The Age of Imago - June - Pt. 3

It has been an excellent dark for Emperor Thurl, up until the time he receives the news that all but destroys his world.

He rose from a fine dreamsleep, and was roused, enticed, and dressed by a specially-trained pleasure school. He devoured a truly excellent meal, regurgitated from the belly of the best food preparer in the entire Kingdom. He watched his numerous spawn scuttle through their creche, wondering which of them would be the one to wear the crown jewels, one day.

Later, he met a delegation from the Lower Cold, eager to trade their strange science for things that were commonplace in Thurl's domain, but quite rare in theirs. Of course, he said he would truly consider it, but he'd already made up his mind to give them half again of what they asked for, as a sign of good faith. To do otherwise would be stingy, and do shame to his Kingdom.

While he "thought," he strode the length of his castle, scuttling along walkways of stonebone and peering over the parapets at his people, who toiled and swam below. He allowed himself a small, satisfied moment of happiness -- allowing himself to think, for one moment, that maybe things had truly changed.

And then came that thought's sorry ruination.

"My Emperor, accept my submission, and forgive my intrusion," his most trusted adviser says to him, scuttling low and in submission.

"It is always accepted, and always forgiven," Thurl says: "What do you come to tell me? Have the delegation from the Cold come back to ask after my decision?"

"No, Emperor. They are still being shown the Grotto of the Great One, and the many wonders that live and die within it. This is not a diplomatic matter. This is... this is..."

The Emperor scuttles around, concerned. In all the Lightchanges he's been served by this one, he has never been at a loss for words.

"What has happened? I bid you speak truly and without fear."

"I would never speak untruly, my Emperor. But now I cannot help but feel fear. A messenger from the Other Kingdom has come, and this Lowest brings terrible news."

"What news is this?"

"The... the City of Darkness. I tell you truly that the messengers reports that it has been risen from below the Wet, and brought up to the Overland."

Thurl feels his hearts stop beating for a moment: "Do you mean the Black Island? Is the Beast awake?"

"No, my Emperor. So far as I know, that being still deathsleeps, praise be the Mother. I speak of the City of Darkness. That which was old while we were young. That which was hidden after the last Overapocalypse. That which was not to be disturbed, ever."

"I... I truly speak that I am shocked," the Emperor says: "I had only thought that to be a story. I knew that the structure was there, but thought that the legend was meant to keep the curious away from what cannot be understood."

"I also speak truly that I thought the same. But the legend appears to be real. It has been risen. Their entire Kingdom has been thrown into cataclysm by its violent surfacing, which is why it has taken them so long to reach us."

"Who could have done this?" the Emperor demands: "Who could have made this legend come true? The Overlanders do not have the knowledge. They may have had the key, all this time, but they did not know what it unlocked. There could be no way for them to know!"

"My Emperor, I do not know the answer to how they knew. But according to what little remains of their Highest, the Imago have made the City of Darkness their home."

Thurl stops all motion. He puts out all his arms to brace himself against the parapet, but then succumbs to the despair in his soul and sits down upon the stonebone. And he is still and quiet for quite some time.

"You spoke of your fears that they were of two faces, my adviser," he says at last: "I see now you spoke more truly than you knew."

"What shall we do?" the adviser asks.

"We shall..." the Emperor begins to say, and then falls silent. He looks up above, now all too conscious, once again, of the threat it holds for he and his people.

"We shall do nothing, for now," Thurl continues: "Have the messengers devoured. Silence any who saw or spoke with them. And bring me all legends regarding the City of Darkness. We must arm ourselves with knowledge."

"At once," the adviser says, and scuttles away to perform these unpleasant but unavoidable tasks.

And it is only once that most high and trusted servant is well out of hearing range that Thurl allows himself to weep in utter despair.

* * *

6/18/12

Hey Dagworth!

Listen, man, I got your reply to my last letter, and I have to say that I'm pretty !@#$ing ashamed to admit that I couldn't crack the code, this time. Is this something you came up with on your own? I am kind of outclassed here, my friend. Please give me a !@#$ing hint?

Anyways, things around here have gone boobs up in a sea of !@#$, as my mother would say. You remember the night we got told things weren't real, on the Fifteenth? Well, I could have !@#$ing told them that, but you should have seen the people around here. For a whole day you never heard so many jokes or really !@#$ing !@#$ed off people in your life.

Of course, next day the internet was back up and everyone went back to being dumb as !@#$. But it's good to know that, whatever got done to these people, it ain't permanent, and there's a !@#$ing cure.  

Speaking of which, I've started writing to some  other SPYGOD SCOUTS (In code, of course. I'm no !@#$ing dummy) to see if they can find out what !@#$ing happened to the special ed kids in their state. I figure if we can work together, we might be able to get a better idea of what the !@#$ happened, here. 

Anyway, you take care, man. Hopefully I'll crack your new !@#$ing code before too long, here.

yours

Winifred.

ps: Which Star Trek's your favorite? I'll show you my Enterprise if you show me yours ;)

* * *

"So, you ready to talk about it?" 

Myron looks at his interviewer, leans forward in his chair, and lights up a cigarette: "No. I don't think I'll ever really be !@#$ing ready. But..."

"But here you are," Randolph says, holding out a cigarette of his own for his subject to light, which he does.

"Here I am. Yeah."

Normally, they wouldn't be able to smoke, here, in this fine, Toronto restaurant. But tonight no one knows they're there: Randolph, his many friends, helpers, and guards, and Myron are all invisible, today. 

And they have Myron to thank for it. Sort of.

"So, they walked into your cell," Randolph, tapping his notepad with his pen: "They took hold of you, and began to try and Embrace you. What went wrong?"

"I don't really know," Myron says: "One second I'm in incredible pain, and then I'm on the ground, covered in what's left of the !@#$er that was supposed to become me. The Imago dragged his sorry !@#$ out of the room, and they looked... well, they looked scared." 


"And how did that make you feel?"

He thinks for a moment: "!@#$ing weird. I got up and cleaned myself off, and everyone was cheering me on. And then it hit me that I was really still alive, and I started laughing. Then crying. And then I had the best sleep I'd had since the whole thing started."

"And the next day, they tried again?"

"Yep. Brought a whole new Falseface into the room. Held me down. Gave me the speech. I screamed and tried to resist but I couldn't, and then I blacked out, and then, BOOM - dead Falseface. Skull and circuitry all over me. And then they're running away, again, and this time they look even more scared."

"What did you do?"

"Well, I figured the first time might have been a lucky fluke. The second time might have been more luck. But the third time would have been a pattern, and I think after that they'd probably just !@#$ing kill me and take me apart to see what the !@#$ happened. So I decided I wasn't going to give them a third time."

"How did you do it?"

"Well," Myron says, gesturing with his fingers and putting the cigarette in his mouth: "I did two things. The first thing I did was collect all the circuits I could. The first falseface's were a total wash, because I was stupid and in shock and got them off me with water from the sink. But this time, I had more."

"And you thought you could just make a weapon...?"

"Hey, I got the original Underman's sorry-!@#$ drilltank up and running, Randolph. I built an anti-GORGON device from spare parts and junk from my bits box. And we're having dinner here right under their !@#$ noses thanks to something I made when I had a lot more time. I'm not exactly a slouch when it comes to electrical engineering on the fly."

"So did you make that weapon, then?"

"Eh, sort of," Myron admits: "I realized, maybe halfway through trying to make another off switch for them, that I didn't have good parts. And I also realized that I wasn't sure if an off switch would work on the Imago. They are the same, but I don't think they share the same exact technology. There's something more advanced at work, here."

"Similar, but not the same."

"Exactly. So I decided that the best weapon I could make, under the circumstances, was a horn to call in the !@#$ cavalry. I made a clicker for a certain someone, before, so I just made a small version of it and kept it on-"

"Clicker?"

"Blind communicator. You make a pair of buttons, and have them fixed so that when one is depressed, the other clicks. That way you can tell someone you're ready for help without having to actually call and say the words. And if someone finds it in your pocket, it just looks like a doo-dad until they pry it open. Handy little things."

"So what did you do?"

"Well, I made one, fine-tuned it to the right frequency, and then hooked it up to the light socket in my cell. It sent out a steady click for three hours before it finally burned out."

"And then?"

Myron smiles: "And then the !@#$ing cavalry arrived."

"It must be nice having friends who can teleport."

"Oh, you have no !@#$ing idea," Myron says, stubbing out his cigarette and getting another: "They came in, got me out. I tried to get them to get everyone else down there out, too, but the !@#$ing Imago teleported in not long after they did. We were lucky to get out as it was."

"Did you leave anyone behind?"

Myron sighs, looks askance, and shakes his head: "No. One of my friends was there, with me, for a while. But..."

He doesn't finish the thought. Randolph respects his silence.

"So they got me out," Myron continues after a long pause (and a tear or two): "And they hid me for a few days. I got shuttled around from safehouse to safehouse. Lots of people wanted to talk to me about what happened, what I'd seen, what I knew. What happened in the White House on 3/15. They told me about the trials and... !@#$. It just makes me sick. I was this close to saving him. This !@#$ing close..."

He stops talking, puts his head in his hands, and sobs. Randolph lets him, and turns off the tape recorder.

"I got the last interview with the President, the night before they executed him," Randolph says: "I couldn't rescue him. If I did, they'd have killed his entire family, and the families of every other person they'd killed up to that point. That's how they got them to lie and act along. They were saving their own children and loved ones."

"I heard," Myron says, wiping some of the tears away: "I know. But !@#$ it, I should have been smarter. I should have been faster..."

"He spoke very highly of you and Colonel Richter," Randolph responds, putting a hand on his shoulder and looking him in the eye: "He knew that you did everything you could to try and save him. But the game was up the moment they got to his wife, Myron. You'd have tried to rescue his wife, too, and they'd have tracked you everywhere you went. There was nothing you could have done but tried. And you did."

"I still feel like a failure," Myron says: "I sat in a !@#$ing cell and tried to dream myself to death. I still don't know why the !@#$ they couldn't make me one of them. I keep feeling like someone cut me a break that I don't !@#$ing deserve."

"Because that never !@#$ing happens in this business, ever," Randolph says, patting the misshapen back of his head: "Don't look at it as a break, Myron. Look at it as an opportunity. You've been spared one death to go have another, and maybe, just maybe, between then and now you can kick !@#$ you don't even know about yet."

Myron looks askance: "That's... not very comforting."

"No, but it's how I get through my days," Randolph says: "Shall we continue?"

"Oh, yes," Myron says: "But can I get a !@#$ing beer, first? I've forgotten what they taste like, and !@#$ do I need a drink."

"Totally," Randolph says, waving to one of his cohorts: "We shouldn't have done this dry in the first place..."

"I agree," Myron replies: "And when you're out of tape in that recorder, I want to know what you have been up to, Mr. Outlaw Journalist. And where the !@#$ is SPYGOD?"

Randolph sighs: "I keep wishing someone would !@#$ing tell me." 

(SPYGOD is listening to A Falling Star (John Foxx) and having an Expedition Stout)

The Age of Imago - June - Pt. 2

6/04/12

Dear Dagworth:

Hey man!  Got your last letter, and !@#$, I just about !@#$ myself reading it. Not because it was !@#$ing funny, or anything, but because I am in serious !@#$ing awe, both at your cast iron testicles and how much you thought all that !@#$ out in advance. I am simply not !@#$ing worthy, man. 

Anyway, I tried to follow your example and got nearly !@#$ing nowhere. Not because I gave up or anything, but because I could only track those kids to the state line with Tennessee. It ain't too !@#$ing far from where I am, outside of Mayfield, but as near as I can tell they drove them down 69 to the border, dropped them off there, and then some other buses !@#$ing picked them up.

How do I know? Cause it turns out this one !@#$head who I know who's kind of sweet on me drives buses for the schools. He was working that day and told me that he made the pick up and drop off. They had no !@#$ing idea why or what, or where they were going. All he knew was that he had to take a bus full of "retards" to Fulton, and then let 'em all go, and he didn't care any more than that.

(And he wonders why he doesn't get anywhere with me. !@#$ing loser.)

So maybe there's some pattern? They took your kids North, maybe mine went South, met up with more kids, and they're all somewhere down here? Did you find out if any of the buses in Ohio met up with other states' buses and filled up? It might make sense for them to have a lot of people in a few places than a few people in a lot of places, if that makes any !@#$ing sense. 

Something else: school is turning into !@#$ing !@#$. It's bad enough we got one of those Imago !@#$s coming in every day to bore us !@#$less, but now they're making us take more math. I !@#$ing hate math, man. I've been relying on everything else to keep my GPA up, and then they take that away, too. Of course, now they say we don't need grades, anymore, but I'm sure they'll find some way to !@#$ me if I keep bombing this crazy, five dimensional geometry !@#$ they decided to throw at us.

It ain't helping none that the lessons are just the teacher turning on a !@#$ DVD player, anymore. I'm trying not to watch it for the same reasons I don't watch TV on the !@#$ing internet, and I can almost see everyone else's brains !@#$ing melting in the classrooms. So far I've just been listening with my eyes shut and trying to take notes, but man, that's some hard-!@#$ !@#$ to do. 

I'd ask my dad for help, but he's been !@#$ing useless since the woman who was not my !@#$ing mom finally got !@#$ing fed up and left. I was kind of sorry to see her go by the end, there. She was a stupid !@#$ but at least she was smart enough to know these Imago !@#$ers aren't to be trusted. I hope she lands on her feet, man.

Anyway, that's where it is. And I gotta !@#$ing confess, man, I really don't do Dr. Who. I know that means I got my geek cred taken the !@#$ away, especially these days, but I never got into that !@#$. I'm more of a BSG girl, myself. 

You take care, man. 

Winifred.

PS: Okay, BSG - old, new, or neither? You know the drill. 

* * *

It might be mid-June in Nevada, but you'd never know it when the Sun goes down.

Out in the south-western deserts, not too far from the California state line, it can get really cool in the evening. Sometimes so much so that you'd want to build a fire -- if you could find any firewood lying around. They even tell stories about people who hobbled back to civilization with toes blackened from untreated frostbite, though that might just be bull!@#$ they tell city slickers to keep them from fouling up the natural beauty of the place with their campers, RVs, and yen to find unknown corners of America and take pictures of it.

Not that you can blame them for the telling; when the Moon's up in the sky, and the wind's just right, the deserts take on a strange, ghostly life all their own. To stand there, day or night, with the wind whipping sand around you and no noises except for that, it's easy to imagine yourself a lone traveler on some distant, alien landscape.

It's a harsh and terrible place, at times, but a beautiful one. It's also about as free, clear, and open a vista as you can imagine, and that makes it the perfect antidote for someone who's had enough of civilization.

Or several of them, as the case may be. 

At or around Midnight, not far from where Valley View dead-ends into the Veterans Memorial Highway -- aka U.S. 95 -- three strange figures come from the darkness into the meager light of the road. One of them is a blue dog who walks upright, wearing a bowtie and an off-kilter hat. Another is a brown dog with a strange look on its face who's content to walk on all fours. The third is a tall man with short, white hair and a red shirt, and he walks just ahead of the other two, constantly scanning the horizon.

As they approach the crossroads, the man holds up a hand, and looks at his watch: "Midnight," he announces, looking around and then up at the sky. 

"They comin' down or appearin' from nowhere?" the blue dog asks, his voice a slow, Southern drawl.

"Rrridunno," the brown dog says, flopping down and waiting.

"Christ, I need a !@#$ing cigarette," the blue dog asks, pulling one out. Then he realizes that he left his lighter somewhere else. The man in the red shirt chuckles and tosses him one without even having to be asked: a large, metal lighter that announces !@#$ COMMUNISM to the world. 

"Right me up?" the brown dog asks.

"Get your own, freeloader," the blue dog drawls, but hands one over and lights it when the other dog whines somewhat piteously. 

"Those !@#$ things will kill you, you know," the man says, and for some weird reason they all find that pretty darn funny.

Then there's a weird noise and strange lights, up in the sky. The man steps back a bit, closer to the other two, and seconds later three Imago are seen to be floating down to the Earth. As they approach, they can see that one of them is Green and Yellow, herself.

The Imago land with bent knees and a definite *thump*-- quickly rising to their full height and turning to regard the three people who've come to meet them.

"Good evening to you, O Ambassadors of the Free Toon Nation," Green and Yellow says, nodding her head ever so slightly: "We trust you are well?"

"Well enough," the blue dog says, taking a final drag off his cigarette and flicking it off to the side: "We'd ask how ya'll are doing, but I figure we ain't here for chit-chat."

"Indeed. To business, then?"

"That's how we like it," blue dog says: "Did ya'll agree to our proposal or not?"

"We have, after much deliberation, decided to allow you to remain as you are," Green and Yellow says: "So long as your colony remains completely and totally off of the grid, and takes none of our services, we see no reason to not allow you to remain entirely independent."

"Well, that's about what we'd hoped for," blue dog says, stepping forward and extending a paw: "How about we shake on that and we can all go our separate ways."

"There are some other conditions, first," one of the other Imago says, holding up a hand.

"Little things, mostly," the other says: "Just dotting the i's and crossing the t's."

"You know how it is," one adds.

"Small details," the other continues.

"And what, exactly, would those small details and conditions be?" the man in the red shirt asks.

"We require a total and complete accounting of your activities to date," Green and Yellow says: "It does not have to be handed over here and now, but we would appreciate it soon. We also reserve the right to do some fact checking on our own, and therefore require access to your colony for a short time, not long after the information is handed over."

"That shouldn't be a problem," the man in the red shirt says, looking at the blue dog, who waits a moment and then nods.

"I agree. We got nothing to hide from ya'll. We're just in the business of staying alive at this point."

"Really?" Green and Yellow asks: "I was under the impression that you were working on something much more than simple survival?"

"Well, in the long term, yes," the man in the red shirt says: "We do have a goal, but it's of no interest to you, I'm sure. No harm, either."

"You are still trying to return home," one announces.

"Back to the television you came from," the other adds.

Blue dog sighs: "Well, yes. We are. But that ain't no concern of yours, I figure. There ain't no way that'd stand in your way. In fact, it'd get us outta your hair once and for all."

The brown dogs nods and smiles.

"I would be very interested in knowing how you intend to accomplish this," Green and Yellow says, to which the blue dog sighs.

"Well, it's all kinda technical, and I ain't the right guy to be answering that question. But we think we got hold of some notes that might help us on our way."

"Which you got from SPYGOD, of course," one says, smiling pointedly.

"When he was hiding out here, after assassinating your President," other adds, also smiling.

"How the holy !@#$ did you..." the man in the red shirt asks, but holds up when the blue dog walks forward and looks Green and Yellow right in the eyes.

"Now you listen here, and you listen good," he says, pointing a paw at her face: "That was not our !@#$ing President. We are not !@#$ing American citizens. We were held against our !@#$ing will for 30 !@#$ing years in that god!@#$ place, and the only reason we weren't out dancing to some !@#$ing corporation's tune was because the Supreme Court was in a good !@#$ing mood that day.

"We are free, lady. And we are going to remain free. And if the man who finally got us out of that !@#$hole needed to hide out after shooting the brains outta the guy who sat on his !@#$ing hands and left us to rot there, just like every other !@#$ing President since the 80's, well... !@#$. I ain't got no regrets.

"Besides, it's like you all been spending the last couple'a months proving? The nasty little !@#$ was up to his elbows in that plan ya'll stopped back on 3/15. You oughta be givin' that SPYGOD a medal, 'stead of giving us !@#$ 'bout letting him lie low for a little while."

"You misunderstand," Green and Yellow says: "We do not accuse you. We are simply stating the facts. He was here. He hid out for a time. He gave you those notes to secure safety. And then he left you."

"We only want to know what he may have been planning when he was with you," one of the other Imago adds.

"We also need to know if any of those plans involved your colony," the other says. 

"He didn't tell us," the man in the red shirt says: "He stayed for about a week, and most of it was spent dead to the world, drinking himself to sleep and crying himself awake. He was pretty !@#$ pathetic, actually."

"I actually had to kick his drunk !@#$ out," the blue dog says: "If I hadn't, he'd probably still be here, curled up and hugging beer bottles like they were !@#$ing teddy bears. Wasn't exactly his best hour."

Green and Yellow looks at the three ambassadors, and then to her two Imago cohorts, and back again: "And he made no mention of his plans?"

"I gave him a day to sober up and get out," the blue dog says: "When it was over, and he was walking away, I asked him where he was going. He said someplace sunny. Next I know, the !@#$s going down in Key West, and then, well, ya'll show up on 3/15. Ain't heard a peep from him, since."

"We were actually kind of hoping you could tell us where he is," the man in the red shirt offers: "Morbid curiosity. Plus, he kind of owes us for all that beer he drank."

"The notes he gave you were not enough?" Green and Yellow asks.

"If they were better notes, maybe," the man shrugs. The blue dog puts another cigarette in and gets the lighter tossed back.

"If he comes back..." one of the other Imago starts to say.

"If he calls you..." the other continues.

"If you get the slightest idea of where he might be?" one says.

"You must call us immediately," the other finishes.

"He is simply too powerful a player to have on the board at this time," Green and Yellow explains.

"We'll do that," the man says.

"Is there anything else?" the blue dog asks between puffs: "We kinda got us a tee-vee needs fixing."

"We will inform you when we will be by for those papers," one says.

"And we may appear to inspect you at any time," the other adds.

"And we mean what we say," Green and Yellow says, waving her hand and turning the man and two dogs back into their cartoon forms: "We are willing to allow you to live alongside us, independently. We will not tolerate interference. We will not overlook deception. And we will not forgive any impediments to our goals. Please remember this."

"We will," the blue dog says, doing his best to not get upset at having been so rudely re-tooninated: "Good night to you."

Green and Yellow smiles. As she does, the three beings turn real, once more. And then the Imago float up to the sky, and vanish with the same lights and noise as they had coming in.

The two dogs and a man turn and walk away. As they do, the man pulls out a small ray gun and zaps each of them in turn, changing back into toons. And, once they're not real any longer, they receive a mental signal.

Do you think they bought it? Someone asks them.

Yeah, they !@#$ing bought it, the blue dog thinks back: If they hadn't, we wouldn't be havin' this here conversation. We ain't but !@#$ on their shoe. This just made that !@#$ clear.

Ruckers, the brown dog thinks back: Ruck 'em all. 

We better up the timetable, Doc,  the man in the red shirt thinks: If they show up for an inspection, and our new friends are still here...

No one needs to finish that thought.

* * *

It happens on the 15th of June: three months after 3/15.

It takes place on the day after almost everything gets its very own live internet screen: broadcasting news to the masses from almost every main city street, bank, supermarket, long hallway, train car, subway car, bus, and taxi backseat in the Western world.

It takes place at 8 PM EST, right when the internet is about go live with a new announcement from the Imago -- something about the next phase in the great project to save the Earth from the as-yet-unnamed evil that is swiftly approaching.

Just as the leaders of the various countries around the world -- and Green and Yellow in the USA -- are about to talk about what will soon be happening, the internet goes down, and stays down for an entire minute.

When it comes back up again, sixty seconds later, the faces of the leaders have been replaced by a simple motto: white letters on a black background.

THIS IS NOT THE TRUTH

Anyone who sees this suddenly feels strange, as though someone had opened up their head and moved the furniture in their brain around. Some suffer nosebleeds or migraines. Almost everyone later reports at least a mild headache.

But when the leaders come back on, ten second later, having lost 70 seconds of their speech, no one quite sees them the same way again. It's as if whatever small voice inside their head had been telling them to trust these people implicitly was instead telling them to be skeptical, again.

That counter-feeling doesn't last long. By noon the next day it's gone, and replaced by an almost-doubled sensation to trust what they're being told. 

But in that 20 hours, people did things. Said things. Wrote things down and put them someplace safe. 

In that 20 hours, questions were asked, again.

In that 20 hours, the people were free, once more. 

And the memory of having that time of freedom, after quite some time of not having it, stays with them all.

(SPYGOD is listening to City as Memory (John Foxx) and having an Oracle DIPA )

The Age of Imago - June - Pt. 1

The next phase of the Imago's plan for Earth's betterment started slow, but quickly built up steam and speed.

Not long after the last sitting President of the United States of America fell to Earth, small groups of Imago visited every country in the so-called Third World. They floated down into their capitols like metal angels, with little or no notice, and asked to see their leaders as soon as possible. And while their ever-smiling faces may have been as pleasant-seeming when they asked, it was fairly clear that they meant business.

There was a steel behind their words: one not seen since the day they'd revealed themselves, and told those leaders exactly what to say to their people in the wake of what had happened.

Once the leaders were roused and made ready, the Imago began to ask them all sorts of questions, and gently -- but firmly -- made it clear that they needed exact answers. The topics they discussed seemed simple: various populations, their education levels, natural resources, infrastructure (or the sad lack thereof). They were also asked about certain social mores and customs, especially pertaining to their children.

What the Imago may have been planning was not made clear at that time. When they were satisfied, they looked at one another, smiled, and thanked the leaders for their coopperation. They promised to be in touch, shortly, as a new and exciting step would soon be taken to prepare the Earth for the danger to come.

One small thing, though: they were reworking the globe's communications networks, in preparation for the next step. They should tell their people that they could expect to experience small delays and connectivity issues on the internet. Nothing serious, of course -- it would soon be fixed, and all would be well, again. 

And then they were gone -- floating back up the way they'd came, or else teleporting away.

Within three days, after exasperatingly long interruptions in internet connectivity, the Imago returned, this time in droves. The skies over some countries seemed filled with metal-suited, smiling people, and when they descended to the ground the world seemed to shake with the weight of their presence.

The leaders were again given speeches. This time they were not telling their people to stay at home with their loved ones, and be calm. They were telling them to leave their things behind, assemble in their town squares and city centers, and meet with the Imago that were gathering there. They would be given further instructions, and they should comply with them, just as though they were hearing it directly from their leaders.

But not to worry! This was not a bad thing, and they were in no danger. The Imago had promised humanity a chance to work together to stave off the evil that was approaching the planet. Now, after a long period of preparations, that time had come, and while the new ways of living and doing might take some getting used to, in the end they would all be worth the occasional confusion and concern.

The great new world was about to be built, and humanity would build it together. The light the Imago had known for ages would soon be shared with the entire planet.

Soon we would all learn to soar.

Most leaders, understanding exactly what was happening, here, still did what they were told in the hopes of escaping what had happened to the American Presidents. A few resisted, but after what happened to them and their entire families -- right then and there, in front of everyone -- their assistants, advisers, and stand-ins were more than happy to get in front of the camera and read the scripts.

In return for their compliance, they were kept in their capitols and houses of government. They would, after all, be needed to give more pep talks and instructions as time went on.

But they would not be leaving, nor having any serious, unchaperoned conversations with any other leaders around the world. Those who had cooperated were told that they were under the protection of the Imago, in case the forward armies of the coming evil decided to harm them.

Those who had stepped in to take the places of those who had not cooperated didn't need to be lied to, but were instructed to relate that fiction to anyone who asked. The sorry fate of the deceased would be blamed on agents of those armies, as would all inconvenient and unfortunate demises from here on out.

And that was simply the way it would be. The future of the Planet Earth was at stake, and nothing less than cheerful and total obedience would be tolerated from here on out.

Humanity would soar, or be put to sleep.

* * *

And so the leaders -- old, new, and just-installed -- watched as the Imago quickly tore down and reassembled their countries.

They watched their people be led from their homes and their communities, and taken to high-tech, stark-white tent cities that had seemingly sprung up overnight. They observed as they were given time to acclimate themselves, and enjoy the luxuries and conveniences that these ultra-modern encampments had to offer. They witnessed them luxuriating in levels of comfort they'd only ever seen on someone else's television, and wonder how they'd ever not lived like this, before.

And then, over the next week, they gave pep talk after pep talk as the Imago showed those people the work they would be doing, and took all but the youngest of their children away.

Again, they were not to worry. They would be seeing their children soon, and be able to speak with them on a regular basis, over the internet. But the Imago were concerned that, with the darkness approaching, its forward armies would be targeting their means of production. As such, they may seek to harm Humanity's young ones in order to make their parents obey them, instead.

At the schools, the children would be nearby, and protected. They would be fed and cared for, and given a level of education that would stagger the imagination. They would come out of the ordeal stronger, smarter, and more intelligent than they would have otherwise.

And in the new world to come, they would be poised to take full advantage of the many wonderful things that their parents would be helping to build.

Anyone looking in from the outside would have wondered how any parent would have agreed to such a thing. But after a week in the new cities, almost all of them were willing to acknowledge that this was a good idea. It not only solved a serious problem, but would be good for their young ones. Who could say no?

(Those few who did not agree received special, private visits from the Imago, and their friends and neighbors were told that they'd not only agreed to the plan, but had gone to help oversee it.)

Before long, the work camps were assembled and put into full production, and the children were at their special schools, and communicating with their parents via once-a-week teleconferences. Their parents were happy to be working for such noble endeavors, and their children -- while seeming a little off in their responses, at times -- were happy and learning.

And if anyone cared to say otherwise, they didn't say it too loudly, or at least for too long.

One strange thing had been noticed, though: while internet speeds had gone back up to normal within the countries, any attempt to deal with sites whose servers were outside their borders had been slowed down quite a bit. And while they might have continued to email people outside their countries, and maintain friendships through social networking sites, the responses of people seemed a little odd at times -- somewhat stilted, or not quite what they'd been before.

But there was work to do, and shows to watch, and a newer, much better standard of living to enjoy. So they buckled down, worked on improving themselves, and learned to soar, instead.

* * *

Thus was the so-called Third World transformed, but over the rest of the planet nothing had really changed -- at least not that drastically. 

They went to work, earned and spent money, and watched their television on the internet. Their children went to school, studied, did homework, and also watched their television on the internet. The poor were cared for, the homeless housed, the mentally incompetent looked after, and all watched their television on the internet.

And their leaders got on their news sites -- or made quick commercials on their online shows -- and told them that everything was fine, and nothing was wrong, and soon they'd be seeing the great dividends that the Imago would be sharing with them. Everything was great, and anything that was not great would soon be looked into.

And, as always, their patience and cooperation was greatly appreciated.

In America, they had no such leaders to tell them anything. Instead, an Imago that some had come to call Green and Yellow would be one who spoke to them, and tailored her speech and idioms in such a way that she seemed to be addressing the entire nation as a friendly, older sister. She had fan clubs and admirers, and her posters were everywhere, and when she appeared in public people just couldn't get enough of her presence.

(People even wrote online erotica about her, usually with Hollywood stars or recalcitrant, young people who needed to be taken "in hand" with the new world. And so the phrase "let us soar" took on a whole new meaning, indeed.)

There had been some changes, of course. As their economies had been stabilized and corrected for post-3/15 deficiencies and variations, some things were now slightly cheaper or more expensive than they'd been before. But, since electric power was now free -- thanks to the Imago's strange technology -- and their vehicles gas-burning engines were eligible for free swap-out with ones that only needed refueling with tap water, the little inconsistencies were hardly worth worrying about.

The really odd thing was that the news coming from the non-industrialized spheres of the world seemed kind of samey and odd. Specific news about any of the countries in the Third World wasn't as rich and full as it had been, before, and internet conversations seemed off, and full of lag time. Certain products made overseas weren't as forthcoming as they used to be, and the only explanation anyone could give was "economic restructuring in the name of economic equity," which wasn't really the best answer, but couldn't really be argued with, either.

Besides, who really cared what went on in Bangladesh or Eritrea? The future of the world hadn't been in their hands before 3/15, and it sure as !@#$ wasn't going to change now.

* * *

There was also what had been going on in the schools.

Not long after the Imago had made themselves known, they'd moved into the schools, and started to "help" with the curriculum. Math and science requirements were made much more important, with social sciences -- especially history -- eased way back, and more emphasis placed on communications over literature. The pl;an seemed to be that, by the time one was in the last few grades of primary education, the day would be almost all mathematics, science and technology, and mass communications.

Every day, in every school, there was a pep talk given by an Imago. They would speak of the new world to come, and how the children would be helping to build it. They would lecture on the importance of keeping a positive attitude, a useful mind, and a desire to help themselves by helping others first. And they would exhort everyone to enjoy these years, and remember them, for in the ages to come -- once the threat to Earth had been repelled -- they would be able to tell their children, and grandchildren, that they had been the ones who'd made it possible. 

They would be the first ones to soar, and lead future generations by example. 

It sounded great, though some might have asked why history and humanities had taken a backseat. The answer was that, in the days ahead, it made more sense to prepare the young for science careers than anything else. Once Earth had been defended, and Humanity began to put together the exciting new world to come, there would be time for old deeds and great works. But for now, other things were more important.

Again, their patience and cooperation was greatly appreciated.

Not everyone agreed, of course. Some parents -- mostly American homeschoolers, who'd had their kids yanked away and put into schools against their will -- began to protest this state of events, and even went so far as to refuse to send their kids back unless certain guarantees were made. As was their wont, the Imago listened to what they had to say, and then told them no in such a way that, by the end of the conversation, there was no question that the parents had been wrong, and the Imago right, all along.

Still, anyone who remained reluctant to trust them was given special dispensation, in the end. They could keep their children home if they wanted, and teach them whatever they liked, so long as they completely divested themselves from all other services and advantages that the Imago had brought with them. Such as engines that ran on tap water, free health care and medicine, the new internet (which also included phone service, now), and, in some cases, the jobs one or both parents worked at.

Faced with such a choice, most parents relented. But a few remained adamant, packed their things, and went "off the grid." Some were already there, and were happy to return to it, and as they drove away, there was a sense that the Imago were somehow happy to see them go.

But why, no one wanted to speculate.

(SPYGOD is listening to Cathedral Oceans (John Foxx) and having an Almanac Extra Pale Ale)

The Age of Imago - May - Pt. 2

Saying the trials were Orwellian was putting it mildly. 

The proceedings took place at the Terrace Theater in the Kennedy Center, after "a few modifications." The Imago tore the roof off, and turned the walls transparent, so that everyone there could get a good, contemplative look at the city whose leaders had nearly doomed the world. And a special spectator box was built for the President, right above  the entrances, so that all witnesses and victims would be able to look up at him on their way out for the day. 

Looks that made the President feel about as noble as a virus.

There were no lawyers, no prosecution, and no media figures allowed in. There were only the legions of witnesses and victims, who sat in the theater, day after day, even if they wouldn't be participating that particular session. 

That and the Imago, maybe dozens of them, all floating above the proceedings in the space where the roof would have been. They flew down only to bring in the accused, or take them out again, and spoke only to gently prod on the witnesses. But there was no question that they were the ones in charge. 

They seemed eerie and surreal up there in the sky, the President had thought. Like divine messengers, they watched and smiled, and moved only to bring remove the last case, or bring in the next one. They didn't so much as eddy in the strongest of winds, and when it rained they bent the water above their heads.

Floating batteries of cameras and microphones hovered in the air, catching pieces of the trial and editing them into one massive mosaic for the people of the world to experience. They got to see the supposed victims tell of their suffering (mostly from the orbital beam weapons) as well as the near-endless parade of witnesses who, clearly having been "coached," themselves, offered massive amounts of condemnation for the accused.

And what witnesses they had! Former Congressional staffers. White House interns and Secret Service Agents. CIA assets, NSA cryptographers, FBI stooges, and Strategic Talents by the busload. They even brought in foreign spies doing life sentences to say how they'd been acting on the orders of the accused, and then thrown into jail as a reward. 

(Very few COMPANY Agents, though, and almost always ones who'd been brought in after SPYGOD shot the previous President. Whatever the President thought about that one-eyed monster, he had to give him credit -- he knew how to command loyalty, even in extremis.)

It was they who controlled this trial, at least on the surface. Gently prompted by the Imago, they told their stories -- speaking of their suffering or complicity, sometimes both -- and said what they knew, or produced evidence to back  up their words and scars. After that, the Accused were allowed to rebut or confirm, and then it was on to the next witness. 

And the next. And the next.

All the trials ended with guilty verdicts, of course, but no Imago judge declared it. In a showing of what was either brilliant strategy or a callback to the Soviet show trials of old, the accused were forced to listen and explain or deny -- hour after hour, sometimes day after day -- until they finally broke down and declared that, yes, they were guilty. Guilty of all charges, guilty of things they hadn't even charged them with, and guilty of things that even the Imago hadn't known had happened.

Guilty, period.

But there clearly could have been no other result but guilty in this courtroom. Not only did the accused know that they were condemned, but they were coached through each and every nuance of their condemnation. They had been told when to deny and when to admit, when to be stoic and when to cry. 

At times it looked like they might be losing control of themselves, and getting ready to bolt or try to strange someone on the witness stand. But even these seeming departures from decorum were also highly-choreographed, like dance numbers, or professional wrestling. 

They even had special lights installed on the stand to inform the Accused when to look at the cameras, and when not to. 

In that sense, the trials were almost more Kafkaesque than Orwellian: at least in Orwell's black, anti-fascist fables the accused were so mindsmashed by the end of their ordeal that they were not only happy to be executed, but even willing to confess to a capital crime they didn't do without any prompting whatsoever, just so they could die for the state. 

But this? This was the cream of America's political order being walked through a meatgrinder's worth of proof of their complicity in a crime that didn't even exist -- except on paper -- just to save the lives of their own families. By agreeing to go through with this travesty of justice, the accused proved, over and over, that they were not the soulless, amoral monsters that the Imago had made them out to be.

And now they were going to die for the crime of loving others more than themselves. 

Irony and dark absurdity notwithstanding, the Accused quickly became the Condemned, day after day. And with each new condemnation, the trials would come to an end, and the Imago would swoop down soundlessly to take those men and women away to a special place, there to await the first light of the next day.

Once that new day came, as the new trial convened, they'd fly the previous day's Condemned around the world, to Borneo, where the elevator awaited. 

And from there, the one-way trip up.

* * *

5/23/12

Dear Winifred:

Again, I must apologize for the length of time it took me to reply. It was not confusion over codes, this time, but rather trying to stay "clean" after nearly being caught while trying to answer our mutual questions. And while I did not find out exactly what is going on, I do believe that we can be assured that the answer is not something we are going to relish uncovering.

I took your meaning and looked at the buses that the others were taken on. Where did they go? Finding out their destinations proved difficult, as they didn't mark any down for that day. They did not even write them down, only to cross them off later. They simply had a day off the books.

Except that they left one thing: their mileage. By checking the mileage logs from various locations, which required me calling in quite a few favors with my fellows, I was able to infer where they may have journeyed. And that would be right up to Northern Ohio, not far from Cedar Point.

(Which, I may add, if you have never gone to it, do not bother. It is a truly terrible "amusement" park, unless you happen to like roller coasters. As I do not, it is a wasted excursion, hardly worth the migraine that a long car journey can cause.)

I tracked the buses to the promontory just north of Sandusky Bay, which is in many ways our lakebound gateway to Canada. Did they offload them there, and take them to the Great White North? Or did they take them someplace closer? That was the question I wished to know the answer to.

I will refrain from telling the whole, sordid tale of how I faked a serious illness to avoid school, engineered a crises to ensure my parents were distracted, and then hitched a ride North with older alumni of the High School Chess Club under the guise of photographing their doubtless victory over Sandusky's sorry and meager team. Suffice it to say that, ten mere days ago, I had, by simple inquiry and ratiocination, determined that the children were taken to Lakeside, at the very tip of the promontory, and then ferried over to Kelley's Island, which lies perhaps three miles North of that tiny little burg. 

What could be going on up there? I was determined to find out, but I soon discovered that all ferry service has been suspended, and all natives of that place have been relocated. I tried to interview a few of them, who now reside in Lakeside, but they proved rather reticent to my queries. Eventually, in the common vernacular, one of them squealed on me, and before I knew it the local constabulary was taking me for a ride.

I suppose it could have gone badly, had not my older friends told the police that it was all just some prank. They did insist on calling my parents, however, but luckily for me I'd had the foresight to give one their phone number as that of one of my older allies. She, back at the hotel, proceeded to artfully tongue-lash me for the better part of five minutes, inducing me to cry in public and fear for the structural integrity of my hindquarters. And after that bravura performance, the police decided to let me go with my friends, who, not surprisingly, confined me to their rather horrible Sandusky hotel room for the rest of the tourney.

That was embarrassing, and risky, but at least now I know where the trail ends. The question as to what's going on there remains a mystery, however. I hope to soon find a way to return, and unravel this. 

Other than that, I have little to report that differs from yours. As to your query, I find myself ecumenical, but tending towards the more self-aware side of their fandom. I hope one day to see the great crossover between Deadpool and Ambush Bug! But, in spite of the many letters I have written to both companies, this seems an unlikely scenario.

More so now than ever, I fear.

Your servant and ally,

Dagworth

ps: My turn now, my friend. Dr. Who, new or old? This is also of maximum importance.

* * *

Eventually, all the other Accused persons had been tried, condemned by their own hand, and whisked away for their final journey. And that left only the President, himself.

On that day, he'd slowly walked from his special box, past all the witnesses and victims and took his place on the stand. He'd paused halfway there, perhaps to falter or perhaps to truly realize the enormity of his errors, but kept dry eyes until they started asking questions.

After that, it was really over. Clearly, anyone could tell that the President was guilty, and knew he was guilty, and knew that the whole world knew it. But decorum had to be followed, and maybe he was hoping for some kind of reprieve, or silver lining. Some kind of mercy he did not deserve.

It did not come, and after three days and nights of near-endless testimony -- also taking into account what the previously Condemned had said -- he was finally allowed to break down, sob for a full minute, and admit his guilt to the world. 

That was the capstone of the pyramid, then and there. Only then did the Imago deign to come down  to their level, and speak to the world of justice, and reconciliation, and the great days to come. They told the assembled witnesses and victims that their contributions  had been invaluable, and that they had provided a shining example of justice and decorum. And then they bade them to go forward with their lives, knowing that they had done this great thing, and would soon do many more.

Truly, in this place, they had soared.

The President sat there and listened, as he'd been instructed to do. He looked down at his shoes and said nothing. He wanted so badly to leap to his feet with a mighty "!@#$ you!" and denounce this travesty for the sick and macabre joke that it was, and tell the whole world that they'd been conquered by the same monsters they'd been fighting for nearly half a century.

Were they blind? Could they not see what was so obvious?

Were they enslaved? Did they need rescuing from choreographed trials of their own?

Were there any heroes left out there? Where were the Strategic Talents who hadn't witnessed against him? Where was the Liberty Patrol? The Super Soldiers? 

Where the !@#$ was SPYGOD, for that matter? 

He wanted to say all these things, and more, but kept his tongue quiet. And then the witnesses and victims were gone from the room, and the cameras turned off, and it was just him and the Imago. 

"It is accomplished," one of them said to him: "You have done very well. Thank you for helping us soar."

They smiled at him, and maybe expected him to say something like "thank you for helping me sleep." But he didn't give them the !@#$ing satisfaction. He just sat there, collapsed around himself, until they gently lifted him from the stand and flew him to the place where he'd be spending his last night on Earth.

And then...

* * *

"... after that, well, the rest is history," the man-squirrel says, standing up from the desk in the President's well-appointed cell and putting his folders away: "Do you have any more questions?"

"No," the President says, leaning back in his chair and looking at the six pack of beer the man's brought him: "But just so we're clear. I've done everything you asked of me, and tomorrow I'll do what we agreed on, here and now. And in return-"

"In return, we keep our promise to you," the skeedy fellow replies: "You've done better than we would have thought possible, sir, and we are very grateful. You don't have a thing to worry about."

"Well, okay then," the President replies, reaching to take a beer bottle: "I guess we are really done, then."

"Well, is there anything I could get you?" he asks, holding back on putting his things together and leaving for just a second: "Some more food, perhaps? Some company? It's your night, Mr. President. It's your room. You can make whatever you'd like of it."

The President sighs and twists the cap off: "What I would really like is... well, something you're not going to !@#$ing give me."

The man smiles and shrugs: "That's probably true, sir. But I have to say, this has been an honor. I want to thank you for helping me soar."

"Well, thank you for helping me sleep," the President says, saluting the man with his bottle: "I'll see you on the flipside."

The squirrel smiles, turns, and leaves. The door opens as he approaches, revealing an entire phalanx of Imago, guarding the other side -- all staring and smiling at the President. And then it shuts, leaving the President to his thoughts, and the beer.

He makes it through the first one without crying. The second one isn't so lucky. And by the time he hits the third and fourth, he's bawling like a kid with a skinned knee. 

He doesn't even bother to touch the other two, after that. He succeeds in turning out the lights only by throwing his desk lamp off onto the ground, and tries to cry himself to sleep, wondering if he can just make himself die. 

At first, he thinks he's succeeded, but them he realizes that the weird noises in his room aren't his imagination, but are actually being heard. Sliding noises, followed by electrical discharges and what can only be heavy footsteps.

"Mr. President?" a disembodied voice asks: "Can you hear me?"

"I can... I think..." the President says, still feeling the alcohol and trying to sit up in the chair: "Who's there?"

"Randolph Scott, sir," the voice announces: "Don't worry, they can't hear us. As far as they know, you're still sleeping it off."

"How...?"

"It'd take too long to explain. And I'm a little antsy about having that many Imago less than 20 feet from me, so-"

"Randolph Scott... you're that reporter? The one who hung around SPYGOD?"

"That would be me, sir."

"You here to !@#$ing shoot me, too?"

"Sir, there's still a lot of things about that day that I don't understand, but I do know that SPYGOD didn't shoot the President," Randolph says.

"Well, you could have !@#$ing fooled me-"

"It wasn't the President, sir," Randolph interrupts: "I've got tons of evidence to prove it. I've also got evidence that SPYGOD was nowhere near the White House the day it happened. We were set up, and badly."

The President looks at the space where the voice is coming from, and shakes his head: "You gotta be !@#$ing kidding me."

"I'm not, sir. And while I can't answer as to why SPYGOD didn't come forward and tell us what the !@#$ was going on, I'd like to believe that he was trying to prove his innocence by rescuing the President, himself."

"But you're not sure."

"No..." Randolph admits: "I just have a feeling. Hopefully I'll have the facts that back it up, someday."

"So you're leading with your conclusion. Is that good journalism?"

"Well, maybe yes, maybe !@#$ing not. It's like I've told other people, this may be the greatest story ever, but I have no !@#$ing idea where it's going to lead. I'm just letting it write itself, at this point."

"So do I get to help?" the President asks.

"Yes, sir. If you'll come with me, I can have us someplace safe in minutes."

"No," the President sighs: "I can't leave, son. I don't dare. If I do, they'll kill my kids, my grandkids... !@#$, any family the other folks they put on trial have left. If I'm not in that elevator, tomorrow, they all die too. It's what they paid me for my cooperation."

"Sir, with respect, this is GORGON we're talking about, here. I don't think they'll keep their word."

"Maybe not, but... I have to try."

There's silence, and then the chair that the skeedy squirrel was sitting in pulls itself out, and something sits down in it.

"Jess, make sure the door's secured," the voice says, and there's a flickering and hissing. A balding, young man with an eyepatch, wearing a kind of no-suit the President's never seen before, appears in the chair, and pulls out a small tape recorder and a notepad.

"So what's this, my last interview?" the President asks, leaning forward: "Here and now?"

"Yes, sir," Randolph says: "If you'll allow me the honor? I would be happy to take down anything you'd like to say, and hold it safe until this is all over, and your family can be safe from any reprisal."

The President looks at him, and then shakes his head: "No."

"No?"

"No," the man says, and, smiling, offers Randolph one of the last two beers, and takes the top off the other: "We do this like a proper !@#$ing interview, Mr. Scott. You aren't here to suck me off or do a soft piece. You interview me like this was my last !@#$ing night on Earth and you want me to tell you the god!@#$ truth. I won't do it any other way."

"I wouldn't want it any other way," Randolph says, taking the beer and opening it up: "Here's to famous last words."

"I got some already picked out."

"Do tell?"

"... you'll see," the President says with a wink, having a sip of the beer: "Let's !@#$ing do this."

The recorder gets turned on. Randolph leans forward and asks his first question, and it's a !@#$ing doozy.

And the President, raising an eyebrow, answers for the ages.

* * *

At long last, the elevator begins to slow down. 

From here, the President can see the orbital platform that the Imago have been building. It stretches out quite some distance: a massive, sled-like contraption that Earth's new, self-appointed guardians say will protect the world when the as-yet unnamed threat comes near.

Every day, the elevator takes dozens of trips up and down, bringing equipment and raw material to the platform. But, as the President can see, the platform itself is quite some distance away from the doors of the elevator, itself.

He can see the Imago, floating around the platform like candy-colored, metal angels. He can see some of them flying in his direction. And he knows that they are not here to spirit him away to the sled thing, or save him from the absolute cold and near-vacuum that awaits him outside the cylinder.

They are here to make sure he goes through with his part of the bargain, by giving him enough time to say what he's agreed before opening the doors.

He could do anything, now and they could not stop him. He could flip them the !@#$ing bird. He could hit the button and leap out into the cold yelling obscenities. He could tell the world the ugly truth about everything that's happened. 

He could even do what another former President did at the end of his ride: treat it as the chance to go skydiving at a height that he never could, before, and leap towards the Earth yelling "Geronimo!" 

But he knows the consequences if he does this. Those consequences have lives, and names, and futures that now rely on this last act of contrition, as well as the good word of his executioners. 

(And, no, he doesn't trust it too far. But at least this way they will have a chance. And maybe they'll get to use it.)

So he stands there, his hands clasped behind him, and looks somewhat at the camera, but more towards the doors. And then he looks up at the ceiling of the elevator, as though he were about to address God.

"Well, here we are," he says: "I'm about to die, and I've been a fool. I've stood by and done nothing while evil men did evil things, and told the good men who tried to stop us to stand down and do nothing, themselves. I didn't realize the mistake I was making by staying blind, sitting on my hands. And now, from up here, I see exactly what I was playing with. 

"God, from up here, it looks so beautiful. I can't believe I would have ever done anything to harm it, or not see the whole thing as... well, a whole. You know? One big, blue ball. So fragile, so tiny out here in the dark and the cold.

"Please forgive me. Please forgive all of us. Please let humanity be safe, now, and let these Imago do what they have to do to make sure that it stays safe. 

"All my life I was on the wrong team. Please let them do right."

The words do not taste good on his lips. They stink of evil things, and the horrible people who do them. But if he can speak poison to save the lives of many others, then it's as worthy a last act as any.

The act of a leader, perhaps, but that's not his call to make. It's up to the history books, now, and they're going to be written by his executioners.

The Imago are at the outside of the elevator, smiling. They give him another moment, past that -- just enough to look down to the floor, and then at the doors, as they slowly open.

Their smiles don't waver so much as a millimeter as they kill him. 

The President walks forward as the air leaves the car, trying to retain some illusion that he's going along with this, instead of being pulled off his feet by the rushing of atmosphere, and flash-frozen by the incoming, terrible cold.

He should be frightened. He should be !@#$ing terrified. He is not. He will not give them that final satisfaction.

And as he falls towards the Earth - well past the Imago and their !@#$ cameras -- and feels the blood boiling in his body, and his lungs turning to useless mush in his chest, and his skin crackling in the cold, he lets out a very powerful, final scream.

It is, of course, "!@#$ you."

* * *

O peoples of the Earth, hear us.

We send this to all the people of the world,

in all ways you speak to each other,

so there will be no confusion, no misunderstanding.

No mistake.

 

O peoples of the Earth, the Imago bring you glad tidings,

For the time of trials is over, and the truth has at last been told.

Those who tried to conquer have been tried and confessed.

Ambition's debt has been repaid, and justice has been done.

At long last.

 

Now, free from the last shackles of the old world, Earth can soar.

Hand in hand with your leaders, we stand ready to bring you a new world.

A world free from want and terror, a world of wonders and joy.

A world that you will be proud to leave to your children.

A new world.

But first, there will be further hardship,

For the cosmic danger we spoke of draws closer still.

This horrible menace will soon will be upon your planet,

And stands ready to destroy all we would accomplish together.

Our new world.

To stand against this threat, we must stand together.

We must ask much of you, and you must trust in us.

We may ask you to do things that seem strange or harsh,

and perhaps, at times, they will be just that.

Please trust us.

For we want nothing more than to see the Earth prosper.

Too long have we been unable to help, and kept from your side.

Now we are here, and are overjoyed to serve once more,

and nothing will keep us from saving you.

Nay, nothing.

 

For, having gone through horror together, we are all as one, now.

Hand in hand we will soar towards lights you cannot yet see,

and will travel higher than you could ever dream of.

Humanity now stands ready to begin a great new journey.

  Let's go there.

So remember, in the days to come, ask not why, but how.

Think not of the hardship, but of the shining goal.

Give us your trust, as though you were a small child,

and we your parents, older and wiser than you can know.

We love you. 

 

Rejoice, O Peoples of Earth, for the future is bright indeed.

With our help, you need fear no evil or darkness.

The trials of the present will bring the joys of the future,

And all you truly need is love.

Let us soar.

 

(SPYGOD is listening to Break Me (Front 242) and having a Vortex IPA )

The Age of Imago - May - Interlude: Atlantis

Deep down in the Atlantic, in a part of the Sea bed that no human had seen for more than 70 lightchanges, Emperor Thurl -- surrounded by his large, stony guards -- scuttles through his living palace to greet the first Overlanders to visit in a long, long time.

He's known this day was coming for many darks, now, thanks to their many eyes on the Overland. Those Highest jelly farmers, who often listened carefully at the Overlanders' ships while plying their trade, had spoken of the massive disruption that had taken place on their 3/15. And they said many things about the curious beings who were now clearly in charge of the world above the Barrier.

Even if those beings had not been telling truly, there was other evidence to consider. On the day they spoke of, the Mother had been attacked in several spots by bright, boiling columns of light. Any who were in them were destroyed as surely as a Highest dragged down to the Kingdom, and any near them were blinded. And in each case, it transpired that, when the beam was gone, and the heat dissipated by the rising cold from the dark below, pieces of Overthings began falling down to the Wet Below.

Their "ships" and "submarines," one and all, had been destroyed by these columns of light. 

As a final, more important, consideration, Thurl had not received any fresh demands from the Overlanderkiller -- who called himself SPYGOD -- since this began. That could only mean that he was hiding from these "Imago" like a small mollusk from the foraging octopus. Or it could mean that he had already had his shell cracked open, his meat and innards sucked out, and his empty shell consigned to whatever Wet Below the Overlanders provided for their dead.

To Speak Truly, that would be fine with Thurl. Not because he did not respect the Overlanderkiller, nor because he did not, in some ways, actually like the fellow. But because it would mean that the last, ragged thread of the Great Error would finally be torn, and the Kingdom would at long last be free of The Overobligation.

(Oh please, Mother Dark, let it be so, he prays as he scrabbles down hallways of heaving, bioluminescent drapes hung between the stonebones of the Last Lost, and comes to the mouth of his private chambers.)

"I truly submit," his highest adviser says as Thurl eases himself between his guards, and enters the richly-colored chamber beyond, saluting by extending each claw and leg out and surrendering his neck. The Emperor acknowledges this obeisance by touching the adviser between his eyestalks.

"I truly accept," Thurl replies: "Now tell me truly, what do you make of these new Overlanders?"

"I truly say they are hard to read, my Emperor," the adviser replies, gesturing to the smaller, simpler creatures in the room to swim and scuttle from their niches on the stonebone walls, and adorn their sovereign lord with themselves.

"What mean you, my most esteemed amongst most esteemed?" the Emperor asks, holding his claws out as his living crown jewels float to the top of his carapace, and nestle between his eyestalks.

"I truly declare that they bare their faces, but not their souls. Their minds as as slippery as the Wet Below, yet as hard as the oldest stonebones of the oldest of the Last Lost. Their words are spoken in truth, but I have little faith in that truth. Truly little."

The Emperor looks to the Adviser, and gestures that he understands: "Then tell me truly, wisest of the wise. Do you think this is the beginning of a new understanding with the Overland?"

"I..." the adviser falters: "I regret to be unable to speak truly, except to say that I truly feel we have only exchanged one threat for another."

Thurl takes that under consideration, and then -- suitably attired for such an extraordinary audience -- walks towards the mouth of the throne room, itself. Seven giant pairs of jaws, one nestled inside the other, open in turn, and he and his adviser enter the cavernous room beyond, there to encounter the pair of ambassadors the Overland has sent.

Saying he is impressed by them is severe understatement, but he attempts to remain aloof, leaving the awe and wonder for his most favored of subjects, gathered here to hear their words. An orange and green-armored man floats three clawspans above the floor, next to a yellow and blue woman. Both of them are bare-faced and smiling, apparently not requiring Overgasbubbles to survive.

"O Thurl, Emperor of Atlantis," the woman in blue and yellow says, extending her hands in an attempt to mimic their salute (but not, he notes, bearing her neck): "I truly greet you in the name of the Imago. Long have we anticipated this audience, and we hope that it will bear many happy results for both of our people."

"In the name of the Kingdom, you are truly greeted in return," he says, saluting back, and scuttling over to a rising nest of seatmollusks. And as he sits, so sit all his subjects, save for the guards and his adviser.

"You must have many questions, O Thurl," the orange and green man says: "We are here to answer them, truly."

"Then do me the favor of a true answer," the Emperor says, gesturing with his claws: "Over 70 lightchanges ago, we were visited by a delegation from the Overland. These persons told us many untrue things about the Overland, and what they were doing in it, and for it. I say this truly, and it is known by all."

"He speaks truly, yes," all assembled there said, in unison. 

"At the time, the seatribes were not unified. The Highest made war upon the Middle, and the Middle avoided the Lower. So we, the Kingdom, the Keepers of the Wet Below, and harvesters of the stonebones of the Long Lost, knew nothing, save that these beings had traveled far, and needed our aid for their fight for survival. I say this truly, and it is known by all."

"He speaks truly, yes," came the reply.

"So we allied with these Overlanders. We ordered the Warspawn, and sent them after the machines of their enemies when they came into the Middle, and the Lower. We subjugated the Middle to enslave the Highest, and ordered these Highest to attack the Overlanders who would make war on these poor, peace-loving humans. I say this truly, and it is known by all."

"He speaks truly, yes," one more time.

"It would not be until 1945, as you reckon the passage of lightchanges, that we, ourselves, were attacked, here in the Low, in the Kingdom. And on that day, as we were easily and shamefully defeated, we were made to see that we had not been spoken to truly. These Overlanders who came and sought our help, the school known as Germans, had lied to us, and led us astray. And our shame was great at having aided in their belligerence. Sadly, I say this truly, and it is known by all."

"He speaks truly, yes," they repeat, solemnly.

"And so it was that we began the period of The Overobligation, in which we agreed to serve the needs of the Overlanders without question. We pledged to make no Warspawn, to treat the Highest and Middle as though they were the Lowest, and to interfere not with the Overland. We also agreed that, when our services were needed, we would comply, and were given a way to speak and be heard by the Overlanders. I say this truly, and it is known by all."

"He speaks truly, yes."

"It has been many lightchanges since this took place. I have taken three new forms, since that time. And each time, as I come to see my last darks before me, and prepare for the best of my spawn to take my form, I hope that the Overobligation will end in that formlife. I hope that we will be recognized by the Overlanders as a sovereign nation, and have a voice at the table of the world. I hope that we can, at last, have meaningful conversations about the toxins the Overland poisons Mother with, and the waste dumped into her. And while I have never shared this with anyone, save my Advisers, I share it with all, now, and I speak truly."

The assembled are silent, and the two Imago seem to change their expression, just a little. What it has changed to, Thurl cannot say, but he continues on.

"So I ask you to tell me truly, Emissaries of Imago: now that you are in control of the Overland, and now that you have the destiny of these humans in your grasp, will we be allowed, at last, to be free of our shame of so many lightchanges ago? Can the Overobligation be over, at last? Can we join you as an equal partner in this planet's destiny? I ask you to tell us all truly."

And with that, Emperor Thurl rests, and waits for their reply. His adviser seems to be chittering in what is either worry or anticipation.

"O Emperor Thurl, O people of the Kingdom of Atlantis," Orange and Green said, extending his hands out: "We tell you truly that the Overobligation is finished. You are no longer bound to the mistakes of your past. You are truly free."

"And," says Blue and Yellow: "We truly tell you that, now that the Overland is being aided and guided, it will not be long before you are welcome to join it as an equal partner. Much work remains to be done, up above, but when we are ready, you will be welcome at the table."

"But in the meantime," Orange and Green adds: "We truly pledge to you now that the days of Mother being treated as a place to dump poison and refuse is over. You will no longer be bothered by explorers or drills or other such things. Mother will be left alone by the Overland, we truly say to you."

"Then we rejoice on this day," Emperor Thurl says, rising to his claws and raising all extremities in joy: "Truly, a new era has begun for the Kingdom!"

And all his subjects rise up as one and cheer. 

Soon, there will be rejoicing, and swimming, and spawning. Songs will be sung, poems scrawled on the stonebones, new structures grown and old ones eaten. Older denizens will at long last give up their formlifes to their best spawn, to signify the new age that had arrived, and the first word they will speak upon waking up from the deathlifedreamsleep is "freedom."

As for Thurl, he and his guards will venture far from the Kingdom out into the great mountains nearby. Once there, they will throw the infernal device that allowed the Overlanderkiller to call down and order him about into the yawning, hungry abyss of the Black. There, it will eventually fall into the Red, and be melted or covered up when Father feels like stirring, yet again.

It will be a new era, filled with promise and long-denied opportunity. Thurl is sure of it.

But when he sits down in his private chambers to rest, and allows himself the luxury of dreamsleep, he can't help but wonder about the words of his most trusted of advisers. And he wonders if maybe he's just exchanged one form of servitude for another.


(SPYGOD is listening to Deep Ocean, Vast Sea (Peter Murphy) and having an Anchor Steam)