12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 3

9:37 PM

"I tell you truly, it is an honor to be here, meeting you," one of the Kingdom's lobster-like ambassadors says, her weird, glubbling speech translated by the wet, living things she wears to maintain pressure and atmosphere.

"I am pleased to meet you as well, friend from Atlantis," the blue-green, reptilian ambassador from the Inside (otherwise known as Mars) says, his body relatively unencumbered but his motions unsteady under the heavier gravity: "I knew that the Third World had a civilization, down below its great Oceans. But I am amazed that we can actually meet, here and now."

"You're amazed?" a floating, scabby ball with a viewscreen asks -- displaying a strange, yellowish, crablike being on the other side -- "When you people finally met us you were just delighted. What are we, gravel?"

"My friend from the Second World has a strange sense of humor," the reptilian fellow says, clapping his paws together: "I hope you will pardon him, friend from Atlantis."

"I tell you truly, this is such an amazing time," the Kingdom's ambassador says: "That we are all finally coming together, here at this Lightchange ritual!"

"They call it a party," the scabby ball says: "At least, I hope this is just a party. If they start sacrificing smaller creatures I'm logging out."

"Yes, Friend from Atlantis, I think this is a party, though it does have its ritual elements," the Martian says, pointing around: "For example, I do believe there are many mating rituals going on, here, tonight."

"Yes, I do believe I noticed," the lobster says, watching as Fred and Antonia talk up a storm, over near a quiet corner. They've gotten quite physically close to each other, but don't seem to notice this is a bad thing, or that the world is going on around them.

"And a few breakups, too," the Venusan says, looking at where Mark and Skyspear are sitting, having a much less comfortable talk as their hero friends go elsewhere and leave them alone.

"Breakup?" the Kingdom's Ambassador asks: "I tell you truly, I am not sure what that means-"

Skyspear slaps Mark, gets up, and walks away. Mark sits there, stunned, and doesn't follow her.

"Oh, I think I understand, now," the lobster says: "Endmate."

"Yes," the Martian says: "I suspect we will see many interesting things, here, tonight."

"True," the ball says: "But let's talk something else while we're here. Does anyone have any !@#$ idea what the !@#$ is going on?"

"What do you mean?" the Atlantean asks, uncertain of what some of his more colorful words are.

"Well, all I know is that all the space people I talk to? Their new Space Service? Those guys up on the platform in the white?"

"Oh, the ones trying to reason with that large fellow in the strangely-colored shirt?" the Martian asks, watching as Faraj all but scoops Ju-San up under one arm and escorts him away from Hanami's side (not that the man's resisting too much, as he is clearly broken.)

"Yeah, them," the Venusan says: "They're all worried about this thing that's coming to Earth, pretty soon. Some big planet-eating thing, apparently. No one can say the name right, as far as I can tell."

"Oh, yes," the Martian says, nodding: "We know of this thing, friend from the Second World. It came once before, and though we were far from it, its passing made many changes to our world."

"Such as?" the Lobster asks.

"We call our world the Inside," the reptilian being explains: "Once, there was no Inside. We lived on the skin of our world, and it was a lush and green place, filled with water and plants and animals. All was well, and then... it came."

"And it's coming around again," the Venusan says: "Well, !@#$. What are they planning on doing about it?"

"I tell you truly, we will do what we can," the Atlantean says: "But I am not certain what we can offer that those above the Barrier do not already have."

"Maybe someplace to go when everything above the Barrier is destroyed," the Martian says, shaking its head sadly: "Once we lived outside, under the sky. Then the sky was taken from us, eaten by the Hunger from Above. Now we live on the Inside, with what little we could save. And we dream of stars and skies, and hope to one day return."

"Don't you have some kind of fleet to deal with things like this?" the Venusan asks: "I mean, we got ships. Not a lot, but we got 'em."

"We have survived only by remaining Inside, friend of the Second World," the Martian admits: "Convincing my government to help would be very difficult. Especially since this is the thing that destroyed our world the first time. The current wisdom is to be quiet, and let it roll past us."

"I tell you truly, and with respect, that such an action seems less than grateful to these Overlanders," the Atlantean says.

"It is not that we do not feel for them, friend from the Kingdom, but that we cannot risk our own survival as a race for them. We have no desire to see our world destroyed a second time. Would you be any different, in our place?"

"I tell you truly that I understand your concern. But you do not need to be seen to be helping to be helpful."

"Well, that sounds like a weird line," the scabby ball sighs.

"I mean to say," the Atlantean tries to explain: "Can you not even send your ships to stand with them at the edge of their sky? Surely the creature would have no way of knowing you had interfered?"

The Martian's about to say something, but then falls silent, and thinks.

"Ah, you see?" the Venusan says: "I told you these Atlanteans were smart. But did you listen to me?"

"I listen to you all the time, friend of the second world," the Martian says, clasping hands with the Ambassador from the Kingdom: "It impedes my ability to hear wisdom, at times. And I believe my friend from the Kingdom has just given it to me. For that, I thank him."

* * *

 9:55 PM

"... and then, well, she asked me if I knew how to have a good time," a well-dressed Ben Frankin -- long hair back in a ponytail -- says, gesturing insouciantly as he tells the story: "And I said that the only way I could show her was to show her. And she said 'oh really? Well, I tell you what, Mr. Franklin. I'm going up to my cottage for the weekend. Perhaps you'd care to come up for a night and discuss this with me?'

"And, well, I do believe that every husband she had since then was quite sad, as they never quite lived up to that positively torrid week we spent together, Norma Jean and I."

The crowd around the old man laughs and applauds, and he bows a little.

"You are such a !@#$ing ham," Jess Friend whispers into his ear as the group of Gay Republicans dissipates, just as some really kicking disco song comes on.

"Oh come now, Good Jess," the old man says, grinning and patting him on the arm: "It's a good story. It was even mostly true!"

"Which part?"

"Well, the important part," he says, gesturing to the bar: "Let us have more of this wonderful drink I've discovered, and then perhaps I can tell you of the difference between a full truth and a half truth, and which is more preferable when trying to impress and amaze others."

"I think someone we know would have something to say about that," Jess says, and then just happens to see that someone walking towards them, carrying a big bottle of water from the bar, and looking like he'd rather be tongue-bathing kitten !@#$holes to make them poop.

"Why, Mr. Scott," Ben says, reaching out a hand to shake his free one: "We were just invoking you, good sir. Would  you care to join us for a drink? I have discovered this amazing new cocktail-"

"Can't," Randolph says, trying to smile and raising the bottle: "I've been drafted to help play 'babysit the drunk superhero.'"

"Oh, Wayfinder's granddaughter?" Ben asks, looking over in the corner where the large, pink-haired woman is still helping to glower her down into a chair, and Myron is sitting next to her, trying to talk to her but not getting anywhere.

"Yeah, she started early and got worse," Randolph says: "So Josie, being Josie, got her stationary and started finding people who weren't having fun and, well..."

"You were voluntold," Jess says, pointing to the water.

"Oh yeah," he hoists the bottle up: "This is her second. She might need a couple more after this. And then someone's going to have to make sure she doesn't !@#$ herself."

"That can't be fun."

"No. And neither is waiting in line for a bottle of water. You'd think I asked them to !@#$ in a cup and drink it."

"Well, that's not for me," Ben says, laughing: "Jess, I will go and get our drinks. I shall return shortly, gentlemen..."

And off he strides, right up to the bar in spite of the line -- because he's Ben !@#$ing Franklin, that's why.

"So how's looking after our national treasure?" Randolph asks, watching the treasure in question operate.

"It's a full-time job," Jess says, smiling a little: "How's our kids?"

"They... left," Randolph says, sadly.

"What?"

"Yep."

"What the !@#$ happened?"

"It's a long story."

"Are you okay?" Jess asks, putting a hand on the man's shoulder: "I mean, Jesus Christ. I thought you were all inseparable by this point."

"Well, you left, I guess they thought they could, too?"

The words leave Randolph's mouth before he knows what he's said, and then he's biting his tongue and not wanting to look his former partner in thoughtcrime in the eyes.

"Look," Jess sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"No, I shouldn't-" Randolph tries to say, waving his free hand.

"No, it's cool-"

"No, really," Randolph insists: "That was !@#$ing uncalled for. I know you got tapped to do this. And I know how important it was for you to do this. After everything that happened? You needed this."

"That's right," Jess says, nodding: "I did. And I thought you understood that."

"I do. I just... losing Helen, losing you, now losing them. I'm feeling pretty washed up, here."

"Yeah, I'll say," Jess replies: "You look like you went a few rounds with the Malort fairy."

"The what?"

"Oh God," Jess laughs: "You've never... oh man, whatever you do? Do not tell Ben you have never had Malort. He'll force you to have something so vile you'll never forgive yourself for having it."

"Can't be worse than this," Randolph says: "Anyway, listen. I think we need to talk-"

"Hey, Randolph!" a very loud voice shrieks from across the floor: "You coming with that !@#$ing bottle or what?"

"That's my cue!" Randolph says: "Coming, Josie!"

"But yes," Jess says, reaching out to shake his hand before he goes: "We do need to talk. And we will. If not tonight, then soon?"

"Yes," Randolph says, ignoring the hand and going for the hug, which lasts quite some time and almost ends in a kiss, but not quite. They both back away from that cliff a second before they jump into it, and then just look at each other, nod -- one after the other -- and disentangle.

And then they're heading away from each other, again.

* * *

(A letter)

Dear Randolph

First of all, we hope you are feeling better. When we found you on that park bench, last night, you were not at all well. We did our best to get you home in one piece, rehydrate you, and lay out provisions for this morning. Hopefully we were not too rough? 

(SPYGOD called us and told us to come and get you, in case you were wondering. He wants you to know he is neither upset nor angry. But there are things the two of you need to discuss, clearly.)

Secondly, you will doubtlessly not see this letter right away. But as you move about the house to start your day, you will surely see that we are not there. And you will surely see, also, that our rooms are clean and empty of most of our things, and our bags gone. 

And you will wonder what has happened, perhaps? And then come back to your room and see this note. 

We have left, yes. But please do not think that our leaving is a direct response to what happened last night. The truth is that we have been planning this for some time. In fact, we planned to tell you about this yesterday, over the Christmas dinner we did not have!  

But we had air tickets for this morning, and you know how difficult they are to reschedule on less than 24 hours notice, especially at this time of year! So we decided, reluctantly, to go ahead with our plan, knowing that you would understand. You know how efficient we try to be!  

The truth of things is that, while much of what you said last night was brought about by despair and drink, there was some truth to it. You are correct that, in spite of all we have seen and done, and lived and lost, there is still so much for us to learn. We are still so naive, still so innocent, still so wide-eyed at this amazing, larger world we were brought into when the Ice Palace was liberated.
And while we do not believe you meant what you said about leaving you to show we love you, we think it's time to do exactly that. Not because we love you (which we most certainly do) or because we don't (which we most emphatically do not)  

But because you are correct: It is long past time that we found our own way in this world. 

You have been a wonderful guide, in peace and in war, in good and in bad. You have shown us this larger world at its best, and its worst. You have shown us that the truth can make a difference, and that such truth is worth living for, worth fighting for, and worth dying for.  

You have shown us so much, but there is so much more to see. And as good as a guide and teacher as you have been, we realize that we must now find our own way, and our own truth.

When we were born, we were taught to expect a dark hole, filled only with pain, and we were told it was good. You showed us a world full of many different things, some joyful, some painful, and told us that we could make of it what we would. We were brought up to expect nothing, and you have given us everything.

You have given us a world. Now we must give something back, both to it and to you. 

So we have decided to strike out on our own, and record and see as much of this world as we can. If what we are hearing is true, and this wider world we have been liberated into is under a threat perhaps greater than we can overcome, then someone must make a record of it, if only so that those who come after us will have a window to view us through.  

And, with respect to certain American scientists, we do not think a gold record in a space probe will do. Not now that we have better things to record snapshots of our world upon, and fresh eyes to do so with.  

We have money. SPYGOD has seen to this. And due to our special situation, we have something approaching diplomatic immunity in the eyes of the TU. We can go anywhere, see everything, and ask anything of anyone.  

And we can promise that, by the time we are done, they will regret having been so generous with this. :)

You will pardon us if we do not tell you where we are headed, first. This will be something of a surprise for you, and we hope you will be at least amused. But we also know that you might try to come and join us, and this would defeat the exercise.

This is not goodbye. We would say Auf Wiedersehen. You know that this means "until we meet again," and we will.

We love you.

Gunther, Helga, Helmut, Jana, Karl

(SPYGOD is listening to One More Time (The Cure) and having whatever Ben Franklin's having)

9/24/12 - Shapeless in the Dark Again - pt. 1

It's the dreams that get to him, these days. They always do.

In his dreams, Wen Boxiong is back on 3/15, and the Imago have just upended the would-be upheaval of the Chinese government. The pro-democracy forces have been quite literally broken, their battered and bloody pieces strewn over the floor like a scene from a particularly filthy slaughterhouse. He can hear screams echoing throughout the building as the revolution's remnants are seen to, and the sounds and the smells are so vivid and nauseating that even when he closes his eyes he can still see what's causing them.

There is no escape from this one terrible moment he is trapped within.

If this was merely a memory, the Imago would be hailed as liberators, and then tell their General Secretary (the one who's dead, now) to stand by for an important announcement. And Wen Boxiong would remain kneeling, praying that no one noticed that he had soiled himself while begging for his life. He'd remain there well past the announcement, miming shock, until he could excuse himself to a nearby toilet to be sick in, and then, weeping, clean himself up.

If this was merely a memory and not a nightmare, that is what would happen. That is what happened, all those months ago. And everything that's happened since then is further testament to either the power of cowardice, or the fact that something out there is looking out for him -- near-worthless coward that he is.

But in his nightmares, the Imago do not stand there like serene, metal statues, perversely beaming with endless smiles and kindly looks after having torn men apart like paper dolls. Instead they all turn towards him as he kneels, festering in his own filth, and point their bloody fingers at him.

"Traitor," one of them says.

"Collaborator," says another.

"Saboteur," confirms yet another.

They repeat their accusations, stepping just a little closer with each new round. He whimpers and protests his innocence, begging for his life to them just as he did to the now-dead revolutionaries. He falls to the ground and abases himself, losing control over his bowels yet one more time as they finally reach him.

And then they all raise up their fists like hammers, and bring them down on his head.

That's usually when he wakes up, eyes wide open and heart racing. Sometimes he dreams they're halfway through pulping him, first. Sometimes they're more creative than that.

He used to always scream when the dreams reached that point, and wake up to the sound of his own voice in his ears. These days he just sits up with a start, gasping and thankful that it was just another dream. His head is still intact. His pants are not full of !@#$.

And no one -- not even the American President  in exile -- knows all his dirty secrets.

But as he slowly takes control of his breathing, once again, and debates whether to try and go back to bed, pour himself a drink, or try and do both, he remains unaware that a pair of figures are watching him from the shadows. They remain both still and mute, watching and listening as he makes up his mind, and as he goes to turn on the light one of them nods.

The lamp goes on, but they're gone just before its light can reach them. 

* * *

It's 10:30 at night, and the biggest, best hospital in Addis Ababa has been closed to visitors for quite some time. Nurses perform their rounds, doctors check up on their patients, and surgeons go from case to case, looking forward to the chance to do what this time of the day normally demands.

Somewhere in all that motion, an unseen crime takes place. A strange noise is heard by no one, and then there are two people in a private room, meant for only one occupant.

He's young and good looking, the man lying in the hospital bed. He's also in a vegetative state, blank eyes staring at the ceiling. The only sounds in the room are his gentle, shallow breathing and the endless beep beep beep of his heart monitor.

It's a good set-up, this room, and the least that NGUVU could do for one of its stricken agents. But there's very little hope of this man ever getting any better. Some strange kind of sudden brain damage, his doctors figure -- nothing they've seen before, and nothing they'd wish on someone.

The two figures regard the young man as he stares at the ceiling. There's spy cameras all over the room, but they don't seem too concerned, any more than they're worried about the two fellows who are lounging outside in the hallway, their guns just a quick gesture away.

"It's time," one of them says, his voice old and scratchy, but quite forceful.

"So it is," the other replies, his voice strange and echoing, as though it were coming from a long ways down a tunnel.

The other waves his silvery hand, and something strange happens to the man in the bed. He blinks his eyes, screws them shut, and shakes his head, as if he were coming out of a bad dream.

"You're not dreaming," the one with the old voice tells the man, who starts at the sound, but is unable to raise himself from bed.

"Where... who..." Khalil asks, his voice weak and raspy: "Why can't I see?"

"Your sight will return in a few days. You've suffered brain damage."

"I... brain damage?"

"Yes. That thing your attacker used scrambles your brains into paste. If you hadn't put up your shield, it would have killed you outright. As it is, you were pretty much gone from the neck up for the last nine days, but darn lucky to be alive."

"I see..." the man says, trying to put his hands to his face but failing.

"Don't push it, young man. It's going to take a while to get back to normal."

"Who are you?" Khalil asks: "I remember... I was..."

"You were visited," the old-sounding man says: "And you might think you know who it was, but you don't. Not really, anyway."

"I do not understand."

"It is well that you do not," the one with the echoing voice chimes in: "But when your friends find you, tomorrow, you must not tell them who did this to you. It is not yet time for them to learn the true face of the one who attacked you."

"No," Khalil insists: "We promised... no more... no more secrets."

"Did you, now?" the old-sounding one says: "Well, we can't have that, can we?"

The other visitor waves a silver hand, again, and the expression on Khalil's face changes. He blinks his useless eyes and tries to get up.

"Do you remember who attacked you, son?" the older-sounding man asks.

"No..." Khalil says: "I thought I did, but... no, it's gone. I do not know who... who are you?"

But the two mysterious figures are gone, leaving Khalil to yell at an otherwise-empty room until the NGUVU agents out in the hallway come in to see what the matter is.

* * *

Human time is a hard thing to reckon at the black, crushing bottom of the Atlantic, where the Kingdom rises above the Wet Below. The Sun's rays do not shine down there, after all, and any landmade contrivances for keeping track of its passing tend to be flattened into hard, little balls of matter before they get even halfway down to its spiky, rock towers and glittering walls.

But it is enough to know that it is the later part of what they would think of as a day. And that is quite significant, tonight, as the activity within that city is much, much greater than it would normally be for this point in time.

The citadel has come alive, tonight. Swarms of living lights encircle its tall, craggy spires and shed light on its dark hollows. Near-mindless, globular things are goaded into floating about the city in an endless parade of alien pomp and circumstance. Its denizens' finest jewelry crawls about their carapaces, and all eyes are bright and filled with wonder.

For today is the day that the Emperor dies, and yet lives.

Today, Emperor Thurl, who has ruled the Kingdom for untold ages, will sink so that his spawn may rise.

At this very moment, in the room of the seven jaws, dignitaries and emissaries from every corner of the Dark are watching as Thurl is being consumed by his strongest, toughest spawn. The Emperor has been prepared with the utmost skill by the royal food preparers, so that he is most edible and delicious, yet still alive and conscious.

It is a complex and meaty ritual, this deathlifedreamsleep. His spawn and he must remain in conversation as long as possible as the former devours the brains of the latter. They must share their souls, their hopes, and their dreams as they become one in the flesh. Only then can the royal jewels truly accept their new Emperor, and only after that happens will the Kingdom truly kneel before him.

This ritual has happened many times, but this is truly a special occasion. It is not only the first new deathlifedreamsleep since the ending of the Overobligation, but also the first to be witnessed by an overlander. Yellow and Blue, Imago adviser to the Kingdom, floats above the sacred feast and watches, apparently quite fascinated by its savage intimacy.

(Or maybe she's smiling for a different reason?)

Outside the palace, at the outskirts of the city, the other Imago -- Orange and Green -- walks amongst the people, as has become his habit. He has found that watching a condemned and mewling leader spend his last days in power is not to his liking. And, as his companion seems better suited to make certain the Emperor does not renege on their agreement.

Of course, that's academic, now. The Emperor is soon to be dead, replaced by his child. That child will be advised by Blue and Yellow, and thereby kept from discovering the shocking truth that his father had uncovered, about the their City. And so will the mighty Kingdom be kept blind and docile to their plans, and what will come on The Day.

And after that, well...

He smiles a little at that thought, wondering if the soon-to-be-late Emperor's boasts of being able to survive another "overapocalypse" will amount to anything, this time.

As Orange and Green wanders, observing, he is in turn observed. Up above his head, hiding in the wandering shadows between schools of lightfish, two figures float. The one with the older voice is nestled inside the silvery body of the other, as though they were Russian dolls of a sort, and in this fashion they are both protected from the harsh environment, here.

The Imago comes to the very edge of the city, now, and turns to look around, taking in the few stragglers to the party, or those few who are choosing to leave it. As he does, he listens to a family as they devour their dinner in a cramped hole that may be their home, a restaurant, or just some corner they've ducked into.

It's two adults and a child, possibly no larger or older than the one who's about to be the new Emperor. He's not sure if what they're eating could be something that has a name, or is just food -- even after a few months he's not sure how they differentiate between the two.

"If the Emperor is dying, why are we happy?" the child asks.

"Because the Emperor never truly dies, my freshshell," one of the parents explains: "He dies in the mouth of the spawn but he lives in the heart of the spawn. This is how we continue, here in the Dark."

"But I thought when we died we went into Mother Dark?"

"Only if we choose to," the other parent said, letting her mate eat in peace: "Those like us have no power and no station, and must obey our masters, but ours is the right of joyrest. And those who have power are both master and slave to their station, and they must suffer the deathlifedreamsleep for all our sakes."

"Deathlifedreamsleep..." the child says, letting the word roll out of its mouth.

And Orange and Green hears this word, and remembers something that Thurl spoke of, the first time they met. He remembers something about "formlife," and how the Emperor had taken three forms since the Overobligation.

He had thought that Thurl had been referring to some kind of molting process, or some strange metamorphosis, unique to their species. But remembering the strange words he heard the massing guests and dignitaries whisper amongst themselves when he deigned to visit the citadel -- reverent mentions of sacred cycles, the gifting, and the oldnew --  he begins to understand that he has misunderstood.

He realizes he has made a mistake, and that they have been fooled.

Oh, there will be punishment for this deceit! This Kingdom is now forfeit. The Imago will rain down fire from Deep Ten to purge it from the seabed. They will send down reinforcements to rend and tear to pieces what manages to live through that. And they will ensure that this "oldnew" Thurl lives long enough to see the full consequences of his sorry, sad attempt to trick them...

But that is the last thought that Orange and Green has, at least along those lines.

The next thought he has is why everything around him is shimmering, and then blazing hot.

And then he never thinks anything, ever again.

The two figures in one watch as the small piece of Earth from a few billion years ago -- molten and hungry -- consumes everything and everyone that stood atop it. Those few beings closest to the Imago are instantly slurped down and immolated, and while Orange and Green's armor can withstand the stress for a time, its fleshy bits are less protected.

Its work done, the superhot maw begins to cool off. Those nearby either scuttle away from the intense heat, or kneel and pray towards it, hoping to supplicate its hunger with their love. The family in the cuttlehole leave their meal to observe, praying as they go.

For they believe it to be the Red, come to take its due for this day. Such incursions are not unknown, even right here within the Kingdom. And while some may say that such a thing, in such a place, at such a time, augurs ill for the start of Emperor Thurl's new formlife, some will say that this is as it should be.

And with the disappearance of the two figures in one -- sad, but satisfied that what has needed to happen, here, has been done -- no one will be any the wiser.

Especially not Blue and Yellow.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Hanging Garden (the Cure) and drinking something under heavy pressure)

The Age of Imago - June - Pt. 4

Dearest Winifred:

I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits, and in no way, shape, or form further inconvenienced by the machinations of the Imago. I, myself, have been having to keep my eyes closed quite a lot during the day. I am beginning to feel like poor Matt Murdock, navigating the world by echolocation. So I suppose it is a good thing that, being so big-boned, I tend to move slow!

Having said that, I have not been moving slow on the matter of the missing special ed students. Based on what you told me, I have come to some further conclusions regarding their transportation, and possible ultimate conclusions. None of them are particularly good. In fact, I would venture to say that I fear these people we are tracking are now either dead or enslaved.

How I know this is something I feel I cannot say in print, not even in this new code. But after looking into other things, especially as regards what's actually going on in the world's non-industrialized countries, I suspect they've been corralled and put to work, somehow. Either that or they're being held as ransom in case we ever throw off our shackles and see things again.

I do not know for certain, but I suspect the worst. And that's why I'm writing to you in a new code that, knowing you, will take you just enough time to decode to allow me to go do what I have to do without your offering to come with me.

* * *

"Who else knows what you know?" the blue and yellow Imago asks Emperor Thurl. 

"No one, now," the Emperor says, sadly, taking care to step over what is left of his most trusted adviser as he walks towards her and her companion. The adviser's rendered and bloody body floats about the floor of the Emperor's private chamber, still warm and twitching.

"Are you certain, O Thurl, Emperor of Atlantis?" blue and yellow demands, striding over to Thurl, and pointedly not avoiding stepping in the remnants of the adviser: "Are you absolutely, completely certain?"

"Truly I tell you that no others know of what you have done," Thurl insists: "Those who told us were slain. Those who tended to them were also slain. Those who slew them were themselves slain by my adviser, and now..."

He gestures with his claws to the mess on the floor.

"Now I have slain the adviser. The killers have all been killed, save one."

"And that one is you, O Thurl," the other Imago says: "With your death, no one will know."

* * *

Now, do not be angry! I do not take this step because I do not trust you to perform in the field! Nor because, as I have just learned, you have cast iron ovaries.

(Is it awful of me that I did not realize Winifred was a girl's name? I must have mentally thought you were Winfield. Please do excuse this criminal oversight)

No, my stalwart anti-communist comrade. I take this step because I fear that this is much too dangerous, even for me. But seeing as how I am the one who has already been compromised by my previous venture into the field, I feel I have little or no choice to go forward. 

There is nothing waiting for me here but death, or worse. 

* * *

"With my death, I tell you truly that the Kingdom will fall into anarchy and disrepair," Thurl says, taking a step back: "You would condemn our entire civilization to death for the sake of your secret?"

"If it was the right secret? Absolutely," Blue and Yellow says: "And this is the most important secret of all, O Thurl. Your silence must be assured through death, even if it means the death of your Kingdom as well."

"And what good would those deaths do you?" Thurl argues: "Whom would we tell this secret to? And how? I tell you truly that we have neither the ways nor the means to communicate with the Overlanders, any more."

"You destroyed the communicator, already?" the other Imago asks.

"I tell you truly that it was dropped into the nearest chasm no more than three darks after our initial meeting. It has doubtlessly been eaten by the Red, now. Even if it was not, the increased depth would have crushed it to pieces."

"But you may still find a way to speak to an Overlander," Blue and Yellow says, walking a little closer: "We cannot take that chance."

* * *

You see, they are following me, now. They think I have not noticed, yet, but I can see the patterns. 

I can see how their flybys over my house have become more frequent in recent days. I have become all too aware that they are listening in to my conversations with my family, given how their proximity causes the hair to stand up on the back of my neck. I know my motions on the internet are being tracked, given my strangely-poor speeds and weird, electronic echoes, and the way the cursor sometimes moves on its own after I leave the room for a time. 

And I can see how our school's Imago watches me during those execrable pep rallies. My Gods, that smile! That hideous, sociopathic smile that acts as a poor cover to the endless darkness that must lurk just below it! 

Would that I could, with the firing of one bullet, wipe it from the face of this world!
 

* * *

"And what if I did?" Thurl asks, turning and walking over to a corner of the chamber, as though he were debating a point instead of begging for his life: "Even if they did believe me, could they fight against you? And even if they fought against you, would it truly matter with what's coming?"

"What do you know of that?" the other Imago asks.

"I tell you truly, and gladly, that we know everything about that," Thurl says, turning and smiling: "Our kind was born before the last time your approaching foe came to the Overland. The stonebones we harvest from the Wet are the remnants of those days, and the things that walked above, and swam below, when it arrived.

"So when I learned that you had activated the City of Darkness, and made it your home... well, I tell you truly, O Imago, that your deception is over. I know exactly what you are, now.

"And I tell you truly, O Imago, that I know what you are planning to do."

* * *

So I am leaving. 

I have packed in secret. I have taken precautions. I have made arrangements known to none but I and whatever God looks out for big-boned lovers of good porters, science fiction, and economic and personal freedom. 

I will either find out what is going on in Kelley's Island or I will not come back.

You are the one I can trust to take what I've found and carry on should I fall. You are also the one I trust to tell as many of our fellow SPYGOD SCOUTS as you can should the inevitable happen.

Word must be spread. People must know.

* * *

There is silence in the private chamber then. For a terrifying moment, Thurl thinks that the Blue and Yellow woman is going to ensure that the last thing he ever sees is a terror from beyond the great blackocean the Mother swims through.

But then she smiles -- in eerie unison with her fellow -- and clasps her hands before her: "Then, as you say, there is no way that we can let you live. Your knowledge is too dangerous for us to allow to be in the world. Surely you must realize this."

"Surely you overestimate my chances of using that knowledge, or having a reason to," Thurl says: "As I told you truly before, we were here the last time this happened. It was a nightmare, but we survived. We adapted. We became stronger for it. And if there is one thing the Kingdom is willing to do, it is to become stronger."

"Can they not become stronger without you?" the other Imago asks.

"They could, yes," Thurl admits: "But to truly prosper through what it about to come, I tell you truly that they need a strong leader. Without one, they may falter. And if they falter, I truly tell you that I hesitate to think of what will happen."

"Then pick a replacement, and we will ensure that he is installed in your place," Blue and Yellow says, smiling: "But be quick about it, O Thurl. The more you delay this necessary thing, the less likely we are to be generous."

"And you do not want us to feel less than generous at this moment, O Thurl," her companion says, smiling.

* * *

I have surreptitiously acquired your phone number. I intend to call on or before the 30th of the month. 

After the initial pleasantries, I will say "now about the chess club," and from thereafter consider the placement of every third word. I will pause every so often to let you say something, but please keep it to such banalities as "yeah" or "I know" or "Really?" and ignore such returns as "right" or "yes" from me.

If you do not hear anything from me by the 30th of this month, assume the worst, and spread the word. Do not come looking for me. Do not come here seeking to avenge my death.

As much as I detest aping the words of a Communist: do not mourn -- organize. 

* * *

"Then let me make an alternative suggestion," Thurl says, holding his claws out in submission: "One that, I say truly, will benefit us both."

"What might that be?" Blue and Yellow asks. 

"My spawn is close reaching the age of intelligence," he explains: "Soon, there will be a struggle amongst them to see which one is worthy of survival. They will whirl and dance and devour one another, and in the end the strongest will stand, and be worthy of membership in our society."

"We know of this," the other Imago says: "But it will be months before this happens. That is too long-"

"Allow me to continue," Thurl says: "I tell you truly that there is a custom amongst our people to lay down their lives when their spawn comes to this point, especially amongst the most long-lived species. And I have lived a very long time by your calendar. So if I were to lay down my life upon this spawn's acceptance into our society, and have him crowned as Emperor, it would be natural and fitting, and none would question it."

"But that is still too long a time. How do we ensure that you do not speak of this until then?" the other Imago asks.

"Because I will lay down my life to symbolize the new friendship we have struck with the new masters of the Overland," Thurl says: "And this new relationship will be symbolized by the adoption of a new adviser within my court. One who will be with me at all times, in order to advise me on the best way to prepare for our eventual increase in contact with the surface world.

"One of you."

* * *

Would that I had the time to write you a more complete, possibly final letter. Would also that these paltry words of mine could adequately convey what a great friend you have been, and how grateful I am to you for writing me.

You see, dear Winifred, after SPYGOD SCOUTS was done away with, in the wake of what happened, I was well and truly lost. My peer group was denied me, my outlet for my feelings and skills forbidden to me. I wandered through life like a ghost, and even after 3/15, and my initial suspicions, and what I discovered, I was still unable to make myself do what I needed to do.

And then, here is a coded letter from someone, up and rousing me from my pathetic lethargy. When I decoded it, and read it, I felt the shackles I have worn since SPYGOD SCOUTS was disbanded and demobbed fall away. And I felt as though I could move again. Breathe. Laugh. Dance. 

(Well, perhaps not dance. I broke a bone in my foot, once, attempting to tango. Never again.)

But I think you know what I mean. To echo Charles Dickens, you recalled me to life, and there is no greater gift to give a complete stranger, Winifred. 

I hope you do know that.

* * *

The Imago say no, at first, as Thurl knew they would. And they say no and make ready to kill him three more times, no matter what he says.

But when he gets on his belly and crawls to Blue and Yellow, and begs her for the life of his Kingdom, and to not leave their blood on his claws, and cries and moans so hard his eyestalks almost pop out of his skull, they finally relent to his plan.

It will take some time, of course, and until then he must stay in this chamber and contact no one. But they will do it. They will spare his life until his spawn have gone through the ritual, and the strongest survives. And once he is dead, and the spawn sees to his interment, and the crown jewels accept him (hopefully) the Imago adviser will leave, and that will be an end to it.

They can go to the Overland and do what they need to do, and the Kingdom can prepare itself for what happens next. 

After they are gone, Thurl begins the process of devouring his adviser. It should be done while the blood and brain are still warm and fresh, but it could not be helped. And as he messily eats the being's mind, he can hear him speaking.

Did it work, my Emperor? the phantom voice asks.

It did, my servant, he quietly replies: It did. 

Then I tell you truly that I am glad, the voice replies, sighing in relief: So long as no one informs them of the true significance of your spawn's part in your funeralfeast, this should continue to work.

I will see to it that none speak to him regarding this, Thurl says, shlurking brain matter from the hollowing bowl of the adviser's skull: He will have no idea that, when he leaves, I shall remain and advise my spawn in this fashion. He shall have no idea that my spawn will know the truth of what has happened, here, and what lies ahead.

And what of the Overlanders, then? the adviser asks: Do you still intend to tell them?

Thurl pauses in mid-slurp, thinking on that for a time.

That, I think, we shall have to see, he finally answers. He's shamed to have to give such a non-committal one, but he's made enough large, long-reaching decisions this dark. 

Whether he lets the Overlanders live or die when the next Overapocalypse happens can wait for a time.

* * *

I have no regrets should this turn out to be fatal, save never meeting you in person. I so want to see your face and speak with you, about many things and nothing at all. I want to share comic books and good literature and bad music. I want to cook you a proper meal and see if I can avoid burning the chocolate souffle this time. 

And yes, I would berate you for the lack of a certain Doctor in your life. But it would be done from the sense of comradeship and friendly antagonism. Because you are a friend, Winifred. And I will miss not knowing you for real.

All I ask is that, once a year, when this is all done, and freedom and liberty are ours once again, hoist a porter high in my memory.  (I recommend Yuengling)

You are a true American hero. Never forget that. And hopefully I will one day soon tell you this in person.

Yours always

Dagworth

ps: New BSG made me feel queasy and nostalgic for the good-natured fun of the old series, but I thought the old series was, in spite of its interesting imagery, scary enemy, and Mormon mythology, trite and hackneyed. So let's call that a draw. 

 (SPYGOD is listening to Infinite in All Directions (John Foxx) and having a Yuengling Porter in honor of the fallen)

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 - 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)