1/30/12
8:00 AM
LOCATION UNKNOWN
At first, there's nothing. Just an endless white space behind her eyelids, throbbing and serene. There could be anything or nothing, there, and for a moment she wonders if this time the process has failed.
Then strange, red and purple geometric patterns appear in that whiteness. A feeling of place, and a sense of actually being there starts to form, like the slow realization that one is -- or is no longer -- drunk.
She knows better than to open her eyes, just yet. She needs to give it a few moments more, just to be sure. But she can run her thumbs along her fingers, sensing that she has both motion and feeling in her extremities, however slow and dulled.
She flexes her toes, stretches her fingers. She cracks her knuckles one-handed, one after the other. Twists her head on her neck from side to side, feeling the muscles strain and slide under the skin. Tenses her jaw, releases, licks her teeth with her tongue to make sure they're all there.
Finally, after she's sure the body is working, Zalea Zathros opens her eyes, ever so slightly and slowly, and looks around her bright, white, Art Deco-styled workshop. A number of retro-50's droids stand by, observing her vital signs and waiting for her commands. Blinking lights and lit up monitors nearby indicate that she's doing fine, as does their lack of motion and concern.
An eye chart sits on a back wall, some forty feet away. She had one of her droids put it up just before she submitted to the switch, and did not look at it. She reads it flawlessly, out loud, down to the last line. Only then does she look at the body she's in, smile, and step carefully from the upright, form-fitting coffin she was just birthed from, naked and lovely.
In another coffin, nearby, lies her old body. It looks raggedy and tired, pale and sunken. That's what comes from being imprisoned for too long, put to work, and then having to perform rough brain surgery on oneself to get an explosive tracking chip out of one's head, one supposes. She's amazed she even made it this far, given how bad she was after the procedure.
She regards the corpse, quietly, then leans down to kiss its forehead, ever so gently.
"Unit 2, dispose of the carcass," she says to one of the droids: "Unit 3, bring me clothes. Unit 4, bring me a simple meal. I will take the clothes and meal in the solarium. Thank you."
They signal their assent and get to work. She strides up a nearby stairwell and enters a sun room filled with lovely plants and tasteful, wood furniture. At the wave of a hand a wall turns from solid to shimmering transparency, and she stands there, nude in the sunlight, looking at the desert beyond.
It has never been more beautiful than today.
"Free," she says, feeling the word leave her lips and understanding its true meaning, now. No more COMPANY cell in the Heptagon. No more ridiculous wastes of her genius on trivial matters of national security. No more hands holding her back from her plans and dreams.
No more taking orders from a man who should have been put down like a dog ages ago.
"A small retaking of stock, first," she says, crossing her arms and watching the sand eddy and whirl in the wind: "Regaining contact with my allies, next. Then some long-overdue recreation time.
"And then... revenge."
She narrows her eyes, anticipating that lovely moment. Outside, a hawk glides down and snatches something frail and squirming from the sand.
1/31/12
In Dubai, a young man sits down in an expensive easy chair, seeming out of place in a grimy, soot-stained metal workshop. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he sees his own body through a different set of eyes, as if seeing through fire.
Moloch rears its new, much-improved brass body back. Its rib cage opens and closes like a trap door. Teleportation systems come online, along with tracking and rangefinders.
Its two arms separate at the joints to become six. Looking at its six hands, with sharp, brass knives aflutter, it speaks through the fire: "Moloch, whose fingers are ten armies..."
The cannibal dynamo laughs fire, no longer caring if its meat family hears, anymore. It no longer worries about them. It no longer worries about anything.
The false god will die. Its on-again, off-again employer has promised this death, just as he has promised it will come at Moloch's hands. All he needs to do is wait for the signal.
A signal soon to come, if the man's words have any truth. But even if they do not, Moloch does not care.
The time is soon. It radiates in the air like the heat of the final fire.
And this time, Moloch will be the one who lights it.
* * *
In Washington D.C., the President watches as Congressional leaders from both parties leave the Oval Office. He leans back in his chair, takes the folder he was using as a prop, and thwaps it into a nearby table. He's disgusted, disappointed, and just plain tired.
They'd been talking for the last two hours, trying to come to some consensus on what to do about The COMPANY. The President wanted to get them to act on a certain part of The COMPANY charter: the one that allowed for its Director to be removed by an overwhelming vote in both Houses, in case it was clear the Director was a menace but the President refused to remove him. That way he could force SPYGOD out without having to play the game they played the last time -- the game he lost so badly he didn't like to talk about it.
About as badly as he lost this one, here, today.
He thought he had a slam dunk. He really did. Improper notice of the invasion of Antarctica. The insult to the people of South Korea. The dangerous, fly-by-the-seat-of-the-pants dismantling of The Legion. And now this catastrophe -- one that SPYGOD refused to take full responsibility for.
(No mention of the matter with the CIA Director, though. That was staying as quiet as the President could make it.)
But no. No dice. The Senate Majority Leader agrees but won't back his play, and the Minority Leader wants to see him twist in the wind until November. As for the House, well, as much as the other party might not like SPYGOD the man, The COMPANY's done no wrong in their eyes. Meanwhile, his own party is !@#$ terrified of waking up to find him perched atop their pillow, staring at them with his glowing, alien eye.
So no. No vote. No escape hatch. He has to find some kind of leverage on the man, to overcome what he knows about him, and as far as he knows there's nothing.
Except...
There is that phone, over to the right of the windows, by the desk. The one that's on top of the white, marble pedestal with the glass, handled cover on it. The one that's been there since the 80's, but hasn't been used since the early part of the decade.
The phone with no line connecting it.
They can't take it out; it simply will not move. When they redid the flooring, about seven years ago, they had to work around it. A worker was severely injured when his sawblade bounced off the pedestal and shattered into hundreds of pieces.
Once it was here, it was here to stay.
He looks at the phone. He could make the call, right now. It would be the worst thing in the world that he could do, given everything he knows, but he could do it. The matter could be handled. His hands could be clean.
No. He shakes his head, ashamed of himself for even thinking about it. He gets the folder, gets up, and decides to leave the room before he's tempted any further.
Then the phone starts to ring.
It's that ring, too. Loud and chirpy, like a mother calling up the stairs in a warm but insistent voice. The tone that says "you have to answer."
The President hitches a breath and grits his teeth. He doesn't have to answer it. He can just let it ring and ring, and maybe it'll stop. Like it's started and stopped all those other times, over the years, when the Presidents before him decided to not repeat that one, bad mistake.
But he can't leave, either. Something won't let him. He stands there and listens to it ring.
And ring.
And ring.
* * *
In Antarctica, deep beneath the Ice Palace, Doctor Yesterday staggers along an empty, frigid corridor, weakly calling for help.
The ragged, bleeding hole in his left side is painful, wet, and warm. He knows that if he takes his hand from it, things will slop out of it, again. Pulsing organs and bits of flesh that, if he weren't about to go into shock, he could probably remember what they were.
It's enough to know that they're important, and that he has to keep staggering forward, slowly, and focus. If he takes his left hand off the wall he'll lose his balance and have to stop. If he stops he won't be able to start again.
If he falls he won't get up.
"Put one foot in front of the other," he whispers, weakly, trying not to breathe too deeply lest he start coughing blood, again: "One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other..."
The Blue Helmets are nowhere to be found. His communicator isn't working. If he just gets a little further down the hall, he might be able to scream for help loud enough that someone could actually hear him.
He's a dead man walking as it is, but if he can cry out loud enough, someone may hear. Someone may come running in time for him to warn them. Someone may be able to do something about what's just happened.
There has to be some way out of this one. There always is. He just has to stay ahead of the person who did this to him long enough to find it.
(Luckily, he had a gizmo on him that could keep his attacker tied up for a moment or two, but there's no way it would stop that person entirely. Not hardly.)
Even now, he can't believe this has happened, even though he knew it was coming.
He's been slowly gathering evidence, like SPYGOD told him to. He's been looking into things left unsaid, snooping around in person or by proxy, looking right while pretending to look left. It's been a slow education with a steep learning curve, but he thought he had the pattern down.
Apparently not, as the hole in his chest would tell him.
"One foot in front of the other..." he says, looking up again. Is the T-junction up ahead any closer? Has he just been imagining he's been walking the whole time?
SPYGOD. Where is he when he needs him? He tried to contact him the other day but he wouldn't even pick up the phone. He called and called and no answer. And now...
The blast hits him before he hears the gun go off. It strikes him in his upper right shoulder, not quite blowing his arm off at the joint. It falls down weakly, and as he falls forward to join it on the floor, the things his hand's been keeping in start to slip out again, along with a fresh gout of blood.
He barely even feels the ground as he slams into it. It seems to happen in slow motion, and when time catches back up again the person who did the shooting is rolling him over and pointing the gun at his face.
"How could you?" Yesterday asks, weakly. After all they've done together? After everything? This?
If the shooter has anything to say, it's lost in the sound of the next shot. After that, the good Doctor is quite incapable of finding the way out.
* * *
Elsewhere, far far away from Earth, a world dies horribly as something unspeakable moves past it.
It was no small thing, this world. It boasted a civilization hundreds of thousands of its cycles old. It was a center of culture and commerce for several solar systems around it. The people were wise and generous in times of peace, and cunning and steadfast in times of war, but never cruel in either.
They were a good people. It was a good world. It should have continued in being.
They never had a prayer.
The first intimation that something was wrong came only three days before. On that day, their astronomers noticed something missing at the far end of their system. Stars were being blocked out by something large, irregularly shaped, and dark.
Something their telescopes could not discern, for it seemed to absorb all light and reflect nothing at all.
On the second day, it was much larger. They sent out ships to investigate, and hailed it in the spirit of friendship and peace. Their ships were smashed to shrapnel by what was either massive gravity or the object lashing out.
Their messages were answered with words that made their ears bleed, and men go insane.
On the third day, it loomed over their world. Those few who'd had the good sense to evacuate overnight were the only ones who remained sane enough to see what happened next, and speak of it.
But they still choose not to say what they saw. Only that, as their world cracked and broke and burned and died, the thing did not slow down to harass or vex it further. It did not send ships to conquer the ruins, harvesters to mine the core, or slaughterhouses to collect what few living people remained on the surface.
It simply continued on, black against the blackness of space.
Their world had not been a target for invasion. Their world had not angered it, inviting retribution. Their world had not been important enough to it to do anything of the sort.
They had simply been in its flight path, and died as a result.
Those worlds they traded with are still picking up survivors. If asked to name the thing that killed their homeworld, they can only say (Unintelligible Concept)
And say that they pity whatever world is is true destination.
(SPYGOD is listening to Heavenly (Seal) and drinking a Poppaskull, in memory of the dead)
Showing posts with label the chamber. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the chamber. Show all posts
Monday, February 6, 2012
Thursday, January 19, 2012
1/12/12 - The Dark Spaces Between
1/12/12
9:45 AM
NEO YORK CITY
THE B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.
SPYGOD'S BEDROOM
Dir. Straffer: (REDACTED)? Where did you go?
SPYGOD: That's !@#$ classified.
Dir. Straffer: It sounds like you're in another room.
SPYGOD: Sounds can be deceiving.
Dir. Straffer: And something smells wonderful.
SPYGOD: Well, that could be !@#$ faked, too. But I think it smells wonderful, too. So maybe that's a !@#$ draw.
Dir. Straffer: Are you actually cooking me breakfast?
SPYGOD: No, I'm cooking us breakfast. I don't know about you, but I'm !@#$ starving.
Dir. Straffer: Oh, that makes two of us. Those rocket trips to and from the Moon did me in.
SPYGOD: You and me both. Ah, here we go...
Dir. Straffer: Is that quiche?
SPYGOD: No !@#$ laughing. I will kick your !@#$ out of bed.
Dir. Straffer: You made quiche. And bacon. And are those grilled tomatoes?
SPYGOD: And I've got champagne in the cooler. The flutes are by the bedside.
Dir. Straffer: Is that what those were there for?
SPYGOD: I always keep them there, just in case.
Dir. Straffer: Oh, so I'm not the only person who gets the full bed and breakfast treatment the next morning, eh?
SPYGOD: You kidding me? Most people are already out the !@#$ back elevator. You, on the other hand, get proper treatment.
Dir. Straffer: And why is that?
SPYGOD: Shut up and pour the champagne.
Dir. Straffer: Oooo. Yes, sir.
SPYGOD: Now I hope I didn't put too much spinach in this. It's a fine line between flavor and mulch.
Dir. Straffer: MMM. Well, I think you got it about perfect, there.
SPYGOD: You're not just saying that because of the rocket ride?
Dir. Straffer: If it sucked, I would tell you. I might feel the need to duck, afterwards, but I'd tell you.
SPYGOD: And that, my dear Director, is why you get proper treatment.
Dir. Straffer: I'll drink to that. *clink*
SPYGOD: Likewise. Now, how about you tell me why you told me you don't drink?
Dir. Straffer: Same reason I told you didn't put out on the first date.
SPYGOD: Which was?
Dir. Straffer: My little secret.
SPYGOD: You are bad.
Dir. Straffer: I am, yes. And you look like you have something you want to say.
SPYGOD: Don't worry, I'm not going to ruin things by getting soppy or crying into my bacon.
Dir. Straffer: Heh. You know what gay men do on the second date?
SPYGOD: Ask me the next time I bribe you with dinner.
Dir. Straffer: *laughs* I'll drink to that, too. But okay. What's on your mind?
SPYGOD: It's work related.
Dir. Straffer: What, you need me to vaporize something for you, again?
SPYGOD: Oh !@#$ no. Nothing like that.
Dir. Straffer: Need a hand doing an end run on Congress?
SPYGOD: Well, I might. But that's not it.
Dir. Straffer: Then what?
SPYGOD: It's a matter of intel sharing.
Dir. Straffer: Ah. That calls for more champagne.
SPYGOD: Pour away. And please, for the love of !@#$, don't laugh.
Dir. Straffer: I make no promises.
SPYGOD: Okay. What do we know about (Unintelligible Concept)?
Dir. Straffer: That's... an interesting question, (REDACTED). What brings that up?
SPYGOD: Recently, I learned that, if I'm somewhere really remote, where there isn't a lot to listen to, I can hear things out in space. I can hear the stars !@#$ singing to each other, if you can believe that.
Dir. Straffer: I can.
SPYGOD: Believe it?
Dir. Straffer: Yes to both questions. But it takes me a really sensitive electromagnetic monitor, and then I only get every other note. It sounds like half-heard techno, heavy on the classical samples.
SPYGOD: I hear a chorus singing. It's heartbreakingly beautiful. I don't have... I don't !@#$ have words to describe it. It's like that one time when I busted in on the wrong room in the West Wing when a certain former colleague of mine was reporting to his superiors. I almost cried.
Dir. Straffer: Okay, now. Don't get soppy on me. You didn't ask me about you-know-what if you wanted to get all maudlin.
SPYGOD: Fair point. I've also learned, just recently, that if I'm in a situation where I can't hear anything else around me, and I'm in the right brainframe for it, I can hear really far out into space. So much so that I actually can see things, in a way. Maybe it's echolocation, or maybe it's just that some things are so !@#$ massive and tremendous that I can't not hear them.
Dir. Straffer: And what did you hear out there that has so you spooked?
SPYGOD: It wasn't what I heard. It was what I dreamed I heard when I was in that situation where I couldn't hear anything else. I imagined a presence out there. Massive !@#$ thing, but so dark that I could only tell the vague outline of its shape by what I couldn't see, behind it. Then it went by a gas cloud, and it was so !@#$ big the matter was drawn off and started to reveal what it actually looked like...
Dir. Straffer: A ship?
SPYGOD: No. A being. Something so large that it made my brain want to crawl out of my skull and move to !@#$ Guam just to get away from it.
Dir. Straffer: One of the Preternaturals, maybe?
SPYGOD: What are those?
Dir. Straffer: Well, as near as we can figure, when the last Universe ended, not everything that was in that Universe ended along with it. Some things survived the last big crunch, and made it through the big bang. They're incredibly huge, incredibly alien, and so far over our heads we can't even begin to contemplate them.
SPYGOD: So they're some kind of Cthulhu deal, basically?
Dir. Straffer: That's one way to look at it, yes. Now thankfully they tend to stay far outside of our stomping grounds. Most of them are still riding the creation wave. Some of them make really weird, long orbits that take up to a billion years to complete, and mostly stay between systems. But when they come close to civilizations, really bad things tend to happen.
SPYGOD: Like what?
Dir. Straffer: Extinction events on a galactic scale. Especially when they wake up and realize there's something nearby they can feed on.
SPYGOD: And I'm !@#$ betting that if they're big enough and powerful enough to have survived the end of the last universe and the birth of ours, they've got one !@#$ of an appetite.
Dir. Straffer: The ruins of an entire galaxy is attributed to one of them barreling through it, stopping at the center, and starting to feed. They think it's still there, somewhere, in the Preternatural equivalent of a food coma. But no one wants to go and look.
SPYGOD: I don't !@#$ blame them. How many of these !@#$ things are out there?
Dir. Straffer: The Catorese say there's twenty that they've seen.
SPYGOD: !@#$ twenty?
Dir. Straffer: Maybe. The Catorese also have ten digits on each hand, and two hands, so twenty could be a convenient guess on their part. I'm willing to bet good money there's more.
SPYGOD: Have you ever seen one of these !@#$ things?
Dir. Straffer: No. I don't think anyone could without going mad. They have that effect, I'm told.
SPYGOD: So we are dealing with some kind of Cthulhu deal.
Dir. Straffer: Well, for all we know...
SPYGOD: Thank !@$#$ for the Eye, huh?
Dir. Straffer: You can say that again. So you think you saw one of these things in a dream?
SPYGOD: I don't know. These things are massive, but how intelligent are they?
Dir. Straffer: Impossible to say. When they come around and start shoveling whole solar systems down their throat it's not really feasible to fire off the first few prime numbers and see if they start replying.
SPYGOD: Okay then.
Dir. Straffer: Is that relief I see across your face?
SPYGOD: Maybe. What do you know about The Chamber?
Dir. Straffer: I know we shouldn't be talking about it unless we're really secure, here.
SPYGOD: We are.
Dir. Straffer: Then I'd say I know enough to know it's a very good thing that thing's been locked down since you left the Ice Palace.
SPYGOD: The ceiling's a mile high. And there's some evidence to suggest that the things that built it were at least that tall.
Dir. Straffer: And you think you saw one of them?
SPYGOD: I don't know. It was a lot taller than a !@#$ mile.
Dir. Straffer: Maybe it's the father of the thing that made the Chamber.
SPYGOD: Maybe it's the thing that made the Chamber, but all !@#$ grown up, now?
Dir. Straffer: Neither thought is comforting. And are you saying you think it might be (Unintelligible Concept)?
SPYGOD: I'm wondering. How much do we !@#$ know about (Unintelligible Concept)?
Dir. Straffer: Not a heck of a lot. Most of the races we know of have that word in their syllabary, somewhere. It's pronounced almost exactly the same way amongst the ones who communicate like we do. And it means almost exactly the same thing: an absence of meaning. An anti-thing.
SPYGOD: The Decreator?
Dir. Straffer: In some languages, yes. I didn't know you had an interest in pan-galactic mythology.
SPYGOD: I don't. I just kept having that word pop into my head when I think about what I saw.
Dir. Straffer: Cosmic consciousness?
SPYGOD: Now that sounds like you've had enough champagne.
Dir. Straffer: Line from Repo Man, actually.
SPYGOD: That movie with Giles from Buffy ripping people open and taking the organs they couldn't pay for?
Dir. Straffer: No, the one with Emilio Estevez? The aliens in the back of the car?
SPYGOD: Oh yeah. That one.
Dir. Straffer: It's a must see on Deep Ten. We make new employees guess which race the trunk aliens are.
SPYGOD: And what are they?
Dir. Straffer: None of them. Stuffed condoms, we think.
SPYGOD: Yours is a cruel wit, my friend.
Dir. Straffer: Well, we gotta do something for fun up there.
SPYGOD: Yeah. Speaking of which, when do you have to go back up?
Dir. Straffer: Not until later today. Much later.
SPYGOD: Time for another rocket ride?
Dir. Straffer: Several.
SPYGOD: All that talk about mouths the size of stars didn't freak you the !@#$ out?
Dir. Straffer: It does. But this is the world we live in, (REDACTED). You deal with the scary !@#$ on the ground. I deal with it when it's up in space. My backyard might be larger and a little stranger than yours-
SPYGOD: A lot !@#$ stranger, you ask me.
Dir. Straffer: Well, yes. But it's the same deal. In the end, we have two choices. We can either deal with that strangeness, or we can run and hide from it. But there's no where to run or hide, really. It doesn't matter if it's science terrorists in Costa Rica or a war fleet from three stars away. If the darkness is going to rise up and try to get us, well, it's going to. But me? I'm going to make it wish it'd !@#$ stayed home before it gets too close. And that goes for anything out there, no matter how large.
SPYGOD: Shut up and !@#$ kiss me.
Dir. Straffer: Yes, sir.
(SPYGOD is listening to Lux Aeterna (Gyorgy Ligeti) and drinking... well, figure it out)
9:45 AM
NEO YORK CITY
THE B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.
SPYGOD'S BEDROOM
Dir. Straffer: (REDACTED)? Where did you go?
SPYGOD: That's !@#$ classified.
Dir. Straffer: It sounds like you're in another room.
SPYGOD: Sounds can be deceiving.
Dir. Straffer: And something smells wonderful.
SPYGOD: Well, that could be !@#$ faked, too. But I think it smells wonderful, too. So maybe that's a !@#$ draw.
Dir. Straffer: Are you actually cooking me breakfast?
SPYGOD: No, I'm cooking us breakfast. I don't know about you, but I'm !@#$ starving.
Dir. Straffer: Oh, that makes two of us. Those rocket trips to and from the Moon did me in.
SPYGOD: You and me both. Ah, here we go...
Dir. Straffer: Is that quiche?
SPYGOD: No !@#$ laughing. I will kick your !@#$ out of bed.
Dir. Straffer: You made quiche. And bacon. And are those grilled tomatoes?
SPYGOD: And I've got champagne in the cooler. The flutes are by the bedside.
Dir. Straffer: Is that what those were there for?
SPYGOD: I always keep them there, just in case.
Dir. Straffer: Oh, so I'm not the only person who gets the full bed and breakfast treatment the next morning, eh?
SPYGOD: You kidding me? Most people are already out the !@#$ back elevator. You, on the other hand, get proper treatment.
Dir. Straffer: And why is that?
SPYGOD: Shut up and pour the champagne.
Dir. Straffer: Oooo. Yes, sir.
SPYGOD: Now I hope I didn't put too much spinach in this. It's a fine line between flavor and mulch.
Dir. Straffer: MMM. Well, I think you got it about perfect, there.
SPYGOD: You're not just saying that because of the rocket ride?
Dir. Straffer: If it sucked, I would tell you. I might feel the need to duck, afterwards, but I'd tell you.
SPYGOD: And that, my dear Director, is why you get proper treatment.
Dir. Straffer: I'll drink to that. *clink*
SPYGOD: Likewise. Now, how about you tell me why you told me you don't drink?
Dir. Straffer: Same reason I told you didn't put out on the first date.
SPYGOD: Which was?
Dir. Straffer: My little secret.
SPYGOD: You are bad.
Dir. Straffer: I am, yes. And you look like you have something you want to say.
SPYGOD: Don't worry, I'm not going to ruin things by getting soppy or crying into my bacon.
Dir. Straffer: Heh. You know what gay men do on the second date?
SPYGOD: Ask me the next time I bribe you with dinner.
Dir. Straffer: *laughs* I'll drink to that, too. But okay. What's on your mind?
SPYGOD: It's work related.
Dir. Straffer: What, you need me to vaporize something for you, again?
SPYGOD: Oh !@#$ no. Nothing like that.
Dir. Straffer: Need a hand doing an end run on Congress?
SPYGOD: Well, I might. But that's not it.
Dir. Straffer: Then what?
SPYGOD: It's a matter of intel sharing.
Dir. Straffer: Ah. That calls for more champagne.
SPYGOD: Pour away. And please, for the love of !@#$, don't laugh.
Dir. Straffer: I make no promises.
SPYGOD: Okay. What do we know about (Unintelligible Concept)?
Dir. Straffer: That's... an interesting question, (REDACTED). What brings that up?
SPYGOD: Recently, I learned that, if I'm somewhere really remote, where there isn't a lot to listen to, I can hear things out in space. I can hear the stars !@#$ singing to each other, if you can believe that.
Dir. Straffer: I can.
SPYGOD: Believe it?
Dir. Straffer: Yes to both questions. But it takes me a really sensitive electromagnetic monitor, and then I only get every other note. It sounds like half-heard techno, heavy on the classical samples.
SPYGOD: I hear a chorus singing. It's heartbreakingly beautiful. I don't have... I don't !@#$ have words to describe it. It's like that one time when I busted in on the wrong room in the West Wing when a certain former colleague of mine was reporting to his superiors. I almost cried.
Dir. Straffer: Okay, now. Don't get soppy on me. You didn't ask me about you-know-what if you wanted to get all maudlin.
SPYGOD: Fair point. I've also learned, just recently, that if I'm in a situation where I can't hear anything else around me, and I'm in the right brainframe for it, I can hear really far out into space. So much so that I actually can see things, in a way. Maybe it's echolocation, or maybe it's just that some things are so !@#$ massive and tremendous that I can't not hear them.
Dir. Straffer: And what did you hear out there that has so you spooked?
SPYGOD: It wasn't what I heard. It was what I dreamed I heard when I was in that situation where I couldn't hear anything else. I imagined a presence out there. Massive !@#$ thing, but so dark that I could only tell the vague outline of its shape by what I couldn't see, behind it. Then it went by a gas cloud, and it was so !@#$ big the matter was drawn off and started to reveal what it actually looked like...
Dir. Straffer: A ship?
SPYGOD: No. A being. Something so large that it made my brain want to crawl out of my skull and move to !@#$ Guam just to get away from it.
Dir. Straffer: One of the Preternaturals, maybe?
SPYGOD: What are those?
Dir. Straffer: Well, as near as we can figure, when the last Universe ended, not everything that was in that Universe ended along with it. Some things survived the last big crunch, and made it through the big bang. They're incredibly huge, incredibly alien, and so far over our heads we can't even begin to contemplate them.
SPYGOD: So they're some kind of Cthulhu deal, basically?
Dir. Straffer: That's one way to look at it, yes. Now thankfully they tend to stay far outside of our stomping grounds. Most of them are still riding the creation wave. Some of them make really weird, long orbits that take up to a billion years to complete, and mostly stay between systems. But when they come close to civilizations, really bad things tend to happen.
SPYGOD: Like what?
Dir. Straffer: Extinction events on a galactic scale. Especially when they wake up and realize there's something nearby they can feed on.
SPYGOD: And I'm !@#$ betting that if they're big enough and powerful enough to have survived the end of the last universe and the birth of ours, they've got one !@#$ of an appetite.
Dir. Straffer: The ruins of an entire galaxy is attributed to one of them barreling through it, stopping at the center, and starting to feed. They think it's still there, somewhere, in the Preternatural equivalent of a food coma. But no one wants to go and look.
SPYGOD: I don't !@#$ blame them. How many of these !@#$ things are out there?
Dir. Straffer: The Catorese say there's twenty that they've seen.
SPYGOD: !@#$ twenty?
Dir. Straffer: Maybe. The Catorese also have ten digits on each hand, and two hands, so twenty could be a convenient guess on their part. I'm willing to bet good money there's more.
SPYGOD: Have you ever seen one of these !@#$ things?
Dir. Straffer: No. I don't think anyone could without going mad. They have that effect, I'm told.
SPYGOD: So we are dealing with some kind of Cthulhu deal.
Dir. Straffer: Well, for all we know...
SPYGOD: Thank !@$#$ for the Eye, huh?
Dir. Straffer: You can say that again. So you think you saw one of these things in a dream?
SPYGOD: I don't know. These things are massive, but how intelligent are they?
Dir. Straffer: Impossible to say. When they come around and start shoveling whole solar systems down their throat it's not really feasible to fire off the first few prime numbers and see if they start replying.
SPYGOD: Okay then.
Dir. Straffer: Is that relief I see across your face?
SPYGOD: Maybe. What do you know about The Chamber?
Dir. Straffer: I know we shouldn't be talking about it unless we're really secure, here.
SPYGOD: We are.
Dir. Straffer: Then I'd say I know enough to know it's a very good thing that thing's been locked down since you left the Ice Palace.
SPYGOD: The ceiling's a mile high. And there's some evidence to suggest that the things that built it were at least that tall.
Dir. Straffer: And you think you saw one of them?
SPYGOD: I don't know. It was a lot taller than a !@#$ mile.
Dir. Straffer: Maybe it's the father of the thing that made the Chamber.
SPYGOD: Maybe it's the thing that made the Chamber, but all !@#$ grown up, now?
Dir. Straffer: Neither thought is comforting. And are you saying you think it might be (Unintelligible Concept)?
SPYGOD: I'm wondering. How much do we !@#$ know about (Unintelligible Concept)?
Dir. Straffer: Not a heck of a lot. Most of the races we know of have that word in their syllabary, somewhere. It's pronounced almost exactly the same way amongst the ones who communicate like we do. And it means almost exactly the same thing: an absence of meaning. An anti-thing.
SPYGOD: The Decreator?
Dir. Straffer: In some languages, yes. I didn't know you had an interest in pan-galactic mythology.
SPYGOD: I don't. I just kept having that word pop into my head when I think about what I saw.
Dir. Straffer: Cosmic consciousness?
SPYGOD: Now that sounds like you've had enough champagne.
Dir. Straffer: Line from Repo Man, actually.
SPYGOD: That movie with Giles from Buffy ripping people open and taking the organs they couldn't pay for?
Dir. Straffer: No, the one with Emilio Estevez? The aliens in the back of the car?
SPYGOD: Oh yeah. That one.
Dir. Straffer: It's a must see on Deep Ten. We make new employees guess which race the trunk aliens are.
SPYGOD: And what are they?
Dir. Straffer: None of them. Stuffed condoms, we think.
SPYGOD: Yours is a cruel wit, my friend.
Dir. Straffer: Well, we gotta do something for fun up there.
SPYGOD: Yeah. Speaking of which, when do you have to go back up?
Dir. Straffer: Not until later today. Much later.
SPYGOD: Time for another rocket ride?
Dir. Straffer: Several.
SPYGOD: All that talk about mouths the size of stars didn't freak you the !@#$ out?
Dir. Straffer: It does. But this is the world we live in, (REDACTED). You deal with the scary !@#$ on the ground. I deal with it when it's up in space. My backyard might be larger and a little stranger than yours-
SPYGOD: A lot !@#$ stranger, you ask me.
Dir. Straffer: Well, yes. But it's the same deal. In the end, we have two choices. We can either deal with that strangeness, or we can run and hide from it. But there's no where to run or hide, really. It doesn't matter if it's science terrorists in Costa Rica or a war fleet from three stars away. If the darkness is going to rise up and try to get us, well, it's going to. But me? I'm going to make it wish it'd !@#$ stayed home before it gets too close. And that goes for anything out there, no matter how large.
SPYGOD: Shut up and !@#$ kiss me.
Dir. Straffer: Yes, sir.
(SPYGOD is listening to Lux Aeterna (Gyorgy Ligeti) and drinking... well, figure it out)
Friday, September 9, 2011
9/5-7/11 - Five Days, Five Conversations: pt 1
9/5/11
3:54 PM
2 DARBAR GRILL
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:
SPYGOD: Wasn't sure you'd show.
DOSHA JOSH: I wasn't sure I would, either. But my man was free, and I hear the naan is the best outside of Delhi. So I thought I would try it.
SPYGOD: Is it?
DOSHA JOSH: Needs more of everything. But I suppose you white people will eat anything if someone says it's authentic.
SPYGOD: Except for intelligence.
DOSHA JOSH: Of course. You asked me to look into that matter for you. I have.
SPYGOD: And?
DOSHA JOSH: It's all here in this disc. I'm sure you won't mind if I ask you not to read it here.
SPYGOD: No one will know what we're up to.
DOSHA JOSH: That's not my concern. I'm actually having a nice lunch and do not feel the need to have you ruin it by turning the air blue.
SPYGOD: I think I can !@#$ accommodate. That's one I owe you.
DOSHA JOSH: Two. That's two you owe me. Three if you count me backing you in front of the others after your little adventure in Afghanistan.
SPYGOD: !@#$ had it coming. Any smart guy can see that. You're a smart guy. Should I owe you for not farting in public, too?
DOSHA JOSH: I'd settle for an obscenity-free lunch.
SPYGOD: Unless it's in !@#$ Hindi, right? I've heard you carry on, Dosha. I've known Karachi hookers with better manners.
DOSHA JOSH: "Oh eavesdropping, up yours."
SPYGOD: Whatever. Thanks for the info. And the save.
DOSHA JOSH: Not the beer?
SPYGOD: Not the greatest, but I appreciate the gesture. Kingfisher, next time?
DOSHA JOSH: Cha cha chod...
SPYGOD: He's a little too butch for me, but thanks for the offer...
TRANSCRIPT ENDS
9/6/11
6:23 AM
CENTRAL PARK
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:
(REDACTED): A little late, as always.
SPYGOD: Yeah, well, I like to keep you guessing.
(REDACTED): Sadly, you're totally transparent.
SPYGOD: Only when I'm wearing the No Suit. And we all know how that goes...
(REDACTED): So, did you enjoy shooting an elderly woman in the back and face?
SPYGOD: Less than you might think, more than you might like. Why?
(REDACTED): I didn't know you had it in you.
SPYGOD: Using a dangling problem to solve a more pressing issue? Since when is that not me?
(REDACTED): One of these days you will be out of alibis and patsies. I look forward to that. I think it'll be a good day when this country finally sees you for the monster you are.
SPYGOD: I'm the best monster for the job, !@#$ face. That's why I have it. Now, can we do business, or do you want to berate me for killing a wanted supervillain who thought she'd escaped justice?
(REDACTED): ...
SPYGOD: I do still have the crime scene photos from that Senator's family, if you'd like to see why she went into hiding.
(REDACTED): Never mind that. Yes, we can do business. It's why I'm here, dealing with you.
SPYGOD: Okay then. Here's the package I agreed to. It's all the info I could find on those little conversations your people had with our former friend, plus a few extras.
(REDACTED): What sort of extras.
SPYGOD: Well, you know half of his all-female bodyguards are replicants. I know who made them. I gave you their shutdown codes. Three nonsense words you wouldn't tend to hear in that combination in Arabic, but they'll force a catastrophic brain meltdown in seconds.
(REDACTED): Hmm. That could be very useful in the near future.
SPYGOD: And did you get what I asked for?
(REDACTED): It's all there. I don't see how this isn't something you could get yourself, though.
SPYGOD: Me to know, you to get a gun up your !@#$ if you try and figure out.
(REDACTED): You really are Mr. Congeniality, today. No faggot sex last night?
SPYGOD: Tons of it, son. This is just how I deal with company !@#$ snakes in bad suits.
(REDACTED): !@#$ you.
SPYGOD: Please. I'd turn your !@#$hole inside out like a noggin-punched octopus. And that is not something you want to explain to your HMO.
(REDACTED): Whatever.
SPYGOD: Oh, and tell those !@#$ in the No Suits to stop trying to !@#$ follow me. Not only can I see them, but I can tell what they !@#$ had for lunch. Yesterday.
(REDACTED): I don't know what you're talking about--
SPYGOD: Devil dogs from Jerry's sidewalk stand. Extra peppers. The guy on the right held the mustard.
(REDACTED): ....
SPYGOD: Have a nice day, !@#$.
TRANSCRIPT ENDS
9/7/11
10:23 AM
THE B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. / THE ICE PALACE
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:
DR. YESTERDAY: Hello?
SPYGOD: Why hello, doc. How are we doing today?
DR. YESTERDAY: Oh my god... I told you never to call me on an open line-
SPYGOD: Relax, doc. This thing's been scrambled so many times there's eggs out there that wish they had it this !@#$ good. I've bounced it off more satellites than the USSR had client states. No one's gonna know !@#$.
DR. YESTERDAY: Well that would be true unless I had Geri recalibrate it-
SPYGOD: And her and I have discussed this, and she made sure we've got a back door in for occasions just like this.
DR. YESTERDAY: If you say so. If he catches me-
SPYGOD: Oh man the !@#$ up, doc. He's in !@#$ Hartford making sure the !@#$ he was chasing for all those years is actually !@#$ dead. And do you really think those dumb !@#$ bluehelmets are actually going to crack your wife's back door?
DR. YESTERDAY: ... You know, you do have a point there.
SPYGOD: I do. Yes. Now, you know why I'm calling.
DR. YESTERDAY: Yes.
SPYGOD: And?
DR. YESTERDAY: No. We are no closer to figuring it out.
SPYGOD: Good. How long?
DR. YESTERDAY: Indefinitely. Geri has him wrapped around her little finger. He trusts her implicitly and cannot bring himself to believe she would lie to him.
SPYGOD: And the other matter we were discussing?
DR. YESTERDAY: I can't believe you still want me to go through with that. It's monstrous. It's a crime against science-
SPYGOD: Doc, you and I both know that if any human agency gets their hands on what's inside that room, the consequences could be !@#$ catastrophic. The only reason the world isn't being run by !@#$ supernazis is because they couldn't figure out how to make any of it work. And I think we both know the US Government doesn't have the world's greatest track record with these kinds of things.
DR. YESTERDAY: I know. I know. But it's... you're asking me to get ready to deny us access to the greatest mystery of our time, man! Can't you understand what you're doing?
SPYGOD: Saving the world, one day at a time. Do it. And if it comes down to it, I'll be the one to push the !@#$ button. Not you.
DR. YESTERDAY: That does not help my conscience in the slightest.
SPYGOD: Yeah, well, I'm not worried about that. I am worried about our long term survival as a planet, though.
DR. YESTERDAY: I will do it.
SPYGOD: Good. And the next time you're up in Neo York, could you have a look at METALMAID? I think she's off her programming, but I don't know how or how much.
DR. YESTERDAY: Sure, I'll do that. Would you like me to spackle your den while I'm at it? Maybe give your atomic sneakers a tune up?
*click*
DR. YESTERDAY: Hello?
TRANSCRIPT ENDS:
(SPYGOD is listening to The Telephone Call (Kraftwerk) and having an Empire Cream Ale.)
3:54 PM
2 DARBAR GRILL
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:
SPYGOD: Wasn't sure you'd show.
DOSHA JOSH: I wasn't sure I would, either. But my man was free, and I hear the naan is the best outside of Delhi. So I thought I would try it.
SPYGOD: Is it?
DOSHA JOSH: Needs more of everything. But I suppose you white people will eat anything if someone says it's authentic.
SPYGOD: Except for intelligence.
DOSHA JOSH: Of course. You asked me to look into that matter for you. I have.
SPYGOD: And?
DOSHA JOSH: It's all here in this disc. I'm sure you won't mind if I ask you not to read it here.
SPYGOD: No one will know what we're up to.
DOSHA JOSH: That's not my concern. I'm actually having a nice lunch and do not feel the need to have you ruin it by turning the air blue.
SPYGOD: I think I can !@#$ accommodate. That's one I owe you.
DOSHA JOSH: Two. That's two you owe me. Three if you count me backing you in front of the others after your little adventure in Afghanistan.
SPYGOD: !@#$ had it coming. Any smart guy can see that. You're a smart guy. Should I owe you for not farting in public, too?
DOSHA JOSH: I'd settle for an obscenity-free lunch.
SPYGOD: Unless it's in !@#$ Hindi, right? I've heard you carry on, Dosha. I've known Karachi hookers with better manners.
DOSHA JOSH: "Oh eavesdropping, up yours."
SPYGOD: Whatever. Thanks for the info. And the save.
DOSHA JOSH: Not the beer?
SPYGOD: Not the greatest, but I appreciate the gesture. Kingfisher, next time?
DOSHA JOSH: Cha cha chod...
SPYGOD: He's a little too butch for me, but thanks for the offer...
TRANSCRIPT ENDS
9/6/11
6:23 AM
CENTRAL PARK
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:
(REDACTED): A little late, as always.
SPYGOD: Yeah, well, I like to keep you guessing.
(REDACTED): Sadly, you're totally transparent.
SPYGOD: Only when I'm wearing the No Suit. And we all know how that goes...
(REDACTED): So, did you enjoy shooting an elderly woman in the back and face?
SPYGOD: Less than you might think, more than you might like. Why?
(REDACTED): I didn't know you had it in you.
SPYGOD: Using a dangling problem to solve a more pressing issue? Since when is that not me?
(REDACTED): One of these days you will be out of alibis and patsies. I look forward to that. I think it'll be a good day when this country finally sees you for the monster you are.
SPYGOD: I'm the best monster for the job, !@#$ face. That's why I have it. Now, can we do business, or do you want to berate me for killing a wanted supervillain who thought she'd escaped justice?
(REDACTED): ...
SPYGOD: I do still have the crime scene photos from that Senator's family, if you'd like to see why she went into hiding.
(REDACTED): Never mind that. Yes, we can do business. It's why I'm here, dealing with you.
SPYGOD: Okay then. Here's the package I agreed to. It's all the info I could find on those little conversations your people had with our former friend, plus a few extras.
(REDACTED): What sort of extras.
SPYGOD: Well, you know half of his all-female bodyguards are replicants. I know who made them. I gave you their shutdown codes. Three nonsense words you wouldn't tend to hear in that combination in Arabic, but they'll force a catastrophic brain meltdown in seconds.
(REDACTED): Hmm. That could be very useful in the near future.
SPYGOD: And did you get what I asked for?
(REDACTED): It's all there. I don't see how this isn't something you could get yourself, though.
SPYGOD: Me to know, you to get a gun up your !@#$ if you try and figure out.
(REDACTED): You really are Mr. Congeniality, today. No faggot sex last night?
SPYGOD: Tons of it, son. This is just how I deal with company !@#$ snakes in bad suits.
(REDACTED): !@#$ you.
SPYGOD: Please. I'd turn your !@#$hole inside out like a noggin-punched octopus. And that is not something you want to explain to your HMO.
(REDACTED): Whatever.
SPYGOD: Oh, and tell those !@#$ in the No Suits to stop trying to !@#$ follow me. Not only can I see them, but I can tell what they !@#$ had for lunch. Yesterday.
(REDACTED): I don't know what you're talking about--
SPYGOD: Devil dogs from Jerry's sidewalk stand. Extra peppers. The guy on the right held the mustard.
(REDACTED): ....
SPYGOD: Have a nice day, !@#$.
TRANSCRIPT ENDS
9/7/11
10:23 AM
THE B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. / THE ICE PALACE
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:
DR. YESTERDAY: Hello?
SPYGOD: Why hello, doc. How are we doing today?
DR. YESTERDAY: Oh my god... I told you never to call me on an open line-
SPYGOD: Relax, doc. This thing's been scrambled so many times there's eggs out there that wish they had it this !@#$ good. I've bounced it off more satellites than the USSR had client states. No one's gonna know !@#$.
DR. YESTERDAY: Well that would be true unless I had Geri recalibrate it-
SPYGOD: And her and I have discussed this, and she made sure we've got a back door in for occasions just like this.
DR. YESTERDAY: If you say so. If he catches me-
SPYGOD: Oh man the !@#$ up, doc. He's in !@#$ Hartford making sure the !@#$ he was chasing for all those years is actually !@#$ dead. And do you really think those dumb !@#$ bluehelmets are actually going to crack your wife's back door?
DR. YESTERDAY: ... You know, you do have a point there.
SPYGOD: I do. Yes. Now, you know why I'm calling.
DR. YESTERDAY: Yes.
SPYGOD: And?
DR. YESTERDAY: No. We are no closer to figuring it out.
SPYGOD: Good. How long?
DR. YESTERDAY: Indefinitely. Geri has him wrapped around her little finger. He trusts her implicitly and cannot bring himself to believe she would lie to him.
SPYGOD: And the other matter we were discussing?
DR. YESTERDAY: I can't believe you still want me to go through with that. It's monstrous. It's a crime against science-
SPYGOD: Doc, you and I both know that if any human agency gets their hands on what's inside that room, the consequences could be !@#$ catastrophic. The only reason the world isn't being run by !@#$ supernazis is because they couldn't figure out how to make any of it work. And I think we both know the US Government doesn't have the world's greatest track record with these kinds of things.
DR. YESTERDAY: I know. I know. But it's... you're asking me to get ready to deny us access to the greatest mystery of our time, man! Can't you understand what you're doing?
SPYGOD: Saving the world, one day at a time. Do it. And if it comes down to it, I'll be the one to push the !@#$ button. Not you.
DR. YESTERDAY: That does not help my conscience in the slightest.
SPYGOD: Yeah, well, I'm not worried about that. I am worried about our long term survival as a planet, though.
DR. YESTERDAY: I will do it.
SPYGOD: Good. And the next time you're up in Neo York, could you have a look at METALMAID? I think she's off her programming, but I don't know how or how much.
DR. YESTERDAY: Sure, I'll do that. Would you like me to spackle your den while I'm at it? Maybe give your atomic sneakers a tune up?
*click*
DR. YESTERDAY: Hello?
TRANSCRIPT ENDS:
(SPYGOD is listening to The Telephone Call (Kraftwerk) and having an Empire Cream Ale.)
Saturday, July 9, 2011
7/7-9/11 - Some Other Beginning's End
It's been a few days, but I have been genuinely busy.
Busy packing, that is.
It took a while, but I finally got the memo. It was sitting on my bed in the Ice Palace, wrapped in an official envelope and garlanded with all the official menace the President of the United States could embody in the "to" line.
Of course, it was being used by one of my "guests" to fan himself. "You got mail," he cooed, not realizing it meant the party was over.
What did it say? Four things: me; the Ice Palace; no longer; as soon as yesterday.
I can't say I haven't been expecting this. I knew it was in the cards as soon as Mr. USA got down here with the UN and, looking at what we'd been up to since we took it over, rolled his eyes so far back into his head it's a wonder he couldn't read his own !@#$ mind.
If anything, I'm surprised I didn't get recalled sooner. I figured we had less than a month, anyway, so being one week short isn't too terrible.
(I do owe Carl a fiver, though. He called it. Bastard.)
So it's time to clean up, then. Time to pack it up, put it away, tear it down.
Closing time, as the song goes.
Time to collect the cold weather gear and the guns. Put them in boxes. Account for every bullet fired, every piece of equipment used, abused, and lost.
Time to sweep up the bottles. Clean up the glass. Toss it somewhere to be recycled, knowing it'll be swirling in a trash vortex in the Pacific, this time next week.
Time to send the tranny hookers back to Jo'berg. Give them a last slap on the ass to say thanks. Maybe a few Hamiltons in the bra for the good ones.
Time to take our !@#$ out of the commissary. Toss our food out into the snow. Laugh quietly as the Blue Helmets learn to cook the exciting local cuisine on their own.
Time to figure out what we're going to do with the kids. I think the leftie commie pinko reporter I've collected is going to see about getting them to Neo York as part of the immersion process. I'll see he gets the way as greased as possible, but I won't tell him it was me that did it.
(SPYGOD likes doing things like that. Just don't tell anyone, son. They'll start to think I've gone soft in my old age.)
And then, finally, it'll be time to do the one thing I really !@#$ hate doing. I will personally see to the handing over of all relevant files, sensor logs, and information that The COMPANY collected before, during, and after our taking of the base.
All the evidence we've gathered, all the supernazi corpses we made, all the crazy science we trashed, and all the unofficial souvenirs we were planning on taking until the U-!@#$ing-N showed up to ruin the party. All cataloged, numbered, and handed over for posterity.
Finally-finally, I have to give Mr. USA everything we know about The Chamber, except for the one crucial thing we can't help them with. Namely, getting the damn door open again.
I know he'll demand to know what I do, but I'll tell him I know nothing. And I will say that knowing that he can't force me to tell him the truth because he's never been able to tell when I'm lying.
How do you see the falsehoods in a glass eye?
But I also know he's got a backup plan. Dr. Yesterday's already been contacted, and he and his family are doubtlessly already enroute to Neuschwabenland as we speak.
I'm sure that, given enough time, the world's greatest scientist will doubtlessly crack the case of The Chamber's door, just as he's cracked just about every other thing that America's placed on his desk.
Maybe. Or... maybe not.
You see, I know something that Mr. USA does not. Or, more accurately, I know something that Mr. USA has chosen not to remember. Something about another closing time, a long time ago, when we were bugging out of Europe and taking certain things and people with us.
Not all the people who left were the same people who arrived. Some changes were made to the manifest. Some alterations performed, both out of a sense of national security and human decency.
And some of those alterations, known only to a select few, are the sort of things that tend to engender extreme gratitude, resulting in the occasional large favor.
So yeah, I'm blackmailing a mega-genius into pretending his xeno-retro-engineering skills aren't up to this task. I don't know how long he can keep it up, or how long he'll have to. But so long as he can keep that door shut, I'll consider his debt to me paid in full.
(For now.)
One last stroll around my bachelor pad. One last piss out of the broken window onto the floor below. One last attempt to bean a Blue Helmet with pellets from my magnificent alien love god penis.
On the way out of Vietnam, the radio station said "Goodbye, and see you next war." We'll be back, somehow. We always do.
It's why I smile when Randolph Scott looks at me, as I walk past him and those kids, and asks "what now?" I could tell him, but then I'd have to kill him.
And where would be the fun in that?
Outside the blast doors, Antarctica is a sheet of bright, blinding light. SPYGOD vision changes the whiteout into distinct shapes, all buffeted by flashy motes in the wind. I chew on a tjbang stick, grin like the devil just sucked my !@#$ for a quarter, and leave.
For now.
(SPYGOD is listening to Closing Time (Semisonic) and drinking a flask of Regal Lemon Gin)
Busy packing, that is.
It took a while, but I finally got the memo. It was sitting on my bed in the Ice Palace, wrapped in an official envelope and garlanded with all the official menace the President of the United States could embody in the "to" line.
Of course, it was being used by one of my "guests" to fan himself. "You got mail," he cooed, not realizing it meant the party was over.
What did it say? Four things: me; the Ice Palace; no longer; as soon as yesterday.
I can't say I haven't been expecting this. I knew it was in the cards as soon as Mr. USA got down here with the UN and, looking at what we'd been up to since we took it over, rolled his eyes so far back into his head it's a wonder he couldn't read his own !@#$ mind.
If anything, I'm surprised I didn't get recalled sooner. I figured we had less than a month, anyway, so being one week short isn't too terrible.
(I do owe Carl a fiver, though. He called it. Bastard.)
So it's time to clean up, then. Time to pack it up, put it away, tear it down.
Closing time, as the song goes.
Time to collect the cold weather gear and the guns. Put them in boxes. Account for every bullet fired, every piece of equipment used, abused, and lost.
Time to sweep up the bottles. Clean up the glass. Toss it somewhere to be recycled, knowing it'll be swirling in a trash vortex in the Pacific, this time next week.
Time to send the tranny hookers back to Jo'berg. Give them a last slap on the ass to say thanks. Maybe a few Hamiltons in the bra for the good ones.
Time to take our !@#$ out of the commissary. Toss our food out into the snow. Laugh quietly as the Blue Helmets learn to cook the exciting local cuisine on their own.
Time to figure out what we're going to do with the kids. I think the leftie commie pinko reporter I've collected is going to see about getting them to Neo York as part of the immersion process. I'll see he gets the way as greased as possible, but I won't tell him it was me that did it.
(SPYGOD likes doing things like that. Just don't tell anyone, son. They'll start to think I've gone soft in my old age.)
And then, finally, it'll be time to do the one thing I really !@#$ hate doing. I will personally see to the handing over of all relevant files, sensor logs, and information that The COMPANY collected before, during, and after our taking of the base.
All the evidence we've gathered, all the supernazi corpses we made, all the crazy science we trashed, and all the unofficial souvenirs we were planning on taking until the U-!@#$ing-N showed up to ruin the party. All cataloged, numbered, and handed over for posterity.
Finally-finally, I have to give Mr. USA everything we know about The Chamber, except for the one crucial thing we can't help them with. Namely, getting the damn door open again.
I know he'll demand to know what I do, but I'll tell him I know nothing. And I will say that knowing that he can't force me to tell him the truth because he's never been able to tell when I'm lying.
How do you see the falsehoods in a glass eye?
But I also know he's got a backup plan. Dr. Yesterday's already been contacted, and he and his family are doubtlessly already enroute to Neuschwabenland as we speak.
I'm sure that, given enough time, the world's greatest scientist will doubtlessly crack the case of The Chamber's door, just as he's cracked just about every other thing that America's placed on his desk.
Maybe. Or... maybe not.
You see, I know something that Mr. USA does not. Or, more accurately, I know something that Mr. USA has chosen not to remember. Something about another closing time, a long time ago, when we were bugging out of Europe and taking certain things and people with us.
Not all the people who left were the same people who arrived. Some changes were made to the manifest. Some alterations performed, both out of a sense of national security and human decency.
And some of those alterations, known only to a select few, are the sort of things that tend to engender extreme gratitude, resulting in the occasional large favor.
So yeah, I'm blackmailing a mega-genius into pretending his xeno-retro-engineering skills aren't up to this task. I don't know how long he can keep it up, or how long he'll have to. But so long as he can keep that door shut, I'll consider his debt to me paid in full.
(For now.)
One last stroll around my bachelor pad. One last piss out of the broken window onto the floor below. One last attempt to bean a Blue Helmet with pellets from my magnificent alien love god penis.
On the way out of Vietnam, the radio station said "Goodbye, and see you next war." We'll be back, somehow. We always do.
It's why I smile when Randolph Scott looks at me, as I walk past him and those kids, and asks "what now?" I could tell him, but then I'd have to kill him.
And where would be the fun in that?
Outside the blast doors, Antarctica is a sheet of bright, blinding light. SPYGOD vision changes the whiteout into distinct shapes, all buffeted by flashy motes in the wind. I chew on a tjbang stick, grin like the devil just sucked my !@#$ for a quarter, and leave.
For now.
(SPYGOD is listening to Closing Time (Semisonic) and drinking a flask of Regal Lemon Gin)
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