9/09/12 - Climbing the Moon, Heading for the Stars

There will be no fight. You were given no opportunity. Nothing was left to chance.

We have taken the world in our hands. From this moment onward, you will be ruled.

We control Deep Ten. Your ability to make war on us is nonexistent. 

Your Strategic Talents have been neutralized. 

Your leaders will soon sing our praises and convince their citizens that ours is the greater good.

They will be well fed and cared for. Occupied and content. Safe from petty tyrannies and their accompanying tortures, protected from the worst things life could offer.

They will have the illusion of liberty. And with just enough freedom and enfranchisement to feel as though nothing is missing, and everything is in order.

And within one generation, they will know nothing else but what we tell them.

We have won.

* * *

At the ragged edge of a deep, dark forest full of trees that are thousands of years old, there's a massive, multi-storied treehouse, high up in the cyclopean boughs of the tallest one there.

It's not in the greatest of repair, that treehouse. Once it was a well-appointed thing, looking a lot like some Queen Anne-style mansion, hewn from fallen timber and living wood, and then nestled amongst the humungous branches of a tree like some strange, surrealist bauble.

A house in a globe in a Christmas tree as tall as skyscraper.

But the ornament has clearly fallen on hard times. The once-shining wooden walls are cracked and rotting, and their screen windows are ripped and frayed. The many roofs are moldered and collapsed, and every so often a large piece of the structure creaks, cracks, and falls down when the tree sways in the wind.

It's not a safe thing to be there, clearly, but yet there are many signs of life and reoccupation. Minor repairs have been done, recently, and new, shiny electronic equipment has been hung from some of the porches, and attached to the better roofs. Antennas and receivers carry information back and forth, and automated defense batteries stare down any would-be intruders.

Especially the flocks of pterodactyls, who -- smelling prey within -- are rather keen to try and attack the seemingly weak, wooden structure, and aren't smart enough to understand that the streams of metal that splatter them whenever they do aren't going away anytime soon.

* * *

Not long after a failed pterodactyl run, a well-tanned, lone figure stands stands on one of the porches, sipping water from a bottle and watching the wildlife, above and below.

There's a herd of herbivores of some -saurus stripe, down there, and he's wondering if something nasty's going to come through and try to slaughter them, again. He's tempted to bring one of the special rifles out here, with him, to make sure that doesn't happen. But he figures that, if he does, he'll get another lecture about nature and nurture and all that !@#$.

(Either that or the recoil will make the porch fall right off, and take him with it.)

And while there was a time that Myron might not have minded that, so much, these days he's feeling a lot better about himself, and his place in the larger scheme of things. His survivor's guilt is mostly washed away, and he no longer feels stupid, or useless, or out of place. 

That's not the only change that's gone on; he's a lot thinner than he was -- slimmed and tanned by his time working in the Sun, here. He moves quicker and easier than he has in years, and just feels more at ease with himself. 

And the sunglasses? Gone, except for the ones he wears to keep from getting blinded around Noon, when the Sun's at its highest and most bright. 

He sips some more water, swishes, and spits some over the wooden railing, watching it bead out as it plummets to the ground, far below. He'd kill for some !@#$ing Pepsi, which reminds him of a song he hasn't heard in forever, and that makes him chuckle, just a little.

"Careful," a sing-songy voice warns him from the door: "You keep !@#$ing laughing they're gonna !@#$ing realize you're not as big of a hard!@#$ as you pretend to be."

"I get three introspective chortles a day," he says, turning to look at the tall, somewhat gawky teen girl coming out onto the porch: "It's in my contract."

"Which one? The scientist who saves the !@#$ing world or the recovering supervillain?"

"They're kind of the same," he says, wishing she wouldn't !@#$ing bring the last one up, anymore. 

"Yeah, well," she grins, stopping just a little short of being too close to him. He looks at her and smiles. She looks away, and down. 

Myron's not 100% sure what the !@#$ happened to Winifred. She knows a lot about certain terrible things that Imago was doing, and barely escaped with her life after finding them out. But what happened between the time she found it out and when the others found her is something she hasn't shared with too many people. 

(He suspects it was !@#$ terrible, which is sad. He also suspects she's got something of a crush on him, which is really awkward and inconvenient, to say the least.)

"Anyway, I was !@#$ing looking for you," Winifred says, still not really looking Myron in the eye: "Fred's calling. He says they're !@#$ing ready to send over another group, and !@#$."

"Cool," Myron replies, turning and heading for the door, and not being too surprised that she walks quickly ahead of him: "Any idea who's in this group?"

"No !@#$ing idea, but I sure !@#$ing hope they got my !@#$ AV request in."

"Holding out for BSG?"

"You know it!"

"Old or new?" he teases.

"Oh, let's not start that !@#$ again..."

* * *

"Okay, I think we're good on this end," Mark Clutch says into the microphone on the really large bank of stolen computers and cobbled-together controls that have come to dominate what used to be the grand buffet room of this tree mansion. 

"Roger," a creaky, scratchy voice replies from the other end: "We'll be sending in 60 seconds. Better get clear of the device."

"You got it," Mark replies, waving to everyone to stand well clear of the large apparatus the computers are all attached to. It looks like a gigantic television screen -- maybe the sort of thing you'd find up high in a sports stadium, only with a large pair of antennas, set at jaunty angles. Its screen glows with a strange, pulsing, grey-green light.

The machine starts making crackling, hissing noises as it warms up, and the banks of computers click and clack and whirl. Small arcs of electricity jump between metal surfaces, and those closest to the event horizon feel the hairs on their arms and legs standing up, which is as good an indication as any that they should back the !@#$ up.

At sixty seconds, a series of clicks go off as a bank of indicator lights turn on -- one right after the other. The pulsing light from the television screen gets brighter, and then faster, until it's a flickering strobe so powerful that onlookers need to shield their eyes, or cover them.

In the flickering light in front of the screen, human figures form: hazy and indistinct at first, but becoming sharper with each passing second. A rippling crack of displaced atmosphere, like a slow boom of thunder, rolls across the room -- shaking the entire treehouse as it goes.

And then, with a very loud hiss, the machine begins to decelerate. The whirling computers wind down, the indicator lights go off in reverse of the way they came on, and the pulsing becomes slower, and dimmer, until the onlookers can see who's just joined them, and how many boxes of supplies they've brought along.

An odd crew, this: mostly Middle-Eastern and African men and women, many of whom seem a little woozy and uncertain at their new surroundings. Mark and a few of the onlookers come forward with water, towels, and first aid kits, just in case.

"Thank you," the tallest man there says, gratefully taking water from Mark: "Are you Mr. Clutch?"

"I am. Aren't you the Lion? From Tunisia?"

"Algeria, actually," he says, shaking Mark's hand: "There was a Lion in Tunisia, but he was well before my time. I took my name from him in homage."

"Yeah, we get a lot of that," Mark smiles: "So who's who?"

"These are some of my allies, here with me. This gentleman here is The Wall, who is also from Algeria, and this lady is The Fist, from Egypt. The short fellow in the thobe is Running Bird, who comes from Mali. She is Skyspear, from the Sudan. I'm sure you can guess why this toothy fellow is called Crocodile, and this fellow here... um.... رجل الصل ?"

"Man of Steel," the metal-skinned man in the says, extending a hand to Mark: "From Fujairah, in the Emirates."

"And the man whose powers over metal have saved us from those Imago things quite a number of times," the Lion says, putting a friendly hand on the metal man's shoulder: "I thank God this man is on our side-"

"And I'm sure I need no introduction," another man -- the only pale skinned one in the group -- interrupts as he walks forward and looks at Mark, who does his best not to scowl.

"Green Man," Mark says, noticing how disheveled the fellow looks, his long black hair ratty and greasy, and his green eyes sunken: "It's been a while. How are you?"

"Not very well," the assassin says: "And you should know that I'm not here by choice."

"Well, I don't think anyone's really here by choice," Mark starts to say, but man's already stomped off towards the doors and out into the main hall. It's almost like he knows where he's going, and, considering his talents, he probably does.

"Is there some bad history, here?" The Lion asks, discreetly.

"You could say that," Mark replies: "But the least said about that, the better. There's some pressing issues and bad news waiting, and... well, I'm still trying to forgive."

"Always an admirable thing."

"So which direction is Mecca from this place?" Crocodile asks in a sibilant voice, scratching his scales as he does.

"Any way you want," Mark says, smiling.

* * *

After a meal -- which may or may not have been entirely halal -- and a penny tour, Mark brings the Lion up to see Myron, who's in the workshop with Winifred and a few other, young men and women. They've just busted into some of the supplies the latest group brought with them, and are taking full advantage of the boxes of circuits and wiring. 

"Myron?" Mark asks: "I've got the Lion, here."

"Oh, okay," Myron says: "Winifred, you keep doing what I showed you. Penworth, you and Harold unspool the wires and get the boards lined up in sequence. And the rest of you... just keep doing that thing."

"Okay, Myron," Winifred says: "And we are on for later, right?"

"Yeah, we are," the man says, trying not to sigh: "BSG and popcorn in the TV lounge."

"Dude!" she gives a thumbs up and then goes back to soldering what looks like a rifle with a radar dish where the barrel should be.

"She really does have a crush on you, Myron," Mark chuckles once they're outside, on a platform leading towards the tree, itself.

"Dude, she's 16," Myron says: "Why is that everyone who's interested in me is either a supercriminal or underage?"

"16?" The Lion says: "Back in my country, in some villages, she would already be promised to someone, and probably already be married."

"Maybe, but..." Myron sighs again: "I have to go by what I think is right. And I can't justify that. Even if she does have awesome electrical engineering skills."

"Then that's all there is to it," Mark says: "I'll leave you two to talk about things. I have some bad news to break to Green Man."

"Do you want someone there?" Myron asks: "Just in case he freaks out?"

"I don't think he will, somehow," Mark says: "But if you hear me scream and see me learn how to fly without wings or a parachute, come running?"

"Will do," Myron says, and they watch Mark walk back inside before speaking.

"More secrets?" the Lion asks.

"Superheroic family drama," Myron says: "The less you're involved, the better off you are. Trust me."

"I do, my friend. I am just a little weary of being kept in the dark."

"Well, I can only apologize for that, but I'm sure you understand why we're being so tight-lipped about things." 

"Oh, I do. But now that I and my friends are here...?"

"Knock yourself out."

"Then where are we, exactly?" the Lion asks, waving at the gigantic tree they're parked in: "The people in the flying saucer would not say where they were taking us, and the cartoons would not say where they were sending us. This has been quite the mystery tour."

"We are in an artificially created pocket dimension," Myron says: "It's a parallel Earth inside a force-grown parallel universe. The major difference between the worlds is that there was never a K-T Extinction Event-"

"A what?"

"You remember the theory that the dinosaurs were wiped out by a really big meteor? Here, it missed the Earth and went on to hit some other poor planet. So the ecosystem didn't have a massive die-off, dinosaurs never died out, and hominids never developed past the stage of being prey for giant, African thunder lizards."

"A parallel world," the Lion muses, looking around: "I did not realize he had access to that kind of technology."

"Well, it's really tenuous access," Myron explains: "Third-hand alien technology repurposed by a supervillain who didn't understand what he had on his hands, the way I heard it. Every time they fire it up they're not sure if it's going to make another world, shut down for good, or blow up and take half the planet with it."

"It seems reckless to keep it, then?"

"Well, did you ever think that SPYGOD wasn't a little reckless from time to time?"

The Lion chooses not to answer this, instead changing the subject a little: "I think I heard about this. This is where SPYGOD would take his youth organization, every year?"

"Well, not this one. That was B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P 3. And unfortunately, that got compromised in a big way."

"So what is this?"

"This is B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4," Myron explains: "It was on standby in case anything happened to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 3, and, considering what apparently happened to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P.s 1 and 2, there was a good chance it'd happen to 3, eventually, too."

"What happened?"

Myron smiles: "That's gonna have to remain on the mystery tour, for right now. But trust me when I say that I wouldn't be doing you any favors if I did tell you. It gets to the heart of what we're up against."

"GORGON?"

"Imago, and some of what they're saying."

"So GORGON is not Imago?"

"GORGON's become Imago. How different they really are is something we don't know. Maybe they got taken over by a third party, and maybe this is something they've been working towards since the beginning. SPYGOD might have a better idea, but he's not volunteering any information, just yet."

"And he's not hiding out in the branches, drunk, is he?"

Myron laughs: "No, not today. He's out there, with the President, somewhere in Asia. I think the plan is for him to gather intel while we get ready to put certain things into play."

"And what of the other heroes?" The Lion asks: "Your Freedom Force?"

"They're going to be the loud distraction and rallying point while we get the actual work done."

"That sounds dangerous."

Myron smiles: "That's why we're heroes. The world's been conquered and turned into a combination labor camp and idiot farm. We have to free the slaves and awaken the stupefied. And we're going to have to pull them both off at the same time, and at the exact same moment Imago loses it offensive capabilities. Otherwise, they might decide to destroy what they can't rule, and that would be..."

"Bad," the Lion agrees: "Very bad."

"So what we're hoping is that you can tell us what you've seen back home," Myron continues: "And then, once we have a better picture, we can give you the tools and the skills to free your own people, when the time comes."

"And you think you will have those tools?"

Myron smiles: "We already do. We just have to make them bigger and badder. That and more portable."

"And these will win us our world back, insh'allah?"

"That's the plan. But it wouldn't hurt to have at least three backups. That and a lot of information on what's going on."

"I have the information," the Lion says: "It is... it is not a good thing to say or think of."

"Would you rather write it down?"

"If I do, I will probably soak the paper with tears," the man says, smiling sadly: "Better I tell you."

"Then I'm all ears."

The Lion nods, and looking around, begins to tell of what's been happening in Northern and Central Africa. It's not a good one to hear, and he breaks down a few times, both for air and for tears.

As he talks, and Myron listens, neither of them are aware that they are being listened to. The one they call the Man of Steel is on the porch directly above them, hearing every word they say.

And smirking, quite evilly.

(SPYGOD is listening to Don't Tell Me (Blancmange) and having a Tango Gold)

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 - 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 - 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 )