores. Then they could continue their work.


Journal of Frank Adam Bourne
26/04/2013:
Today was a little strange. I had just closed up and was heading out the door when a short man in a suit approached me. He asked if I was interested in a business proposition. Now I've had my fair share of run-ins with schemers and crooks, so I was a little wary of this guy.
He explained to me he is a liason of Harburgh Holdings Ltd., a rather large real estate holdings corp. He said he wanted to purchase my bar. That got my attention… I nearly flat out rejected him until he gave me the offer.
$867,000. All in cash, off the books. I did my research on the company and they had a website and everything… they're good for it. I even phoned their office and they confirmed they had sent a representative to meet with me. They seem legit.
I'm going to take the night to think about it.
27/04/2013:
I sold the bar. I shook the man's hand and wished him good luck. He offered to keep me on full-time as the manager. I figured, hey, why not. I mean his company's already paid me enough for me to buy my own apartment building… I can't lose here. It'll give me something to do during the day too… I don't want to spend any more time with the wife than I have to.
They started bringing in their stuff today. By the end of the week we should be ready to re-open. He says he wants me to take a few days off in the meantime, while he gets the place set up.
4/05/2013:
Now we're back in business! Strange thing, a few days ago, the same guy from the company paid me a visit. He said he's renaming the bar to the 'Vic Stanley Country Club'. I think I vomited internally, but I never told him I didn't care for the new name.
He's turning it into a geezer's hangout. Today they hung a massive sign up outside. Whoop-de-do.
07/05/2013:
I need to be more regular with these entries. Right now I'm kind of feeling my way around these new owners, trying to get back on my legs and with the rythm [sic]. The last few days have been kind of hectic while we get used to the speed of things.
Today, we had this lady and her husband come in. They had a bite. The waitress said they talked her ear off about Jerry Lee Lewis. Bunch of weirdos…. he hasn't been relevant in 30 years. Whatever, I shouldn't concern myself with what others do. Doctor says it's bad for my health or something.
09/05/2013:
The last few days have seen an increase in Jerry Lee Lewis fans coming here. I have no idea why they decided to make this their hangout.
Funny, most of them have said that they attended a Jerry Lee concert at this exact venue a couple months ago. I told them that can't be right, I owned the place back then, and we never hosted any concerts.
10/05/2013:
I had a good long chat with some of the patrons that came in. We talked for hours about Jerry Lee Lewis… one of them lent me a CD of his.
I remember going to that show of his, a few months back, clear as day. Think about it.
11/05/2013:
The short man in the suit asked us to try out this new brew they concocted. Think about it. It was alright, tasted perhaps a little bitter.
I asked him if I could change the music in the P.A. to Jerry Lee. He said 'go nuts'.
13/05/2013:
I can feel it closing in on me like teeth… I hope it goes back to the cage.
14/05/2013:
I've been listening to my recording of the concert for DAYS. It's so good.
I wish I could find that record 'Rock & Roll Sacrificial' somewhere… no store around here carries it. I want to hear it.
I want to learn it! I need to learn it. If I learn it, maybe it won't take me. Maybe I will get to meet him. Yeah. It can't come out again. It needs to stay in its cage. In the cage. In the cage. In the cage. In the cage. Stay in the cage. Yes.
Think about it.
16/05/2013:
Too tired. Can't think about it.
17/05/2013:
Fuck, I feel like I got ran over by a train. My head's been pounding non-stop for the last 3 days.
We still get those Jerry Lee Lewis superfans non-stop. Some of the regulars complain of headaches as well.
Today they rolled out the new brew as a full replacement. It's actually worse than the old stuff… I have no clue why they insist on it.
21/05/2013:
I quit. I'm sick and tired of 'Jerry Lee Lewis' this, and 'Jerry Lee' that… those nutjobs can keep the place. It's turned into a disaster since they bought it.

-Report by Field Agent ███████-

<BEGIN REPORT>
April 26th, 2013. I approached Mr. Bourne with the offer to purchase his estabilishment on behalf of Harburgh Holdings Ltd. Phase One of Operation 'Pee Wee's Place' has begun.
April 27th, 2013. Mr. Bourne accepted my offer. Ownership of the property was subsequently transferred to Harburgh Holdings Ltd., a subsidiary of Foundation Public Holdings.
May 4th, 2013. Renovations to the building were completed. The estabilished was officially renamed to the Vic Stanley Country Club. Phase One of Operation 'Pee Wee's Place' complete.
May 7th, 2013. As anticipated, a large number of subjects afflicted with SCP-2971 have begun gathering on the property.
May 10th, 2013. Mr. Bourne infected with SCP-2971.
May 13th, 2013. Mr. Bourne requested to change the estabilishment's P.A. music player to all Jerry Lee Lewis songs. Request granted, as I deemed this beneficial to the mission. Phase Two of Operation 'Pee Wee's Place' underway.
May 16th, 2013. Subjects who consumed the amnestic-laced alcoholic beverages show symptoms of headaches. Product is believed to be working as intended.
May 18th, 2013. All subjects previously infected by SCP-2971 have shown complete recovery. Phase Two of Operation 'Pee Wee's Place' ongoing, but first trial run is a success.
May 19th, 2013. Mr. Bourne's dwelling searched, several SCP-2971 items recovered, including near-complete audio recording of SCP-2971-A.
May 21st, 2013. Mr. Bourne informed me he is terminating his employment two weeks from today's date. Search for replacement begun.
<END REPORT>


Childe of October, Childe of the Stalks
I question your presence while the transgressor walks
The treasure you offer is not yet complete
The task is still open, make haste with your feet
Our savior, betrayer, still blessed with his sight
Escapes his due judgement this October night
Return to the forest, grace needles with bone
Make hope a myth now that he is alone
As you are my pupil, you will bring me his
So seek out and blind him wherever he is
Once you have obtained what I crave to receive
Rejoice on this permanent All Hallow's Eve

Sandy couldn't see anything. The forest was pitch black, long abandoned by any light pollution from the nearby town. The nearest coal plant was now strangled by vines, and choked with autumn leaves. Logically, he knew he was better off than Kytes, but he certainly didn't feel like it at the moment. Branches scraped his hands and pulled at his coat as he ran through the thick brush, his footfalls quieted by the soft pine needles covering every inch of the earthen floor. Not once did he turn his head to see what may have followed him on his haphazard course; it didn't matter now because he would never be safe again.
A crazed laugh escaped Sandy's throat as he wheezed from exertion. Even if he could escape, even if he could find somewhere to feel safe, even if sleeping again could be a remote possibility, how would he ever get the image of Kytes face out his mind again? Or the sound the man had made when those tiny little skeletal fingers dug into his eyes? They had been so close, too. So close to fixing Sandy's Great Big Mistake. Sandy's Great Big Mistake! Rated PG-13!, Sandy thought. Another crazed laugh floated past his lips and into the cold air of infinite October.
A rogue tree root, strongly objecting to Sandy's evening jog, suddenly sent the man sprawling into the endless bed of needles. He laid there, face first, catching his breath and ignoring the dread that squatted in the back of his mind. He laughed again. "Oh Dashiel. Oh Dash. I know I've said this so many times…so many times before, but I never wanted any of this for anyone." There was no echo; Agent Sandison's words were softly caught by the needles like a spiderweb silencing a fly.
"I should have just done my job. I should have just done my job like I did every other day." Nobody objected to Sandy's words. He listened for the quiet, skeletal footfalls that he thought for sure would be approaching soon, but the forest offered nothing. He slowly rolled over onto his back. He thought he could almost make out the light of a faint star, just barely poking through the black treetops standing over him. He opened his mouth wide. "IF ANYONE IS LISTENING, I DIDN'T WANT THIS! DO YOU HEAR ME?! DO YOU FUCKING HEAR ME?! I AM NOT A BAD PERSON! I'M NOT! I WANTED JUSTICE!"
"Justice?"
Sandy's heart stuttered for a moment. Sheer terror prevented him from looking to his immediate left, where the question had come from. This is how a coward should die, he thought. And then suddenly, he felt calm. Paralysis left as quickly as it had come, and he found himself giving an answer to the query. "Yes, justice. Justice for Dashiel. Justice for the rest of the kids. Justice for you, too."
"Why would I need justice? He already gave the world the justice it deserves. I am not wanting for anything now, certainly not justice." The voice was raspy and dry, but still clearly a child's.
Sandy spoke again, still refusing to face his new companion in the forest. His right hand slowly stirred, and began to search for something. "The world deserved justice, you're right. But this isn't it. This isn't justice, this is apocalyptic tyranny. And I'm so sorry that I did this to you."
"You owe me no apologies, transgressor. You owe Him for your betrayal. He let you live in His world, knowing that you deserved proper judgement. He did you a kindness, and this is how you repay Him?" The contempt in the voice's accusation was like sandpaper. The thing's footfalls, though quieted by the pine needles, were getting audibly closer.
"He can go fuck Himself." The branch Sandy had quietly found with his right hand swung in a quick arc towards the sound of his accuser. A small piece of skull sliced the man's cheek as it flew past him. Bones fell to the forest floor in a quiet heap, and bore no more accusations towards Agent Sandison.
Was that the one that got Kytes? Sandy couldn't know for sure, not in this claustrophobic darkness, not with his eyes at least. He decided there was little use in checking for wet and sticky phalanges; he was running out of time. They had only been in Chilton for fifteen minutes when they had been ambushed, and their simple plan had gone to hell. I could go back and try to set the nuke. It might be covered in vines or eaten by a damn pumpkin or whatever, but I could try. I could, but I won't. Because I'm a coward.
Sandy slowly lifted himself to his feet, still holding his makeshift club the forest had so graciously given him. He kicked at the pile of bones, sending ribs skittering through the night. He sighed, and leaned on the branch, reminding himself that a real child would never speak like that. None of the children he had sheltered with for so long had sounded like the thing he had smashed here. He was speaking through it, almost certainly. Otherwise it would have sounded just like a real child, like-
"You shouldn't have done that."
This new voice was sorrowful, regretful. Sandy hadn't heard this one approaching. The paralysis came back. It wasn't going anywhere this time. Sandy began to cry.
"I'm so sorry. For everything. I just wanted…"
"I know, but there wasn't anything you could do. His will is so far beyond yours, don't you see that yet? I even tried to spare you, but He wouldn't allow it."
"That's not you talking. That's it talking. You're just its puppet now. You're not alive!" Sandy sobbed between sentences.
"Of course I am. I may have died, but He gave me a second life."
"This isn't life. You're not alive. You're not anything. Not anymore." Sandy felt his sorrow slowly turning to rage. His hand gripped the branch tighter, blurring the line between his skin and its bark.
"Your words mean nothing against His truth. You know this. You saw what I did to your friend. You will see no more."
"You're not alive. You're not anything. You're not alive." Rage was overcoming sadness. Sandy's words were more a chant than a declaration.
Footfalls on the soft pine floor. Needles against bone.
The branch swung for a second time. It was louder, more forceful. No birds scattered from the trees, no deer fled from the sound.
Agent Noah Sandison sifted through the pile of shattered bones that lay before him at his knees. He had tossed the branch away, and now his hands felt for something else. He traced his fingers along the length of a small ulna.
"You're not alive. You're nothing. You're not alive."
There it was. Metal.
"You're not alive. You're nothing."
A metal plate. The kind they sometimes used to help mend a broken bone.
"You're not alive. You're nothing. You're not my son."
Sandy clutched the bone to his chest. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
"My little boy. Oh Dash, I'm so sorry."

« October is Tomorrow | November Sun »


When Santosh was six years old, he found out that Santa Claus didn't exist. After writing his Christmas list, he told his parents about it, mentioning the Game Boy and roller skates on the list. His parents laughed at him and told him that Santa wasn't real. They were the ones buying the gifts and they certainly weren't going to get anything on that list.

MAY 8, 2000
"Hey Santosh! How's it going?"
"Hi, Guy. Thanks for meeting me."
"Of course! We haven't talked in ages. Plus, anart! You want to do anart! How could I say no?"
"Yeah. Hey, thanks very much for agreeing to help me. I've never done this before. But, uh, what's with this place? I had to plug a USB drive into a door to get in here."
"What, Eurtec? I almost forgot! This is your first time here, isn't it? Before we do anything else, I need to give you the grand tour!"

When Santosh was eight years old, he forgot that he had a math team meet. At home, his father sat him down and castigated him for being so stupid. He made it clear that Santosh would never have any kind of future besides cleaning the toilets or mowing the lawn for the Chinese. After all, Chinese children had ten times the work ethic and drive to succeed and deserved to beat him at everything. Santosh never missed another math meet again.

"So, Eurtec," Guy started. The two of them were walking down an enormous, gleaming chrome promenade, flanked by mile-high glass and concrete skyscrapers. What seemed to be thousands of humans, cyborgs, robots, androids, and even holograms streamed by. Great flashing billboards seemingly everywhere broadcast advertisements for expanded petabyte drives, brand new augmented reality implants, bionic prosthesis replacements, and smart kitchen sinks.
"OK, so before we even talk about Eurtec, we gotta talk about this group called the Servants of the Silicon Nornir. Long story short, they're transhumanists who think these three supercomputers in the center of the city are going to bring about the singularity, and so they have a real hard-on for paratech. So in 1985, the Servants got to thinking that the rate things were going, the singularity was never going to arrive. They decided to speed up the process."
As he spoke, Guy dodged a cybernetic spider, which chirped angrily at him. He waved apologetically, and then stopped in front of a seemingly nondescript store front without a logo, displaying only an icon of a brain sitting on a laptop. The windows were floor-to-ceiling, displaying all kinds of electronic parts.
"First stop, we need to get a transistorized positronic cognition matrix. BrainGate should have plenty of refurbished ones."
Santosh followed him in. Guy continued speaking as he browsed the selection of digital brains. "Like I was saying. 1985. Servants get impatient. They figure, normalcy agencies like the Gocks and Foundies are keeping a tight ship on things. There's no good place for people to get together and collaborate on paratech. So, the Servants decide to make one. They modeled it after a bunch of global tech centers - here we go!"
Guy held up a wrinkled, silver-and-grey brain. He held it out to Santosh. "Take a look at that. Eight petabytes of storage space, a full terabyte of RAM - it's even got solid-state glia! This is perfect!"
Guy took out a thin, chocolate-bar sized tablet from his pocket. "Check it out," he said, holding the brain underneath it. "It's called a smartphone. You can take photos, scan products like this matrix, play games, and, you know, call people."
Santosh admired the device. As they walked out of the store, Guy explained a few more of the phone's features, "… plus it even acts as an Internet hotspot! Course you can only find it here in Eurtec. Actually, getting back to Eurtec. The name's like, a pormanteau of 'Europe' and 'tech'. I also heard that it was supposed to be a pun: 'Eurtec, your tech'… I dunno. I don't really know how they built it or how they hide the place - some kind of pocket dimension, I think - but the point is, Eurtec is basically a paratech lover's paradise."

When Santosh was eleven years old, he proudly showed his father the 95 he had received on his math placement exam. His father pressed him on where the remaining 5 points were and agitatedly pointed out that all of the Asian students would have received the full score. At this rate, his father remarked, Santosh would never make it into MIT. Santosh bit back tears. From then on he stopped showing his father his tests.

Guy and Santosh walked out of the store, Santosh carrying a bag with the cognition matrix. "Next stop, Anna's for some body parts. You don't need any augments, right? Regular organic parts are good?"
Santosh nodded. The two of them crossed the promenade towards a small, two-person booth. Guy swiped a small plastic card on the door and waved Santosh through. Then he swiped it again and stepped inside. "Okay, stand on this circle here. This is a telepod. It's based on the PL model, actually. Didn't your dad work there?"
Santosh shrugged. "Used to. Anyways, uh, you were telling me about Eurtec?"
"Yeah, hang on a second." Guy moved towards a glass circle on the wall of the booth and pressed his finger up to it. The circle flashed red and then an electronic voice rang out, "Please select a destination."
"Um… Urthor Center. Fiftieth floor," Guy answered.
"Your destination is… Urthor Center, fiftieth floor. If this is incorrect, please provide the correct destination. Otherwise, please stand still. Travel in five… four… three… two… one…"
A bright flash of light forced Santosh to screw his eyes shut. When he opened them again, they weren't in the promenade. They stood on a marble floor of a skyscraper, looking out of a window five hundred feet in the air. The booth doors opened, and Guy stepped out.
"Come on. Anna's is right around the corner."
They rounded the corner and entered a storefront. Much to Santosh's surprise, the store was littered with corpses and body parts, propped up on racks and folded into shelves. "Uh… Guy? What the hell is this?"
Guy snickered. "Weren't you listening? Anna's sells body parts. Don't worry, they're just shells. For like, biotech. You know, implants, bionics, that sort of thing. They gotta be tested on something. Besides, we're here for one of those bodies."
On cue, an elderly Asian woman approached. "Ah, Guy. Good to see you."
"Afternoon, Anna. I'm here with a friend of mine, Santosh. Santosh, meet Anna."
Santosh gingerly shook her hand, doing his best to ignore the wrinkly skin. "Uh… hi."
Guy said, "Santosh here is interested in purchasing a duplicate shell. Do you have the photo?" He looked back expectantly.
Santosh swallowed, but he took a photo from his pocket. "Uh, here," he mumbled, handing her the photo. "I'm looking for a younger version of that man, maybe eleven or twelve years old. My father."
"Excellent. What ethnicity?" Anna asked.
"Uh, South Asian. Asian Indian." Santosh answered.
"Where do you want that shipped?"
"Shipped?" Santosh asked.
Guy interrupted. "Ship it to my place, Anna."
"Of course. Now, stand still. I need to get a few pictures of you to complete the sides and back of the head. This man is your biological father, I assume, so the facial features should be similar."
Seemingly from nowhere, Anna produced a camera that was almost as large as her chest. She circled Santosh, the camera clicking away. Then the camera disappeared again and Anna held out her hand.
"That'll be… four thousand."
Guy turned to Santosh. "She prefers Visa."
Santosh swallowed again. This was going to be an expensive venture. He steeled himself, took out his wallet, and handed over his Visa card. Anna took the card and wandered off. She returned a few minutes later with the card and a receipt. "Here."
Santosh looked at the receipt. "Uh… why does this say a diamond ring?"
"What, you're going to say 'I bought a body for four grand' on your tax returns?" Guy chortled.
"Oh. No, I get it."
"Oh! I almost forgot," Guy exclaimed, checking his phone. "Anna, do you have any psionic hippocampuses?"
"Hippocampi, Guy. Cam-pi. It even rhymes with your name," Anna scolded him. "And yes, I do. I'll pack it with the shell. That'll be one thousand. Card please."
Santosh grudgingly took out his card again. Anna took it and traipsed off. She returned five minutes later with the card and another receipt.
"A… graphics card?" Santosh asked incredulously. Anna shrugged.
"Thanks Anna. I'll see you around," Guy told her, before turning and walking away. Santosh hurried after him. "Wait, how is she going to ship it?"
"Telepod, then probably Fedex."
"Fedex?!"

When Santosh was thirteen years old, his father received a call to let him know that Santosh had been expelled from the community shloka class. Santosh was shouted at and told that he was stupider than a half-lobotomized monkey. When Santosh's father finished his screaming, he informed Santosh that he was not his father any more. It would be four months before Santosh's father spoke to him again - because his cousins were visiting for Christmas.

"So, putting together the duplicate is actually pretty easy. All we have to do is slot the hippocampus into the positronic matrix. Then we open up the skull and drop it in. Then the matrix'll do the rest, and then we just upload a duplicate of your consciousness into it and bam! All done."
Santosh and Guy stood in the living room of Guy's apartment. The shell of an Indian boy lay sprawled across the coffee table. Next to it, the positronic matrix was still in its bag.
"Guy, I don't know anything about brain surgery."
"It's not brain surgery if there's no brain to speak of," Guy pointed out.
"You said it would be easier than assembling a PC."
"And it is! You have to put five different things into a PC and then ground yourself to boot. All we have to do is here open up the skull and drop the matrix into it. We don't even have to lock it in place or anything, just make sure it's not upside down when we put the skull back on."
Santosh pressed his fingers to his temple. "Fuck, man… I should've done more research… fuck. I'm gonna go fucking bankrupt…"
"Hey! Calm down! Stay calm!" Guy soothed him. "I'll pay you back once we're done. Okay? It's not that hard. Look, I've got the saw. I've got the marker. I've got measuring tape. All we have to do is mark around the skull and cut. Easy. We'll be done in two hours."
"Yeah, okay…" Santosh gingerly approached the shell, wrapped the measuring tape around its head, and started tracing a cutting line.

When Santosh was seventeen years old, he was given the opportunity to submit a CV to certain colleges. A week later, he was looking at his college applications with his father when they noticed that the CV he submitted was an older version. His father exploded, accusing him of deliberately sabotaging his application and furiously wondering why he would do that. In an apopletic rage, he declared that it must have been done out of spite and furiously asked why Santosh was so eager to spite his father.
Santosh fled into the bathroom and sobbed in the shower for several minutes. When he came out, they realized that it was a glitch in the digital application. His father apologized and hugged him. Santosh did not return it.

"Two hours, huh?" Santosh snorted. He sat in a chair in Guy's living room, wearing a suspicious-looking helmet. The shell, a rather prominent scar line circling the middle of its skull, wore a similar helmet, connected to the first by a thick bundle of cables. Another thick bundle of cables led from Santosh's helmet to Guy's laptop.
"Two hours, two weeks, what's the difference?" Guy shrugged.
Santosh narrowed his eyes. Guy chuckled in response and held up his hands. "All right, all right. Hey, we're almost done with this! Just have to scan your temporal lobe, remove everything past… 22 and copy it to the shell matrix."
As he spoke, Guy typed commands into the laptop.
"And… done. Alright, you can take off the helmet."
"Huh?" Santosh asked. "I didn't feel anything."
"You aren't supposed to," Guy pointed out. "It's non-invasive imaging."
Santosh removed the helmet. He and Guy leaned over the shell. "So… what is it supposed to do?"
"Wait for it…" Guy breathed.
Nothing happened. Then the shell's eyes burst open and it took a deep breath. Guy pumped his fists and Santosh excitedly whispered "Yes!"
"What's left?" Guy asked as he switched off the shell's cognitive matrix.
"Uh… we need to wire the VR helmet into the matrix and, uh… wire it up to the hippocampus. You already have the helmet, right?" Santosh asked.
"Yeah. It's not, you know, an official one or anything. I made it myself from a couple Virtual Boys and a Titan PC," Guy explained with pride. "But if we pass off the images as stylized, it'll do the trick."
"Yeah, alright. Grab the helmet. I'll get the drill and the wires."

When Santosh was twenty, he received a call from his mother. When he picked it up, however, his father was on the line. Santosh let him talk for a few moments. His father wanted to know how he was doing, expressed his best wishes towards his success, and reiterated how proud he was of him.
Santosh made an excuse to hang up.

Santosh's cell phone rang. He looked down at it and then noticed the caller ID.
Arvind Desai
He considered it for a moment. Then he declined the call and looked back up, admiring his exhibit.
In one corner of the Skuldir Center for the Arts and Humanities, a small Indian boy sat in a plastic chair surrounded by an intrigued crowd. Several dozen wires protruded from the skullcap on top of his head, connecting to a half-dozen red, bubble-shaped helmets currently being worn by other people sitting in plastic chairs.
Besides the child, a sign read:

LIKE FATHER, LIKE SON
by Guy Chesapeake and S.D.
Meet Arvind. Take on the role of his father and influence him through various critical points in his childhood. Watch how Arvind's personality and goals change based on what you tell him. Will you be the father he never had? The father he never wanted? Arvind's future is in your hands.
Instructions: Simply wear the helmet to begin interacting with Arvind. At each stage, when the bell rings, you may speak to him for up to ten minutes before the bell rings again. You will then view a brief montage of how Arvind's life changes based on what you told him. If you finish early, simply say "Shazbot razzmatazz" to trigger Arvind's response.

One woman stood up, removing her helmet. She looked vaguely disturbed. Santosh quickly pushed aside a few members of the crowd and sat down in the chair, donning the helmet.
Immediately, his vision was replaced by a black-and-white 3D bubble. He was sitting behind the wheel of a Nissan Stanza. Santosh looked to his right and saw a school. The passenger door opened and a small Indian boy climbed into the station wagon. "Dad! Dad! You remember that placement test? I got a 95 on it!"
A bell sounded. Santosh turned his head around to face the boy. "95? What happened to the other 5?"