9/19/12 - A Monument to the Ruined Age - Pt. 5

Keeping up, son?

I sure hope so. We can't !@#$ing afford to be caught out here by those metal-plated !@#$holes. Not only is it going to lead to a big !@#$ fight I'm not sure I can win, here and now, but the best weapon I got going for me, right now, is being dead.

And if they actually see me, well... there's that gun gone. Right before I really got to !@#$ing fire it, too.

Eh, don't worry about the security cameras and TV screens. That's what I was really doing, earlier, when I was walking around Beijing to clear my !@#$ head. I was really picking a safe route though the city, son. And I think I got the perfect one to get us to where we need to go, tonight.

Yeah, yeah -- alleys and tunnels and rooftops. Go !@#$ing figure. Kind of like Berlin after the War, minus the fog, supercommies, and pretzels.

And plus those Imago !@#$ers, which is really what we've been talking about all !@#$ night long, huh? Unit 731 plus Dark Star equals False Faces. False Faces plus Indonesia equals GORGON. And then GORGON plus the Object plus the city under the waves equals Imago.

And Imago plus 3/15 equals a big bag of !@#$ that we get to wade through for what may be a very !@#$ing short rest of our lives, unless we're careful, and !@#$ quick. And very !@#$ing lucky.

But that's me babbling like a !@#$ing brook, son. Let's get back on track here, while we wait for that Silver and Blue !@#$er I saw earlier to pass us on by, up here on this nice roof with its body-blocking, highly inefficient air conditioners.

Let's talk about The Object, itself.

What's the Object? Well, that's a good !@#$ question, now isn't it? Not a whole lot of people know it even !@#$ing exists, and no one's really been brave enough to try and study the !@#$ thing. And people who do tend to die.

And !@#$ing badly, son.

You see, it's one of those cosmically nasty kinds of things that really have no !@#$ing business even being in this reality. They come through and land here, and !@#$ up the landscape, and turn anyone and anything nearby into a mockery of what they'd been, before. And anyone smart enough to realize it tends to do anything they can to lock it the !@#$ away, if only to save others from !@#$, and possibly save the entire world.

Things like poor Gilligan's mask, if you want a more recent example. That god!@#$ed chunk of metal that turned him from a mild-mannered, decent man into a !@#$ing monster from beyond space and time. We thought we could control it, but we were wrong, and it took me decades to be able to !@#$ing deal with it.

Decades, son. And you don't want to know how much collateral !@#$ing damage I have on my plate from that thing alone-

Whoop! Duck.

...

Okay, think it's gone.

Now, that was Blue and Silver, again, but last time I saw him he was headed away from the center of town. Now it's gone back, again. Is it establishing a !@#$ perimeter?

Hmm.

Anyway, onward. Couple of blocks this way, I think... yeah. Keep it going, son. We're doing fine.

So anyway, this nasty thing that should not be appears, messes up the landscape for miles around, and attracts the attention of some !@#$ smart people. They realize it's a big disaster, and post guards around the edges of the zone of disruption. And it's so !@#$ing dangerous, they actually !@#$ing sealed it up.

That's right, son -- wise men in Africa invented the closed city concept ages before the Soviets did. They took their best, most dedicated soldiers, teamed them up with farmers and craftsmen, and saw to it that they lived, worked, and died inside a closed area of the jungle, just outside the distortion zone. They worked there, and never left, and had strict orders to !@#$ing kill anyone who didn't come to them with certain words and objects, for only they were allowed to see the Object.

After that, and a few sad but necessary deaths, there was only one man who knew !@#$ing anything about this thing, and he went so !@#$ far underground that most people today don't even know his real !@#$ing name. It's probably no small thing to say that we owe our lives to the Wandering Shadow and his family, because they kept that secret safe for thousands of years. He took the objects and words into his care, and then acted to stop or kill anyone who went looking for that !@#$ing thing.

And there were a lot of them, son. Too many to count.

You see, that's the weird thing about this thing. It sends dreams. People half the world away go to sleep and dream of strange cities, full of riches. And they just know, somehow, that the city is somewhere in !@#$ing Africa. They just have to go and find it.

Now, not every person out there that gets these dreams can do anything about it. But some can. And some of those dreamers are able to interpret what they see in their mind when they're !@#$ing konked out. So they stage expeditions, get money and helpers, and before you know it, they're trudging through the !@#$ing Congo, looking for gold pyramids and rubies as big as !@#$ houses, or something.

So what does the Wandering Shadow do? Intercept them. He does his best to !@#$ with their supply chains, send them down the wrong paths, mess with their maps, give them diseases. Anything this man has to do to stop them from getting to the jungle, and risk they actually overcoming the guards, he does. No matter how hard, how bloody, how brutal.

And when World War II happens, and the Nazis start searching the world for objects of power? The man figures out a way to trick the Allies into intercepting the Germans before they even get within 100 !@#$ miles of the edge of the disruption zone. He actually !@#$ing impersonates Field Marshal Harold Alexander to pull it off, and does it so well that no one knew what had happened until well after the !@#$ war was over. 

He's a man's man, this Wandering Shadow. I actually admire the son of a !@#$. All of them. 

Anyway, it gets to be the 1960's, and the world's gotten too !@#$ big to keep a secret like that, anymore. They can !@#$ing see the sealed off area of the jungle from space, now. Europe and Russia and America are all fighting over who gets to politically influence Africa, and it's only a matter of time before someone finds the distortion zone, and tries to exploit it.

And this time they might be more powerful than even the Wandering Shadow and his family to deal with.

So the current Wandering Shadow finally reveals himself to the right people in power in Africa. Then he goes to the ancestors of the guards of this weird-!@#$ thing, and shows them the proper objects and words. Turns out they're a hardy lot, these guards, and he takes the best of them back to civilization, and they become part of what eventually becomes the Organization of African Unity's strategic talents organization, BUSH. 

Oh yes, son. Them. The incompetent mother!@#$ers who didn't know what the !@#$ they were doing when it came to matters on this planet, but were amazingly expert on dealing with threats from outer space. There was a time when an ET couldn't even !@#$ing fart without them knowing about it.

But one of their primary jobs was to look after the blasted area of the jungle, and the Object within it. That job fell to the guards who'd come back from the edge of the distortion zone, and in that area BUSH did not !@#$ up. At all. They put more guards around the central guards, and locked the !@#$ing thing down like a champ. Missile banks, big guns, certain strategic talents whose only purpose was to watch the skies, the land, and what lay below...

Speaking of which? On your belly, now.

...

Him again? I wonder what the !@#$ he's up to? Is this a regular patrol?

Well, never mind. Let's keep going, son. 

The Object was secured for more years, thanks to BUSH. But, eventually, that organization turns into a !@#$ing textbook case of just about everything bad about modern Africa. Political infighting, political incest, naked aggression, and dumb mistakes cripple their credibility, but given the complicated !@#$ing web of loyalties and statures of those involved, you can't just get rid of it. It takes a massive !@#$ing thing to do that.

That massive !@#$ing thing happens in 2002, when the African Union supersedes the Organization of African Unity's. At that time, a number of things that people didn't like come under the microscope, including BUSH. So, web of loyalties and simmer conflicts be !@#$ed, they get partially replaced by NGUVU.

I say partially because some African countries still liked those !@#$ing idiots, and helped keep them around. Sadly, that included the current Wandering Shadow, who had a nasty feud going with the family of the man who was tapped to run NGUVU. And you can imagine this makes it difficult to deal with questions about what to do with the Object.

So what happens? NGUVU !@#$ing take the thing from where it was, and put it into a new facility. But people can't know what it is, or why, because that would be really !@#$ing bad. So, to ensure that no one knew what was really going on there, the only people who did, including the guards, were subjected to a very !@#$ing dangerous neurochemical treatment, the Seyoum treatment.

What's that? Well, it's pretty !@#$ ingenious, son. It buries the information so far down in your brainmeat that no one, not even the best psychic you can get your hands on, can !@#$ing get to it. The only way to unlock it is to take a drink of this nasty, top secret concoction that will probably turn your brains to goo rather than get the secrets out.

So you know you know something, but you can't remember it for the life of you, and what you'd have to do to remember it would probably !@#$ing kill you. How's that for secrecy in the modern world?

Well, we saw how well that worked, anyway. The head of BUSH gets taken into custody after I smash them for what they did to my kids. Then NGUVU lets him !@#$ing escape, just to see what kind of a weird deal he had going with and against GORGON. Then he winds up dead, with his brain wiped, and we find out the hard way that Dark Star can crash though the Seyoum Treatment with no !@#$ problem whatsoever.

And that's that, right? So much for !@#$ing African unity, and score one for the bad guys. 

So where do we come into all of this? Well, that's an interesting !@#$ story. How about we hide in this alley while I tell you?

Yeah, this smells !@#$ing great, son. Rotten cabbage and burned wet cardboard. Or maybe it's the dinner special. !@#$ if I know. There's places here where they pickle eggs in urine and sell them to you.

Anyway, me. Having this eye in my !@#$ing head, it opens up my mind to a whole lot of !@#$ that really doesn't make a lot of !@#$ing sense. At least not at first. Maybe later, after a few beers or some thought, or maybe !@#$ing years later, it'll finally hit me.

And when I finally saw that that city in the waves looked like? I got hit, son. Hard.

You see, when NGUVU moved the Object? I was !@#$ing there.

Oh yes, son. I was. They didn't know it then and they sure as !@#$ don't know it, now, but I got wind that something really big was on the move, in that one spot where BUSH had people on guard. So I figured there had to be something in there worth guarding, and kept an ear open for big projects around the continent.

After that, it was just a matter of being in the right place in the right one at the right time to see what all the !@#$ fuss was about. Sure enough, I laid low long enough, and was rewarded by being in the chamber when they !@#$ing brought it in. Three remote controlled robots trundled it in, carrying it in a clear plastic case, treating it like it might !@#$ing explode at any moment. And then they left it there and scooted out as fast as they could, leaving me all alone with it.

I saw it, son. I saw the Object, itself, and it was a strange, shifting piece of thin, coppery metal. I saw how it waved and curled at the edges, like it was a flag caught waving in the breeze, and slowed down. I heard it singing with a voice like a hyena crying, distorted and warped underwater, and then echoed across the stars.

And in my mind, I saw the same !@#$ thing that all those explorers and conquerors and treasure seekers must have seen. Temples and pyramids and towers, columns and slabs, arches and aqueducts. All time periods, all civilizations, all places lost and found, reflected within it.

The genius of all lost cities, there in my minds eye. Maybe the lost archetype of all great human settlements, sending out ideas to architects and artists throughout the ages, informing their hands as they shaped clay and drew plans.

And it promised me wealth and power if only I could get there and take it.

So I left that chamber as quickly as I could, son. I knew that, whatever the !@#$ this was, it was something best left alone. Something that should not have !@#$ing been on our planet at all.

I was !@#$ing petrified, son, and I still am.

But I wasn't so scared that I couldn't realize what I was seeing. It wasn't just some weird thing sending out dreams, son. It was the key to that fantastic city, and, more importantly, it was the map to get there.

And my eye told me where that map was leading, son. The Pacific Ocean. Not that far from where we had it out with Gorgon, back in February. 

And if I hadn't been !@#$ing distracted and second-guessing myself, back then, I would have known the !@#$ we were about to stumble into, down there.

So yes, son. That city that's risen above the waves? GORGON found it a long time ago, but they needed the key to really unlock it. And once they had the Object, they needed only get the rest of their plan into action in order to wake it the !@#$ up.

Which means that Dark Star wasn't !@#$ing lying about there being a treasure trove of weapons and tech down there. It just means that maybe she wasn't an alien, after all.

Maybe she was out there at sea, capsized, and her power picked that traumatic moment to wake up. Maybe she ran into one of the aliens from that city. Maybe she drank down his memories and became him, or her, and knew all that he knew.

And maybe she's been doing everything possible since then to wake that city up, somehow.

"Maybe." I !@#$ing hate that word, son. It's so !@#$... diffident. Uncommitted. It just says that you don't know something really !@#$ing important, and that you're left with guesswork and hunches.

But it's not a hunch to say that GORGON was connected, all along, to something !@#$ing alien, there under the waves. And they've been working towards getting that alien city up here since then, and finally !@#$ing succeeded.

And now... now we see what they're really !@#$ing up to, now don't we?

...

Okay, and this is our stop, right here. I am going to go into this building, and meet with someone I really !@#$ing need to talk to. And you are going to wait right here, in this nasty-smelling trash can, until I !@#$ing come out.

Yeah, yeah. It stinks in there. Better than being found by the Imago, right?

I thought so. Try not to throw up, son.

(SPYGOD is listening to Walking with Shadows (Gary Numan, extended mix) and having something with someone you don't want to meet)

9/19/12 - A Monument to the Ruined Age - Pt. 4

You hear that, son?

Yeah. That. The silence, out there, late at night in this city. Curfew's from two in the AM to six in the AM. No one's supposed to be out on the !@#$ing streets, much less looking out the !@#$ windows.

Me, I don't have to risk !@#$ing vanishing. I can just sit here and listen, and hear more than I really !@#$ing want to.

I can see the lights flickering, here in this !@#$ room. But I can hear the power being diverted. A steady, electric river, leading right out of town to that !@#$ing facility the Imago built, over in Luanping.

Yeah, son. The big, white box no one wants to !@#$ing look at. The one with a five of those metal-plated !@#$ers floating above it like angels on a !@#$ing Christmas tree.

The one that lights up like there's a big !@#$ rave going on, there, every night. Two in the AM to six in the AM, it's weird-!@#$ lights and strange !@#$ing noises.

And as for what goes on there, well... I can't hear everything, but I can !@#$ing hear enough. 

...

This world needs to be free, son. Soon. And as soon as I get the !@#$ing power, I will by God be the one to free it from these !@#$s.

Anyway. Beer. Swig it down, and let's consider the power we do have, so far. And that would be information, courtesy of the People's Republic of China, and their tendency to not know what to keep and what to throw down the !@#$ing shredder.

(Lucky for them old SPYGOD helped them out with some well-placed incendiary devices, huh?)

So now we've got proof positive that, unbeknownst to us previously, there was a definite connection between Japan's nasty body horror science facility, Unit 731, and GORGON, by way of Dark Star, the memory-eater.

We know that Dark Star has a really interesting !@#$ing story, including tales of having escaped from some water-logged spacecraft in the middle of the !@#$ing Pacific. A spacecraft filled with tech and weapons that could put Japan miles ahead in the !@#$ war, and maybe even win them the !@#$ing world, too.

Now, it later turns out that this might not have been completely !@#$ing true, courtesy of some digging on behalf of the whore-mongering officer who found and recruited her. But the truth comes so !@#$ late that the Japanese can't do anything about it before a certain Fat Man and Little Boy come around to !@#$ up their !@#$, and end the war.

But we never find out about this, do we? We arrange to have General Shiro Iichi, and some of his other Unit 731 alumni, hidden from view and shielded from postwar prosecution for the sick !@#$s they are because they had such well-documented information about spreading diseases, amongst other disgusting things. And to his dying day, he never !@#$ing says anything about this sick !@#$, and what she was doing there.

Now, the real question is, did the Soviets ever learn? They rounded up a bunch of fleeing Japanese scientists, put them on trial for the deaths of their Chinese allies, as well as their own people, and sent them off to work in a !@#$ing katorga. But they confiscated every !@#$ thing they found on those people, and we know they !@#$ing "debriefed" them, before and during their stay at the Siberian Sheraton.

And we know about the Anthrax outbreak at Sverdlovsk, in 1979. Boy do we ever !@#$ing know about that.

So do the Russians know a little more about this than they're letting on? Well, maybe. And maybe I should !@#$ing look into that, when I have the time...

But, important things first. We now also know that the first False Faces were made at Unit 731, by Dark Star, with Shiro Iishi watching and loving every !@#$ing moment of it. Which fits with the timeline I had before, after other Strategic Talents came back from the War and told me that they !@#$ing ran into !@#$ False Faces in the South Pacific, during that time.

Now, since that predated the existence of GORGON by about twenty !@#$ing years, we were never sure if it was a coincidence, or if maybe GORGON had stolen its considerable tech from someone else. After all, these were primitive ones, comparatively speaking. They didn't have replicator masks or bionic eyes, back then, and their suicide charges were shoved up into their !@#$ing guts, rather than in their eyes.

We also weren't sure if they were working for the Japanese or not. And now we know why. The High Command had no !@#$ing idea that Dark Star was sending these people out into the field. Everything they did was done for her.

Point of interest: most of the time my allies ran into those !@#$ers, it was in and around Indonesia. And where do Dark Star, Thunder, and Lightning vanish into the jungles of, just two months before the end of the War?

That's right. The Irian Jaya, better known as West Papua. Gold star, son. Have another beer.

So, time goes !@#$ing by, and then GORGON shows up in the 60's, along with a few other groups of science terrorist !@#$holes. We think they're just another such group, at first, but then we find out how they recruit people, and what their driving forces are, and we realize that we've got a real !@#$ing problem on our hands.

But, thankfully, we've got a system and they seem to stick with it. We spy on them, they spy on us, we all spy on each other at Outland, and things don't get too !@#$ing out of hand too often.

At least until I change the rules of the !@#$ing game by refusing to play, anymore. And then they get really !@#$ nasty, really !@#$ quick.

And when I do encounter them, after I !@#$ over ABWEHR, and decide to go after them, next, rather than HONEYCOMB, I make two interesting discoveries. The first being that they somehow managed to turn Deep Ten into their communications hub, which brings up a whole lot of nasty !@#$ing questions I didn't have the heart to ask Director Straffer.

And the second is that their False Faces are using gauss rifles that are just !@#$ing magnificent pieces of work, and unquestionably alien in manufacture. At the time, I figure they made a deal with some !@#$ing bunch of squidgy ET salesmen at a previous OUTLAND, and go back to defending my fine, gay !@#$ from certain doom.

I just barely !@#$ing get that fine, gay !@#$ out of there. And, after what happens, we eventually get back to tracking them down, and find out that the !@#$ers swarmed out of the bowels of West Papua, and evaced into submarines of uncertain make and model.

Alien-looking submarines, son. And they vanish into those !@#$ing tunnels that riddle certain parts of the floor of the Pacific Ocean, making tracking them !@#$ing impossible. Oh, and they're full of DEROS, too, so there's that.

A whole bunch of other !@#$ happens, and some of that does not need to be retread over. But, bottom line, we finally get up and go after their !@#$es, and we get ours handed to us. They've been down in those tunnels forever, it seems, and they have total !@#$ing control over the DEROS.  And I'm left with a broken Flier, a crew on the edge of mutiny, and a President who decides that now's a good !@#$ time to bench me.

More !@#$ing things happen that we don't really need to retread over. Have another !@#$ing beer, son.

Now, jump ahead to 3/15. GORGON has !@#$ing infiltrated everywhere, especially in America, where a whole generation of high-tech, anonymous soldiers called Specials turn out to be !@#$ing False Faces.
Then they cripple all world governments, using a worldwide collection of useful idiots who thought they were being handed the keys to their respective kingdoms.

They take over Deep Ten, and use it to blow the !@#$ out of anything that could be used as an air or space based weapon. And then, finally, the !@#$ Imago show up, displaying powers of teleportation and near-invulnerability to weapons. And everyone in those surviving governments gets told they were saved, except in America, where they're actually willing to be !@#$ing honest, since there's nothing the former Administration can do about it but look brave.

For all the good that !@#$ing does them.

...

And then, out of the middle of the !@#$ing Pacific, not too !@#$ far from where we fought that one, sorry battle against them, and lost, a strange city comes out of the waves...

Now, son. I know you remember my concerns about the Object, over in Africa. Remember when I found out that NGUVU more or less let its location slip to persons unknown, and how I just !@#$ing knew that GORGON was behind it?

Well, son, I am one of the few people on this Earth who actually saw the !@#$ thing, and knew where it !@#$ing was. And that just about cements my understanding as to what actually !@#$ing happened, here, with Dark Star and GORGON and that !@#$ing city.

And like I said, son. We had no !@#$ing how bad GORGON was. Not until now.

...

Come on, son. Grab a beer. We're gonna go break !@#$ing curfew, you and me, just for laughs.

That and I think we'll talk better on the go. I suddenly have a bad !@#$ing feeling about all of this.

And I know it's not a good idea to ignore any of that.

(SPYGOD is listening to Coming Up (The Cure) and having yet more Beijing 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)