Aesthar: Dream of Mad Gods (Part 2 of 2)

‘There’s only one thing for it.’ Aesthar concluded as the cascading bug-bombs she had just unleashed brilliantly desecrated the glowing infrastructure that stood as the last defence of the higher city’s upper echelons. ‘I’m going to have to blow up the Scottish Parliament.’

‘Wait.’ McPuck hesitated in her ear. ‘Has anybody voted on this? Aesthar, this is not in the mission log! Repeat -’

‘This is not in the mission log,’ Aesthar repeated. ‘I know.’ Tearing down through the troposphere, Aesthar set her coordinates for the crazy-pavement citadel far below that called itself Parliament. Like good astral bodyguards, her trusty memshards spun around her, negging and scattering only the most critical of wildlife. ‘If I can get inside I can find the Problem. We know it’s located in the central hub of the building. Radical explosives might be the only option.’

She drop-kicked a caterzilla that had swung too close by. The creature’s head exploded, leaving its many-segmented body to writhe wildly around her. Like a shoal of piranhas, the memshards swirled back into her vicinity and rapidly consumed the unfortunate entity’s remains, filtering its essence safely back into the unrealms. The ‘shards didn’t always have their eye on the ball; too easily distracted by the swirling lights below. Aesthar was going to have to try to keep them on a tighter leash.

‘If you can get inside.’ Now McPuck was exasperated. This would reflect badly on him if the mission went kaput. ‘How exactly do you intend to get in? The memshards dissipate at ground level. You’ll be on your own! How on Earth do you intend to breach the building’s defences? The Problem is heavily guarded!’

‘We’re not on Earth anymore,’ Aesthar countered; regrettably aware that they were, after a fashion. ‘Toto,’ she added, knowing that McPuck would almost certainly not get the reference.

‘Fucking Wizard of Oz, very fucking clever!’ You don’t get one over on me, Mistress Smarty-Pants.’

The line had failed to go over his head. Aesthar was momentarily disappointed by her wit.

An itinerant jellycloud filled her field of vision. After having to make a last-minute, split-second landing calculation, Aesthar was forced to punch the beast in the head - or at least, in what she thought probably had to be the head. Jellyclouds had no fixed form that could be easily defined - generally they were placid and docile but if unexpectedly cornered, they were quick to encircle their opponent in a rubbery grasp that often led to eventual digestion in wherever the creature’s digestive areas were.  If it was necessary to pacify them, by and large it was best to go for the beak. If you could find which area of a jellycloud contained that.

The jellycloud made a foosh of disagreement and liquefied away. Pointing herself in the opposite direction from a nearby kindle of cat-things, Aesthar readjusted her decline and sped on to her destination.

Upside-down buildings hurtled past her as she descended. Sometimes it felt as if it was the whole universe that was moving while she was fixed unmoving to the firmament - immobile. A fleck on a windowpane.

Aesthar remembered the chair: the dark room. The last time she had been fixed. The inquisitor leaning over her with the electrodes in hand. What did she know about the bombings? What did she know about the protest?

She had forgotten most of what followed after. That had been another life; a life tied up, shut down and ordered around. There would be no more of that now. Now, there was only her rules; her mission.

Now she was on street level. cityghosts dashed about, secretive and transitory. None of them appeared to be paying her much attention.

The Memshards were gone. McPuck continued to rant in her earpiece.

In front of her stood the Parliament; a confluence of weird grey edges and strange windows that seemed to stretch all around her for ever. The building made for an impressive sight up close.

‘It’s not like it is in the real world.’ Aesthar announced to McPuck, when he had finally ran out of ranting steam. ‘You can hardly even see the top. You got my visual? This is the front bit, right?

‘I can’t… dammit…’ McPuck tutted and hammered some keys. ‘It’s in defence mode. Constantly rearranging itself and recalibrating. I can’t tell.’

Aesthar watched as several high-up windows of the edifice rotated, jutted out, transformed and became turrets, which gave birth to more of the familiar gunshapes. Other protrusions that looked like further armaments were emerging from the rocky heights of the building and inclining themselves to point down at street-level. Aesthar didn’t think any of the gunshapes were specifically singling her out for attention. She was not paranoid - at least, not so far today.

McPuck was still battering away on the keys: trying to blue-sky a solution to this new smaller problem of access. ‘You’re right, though. About the appearance. That’s security architecture. The version build is like nothing I’ve ever seen before… There’s no way I can break through it on my end. I’m going to assume at this point that you have a strategy? ie, one that doesn’t involve a clusterfuck of conflict, friendly fire, and you getting permanently disincorporated on this level?’

‘Pfft. Of course. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.’ Aesthar set her appearance parameters to Tourist. Immediately she was swathed in a combination of sunglasses, ginger hair, plastic rain-mac and inappropriate tartan. Approaching one of the entrances and joining one of the queues would now be extremely easy.

She breezed past the SecuriTigers. They prowled mechanically but didn’t register her approach and passing. Other approaching entities swirled towards an emergent entrance node. She noted one of the tigers decoding a nosy spiritoid - the results were not glamorous. It reminded Aesthar of the electrodes.

Ahead of her was a vast arch emerging from a node, that resembled a doorway of some import. Above a neon sign confidently strobed the legend, ‘ACCESS TO DREAM OF MAD GODS.’

‘Okay, so I have to admit, that was not something I would have done,’ McPuck growled.

Two govstolen metalloids were monitoring the archway node. Aesthar’s mind crawled with ideas. ‘You remember that sim I was running the other day?’

She heard the sound of McPuck upending a beverage of some sort, possibly all over some important piece of communications equipment. ‘What? NO, Aesthar! You cannot run the sim! It hasn’t been tested!’

‘C’mon. Now’s as good a time as any.’

‘But… It might… it might start a WAR!’ McPuck hissed.

The metalloids of the node were scanning the code of every visiting spiritoid; checking for inflammatory ideas or insurrectionist thinking. Aesthar advanced closer to the entrance.

‘Remember your training, Aesthar, dammit! There are no such things as wars! THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A WAR!’

Aesthar reached the front of the queue. The metalloids rotated to face her. Their protuberances were all a-quiver, ready to scan.

‘WELCOME TO PARLIAMENT.’ the metalloids both droned in unison. ‘PLEASE HAVE YOUR REASONS FOR ATTENDANCE FOREMOST IN YOUR BRAINSPHERE. SCAN WILL BEGIN. THANK YOU IN ADVANCE FOR YOUR CONTINUED ADHERENCE TO OUR NON-TERRORISM-BASED POLICY OF ATTENDANCE.’

Ignoring McPuck’s frantic screaming in her ear about beta version testing, Aesthar activated the first of her three planned simulations. Almost immediately, the external structure of the parliament building began to shift and break up into confusing shapes that began to float away into the sky.

‘Hello.’ Aesthar politely said to the metalloids: who by now had a look of extreme confusion drifting across their normally-inexpressive grilles. ‘I appear to be lost. Can you direct me to the Problem please?’

‘ALARUM. A POLITICAL FLASHPOINT EVENT HAS BEEN TRACED TO YOU. PLEASE EXPLAIN FLOATING-AWAY OF PARLIAMENT BUILDING BEFORE WE DISINHERIT YOU.’

‘Oh,’ Aesthar said, as surprising numbers of tartan-clad spiritoids began to appear and jostle up alongside her - quickly beginning to overload the metalloids’ motion-detection sensors. ‘That’s just a little program I like to call Reverse Tetriscide? It completely unlocks and reverses access to politically-sensitive astral edifices. Appears to be working perfectly, don’t you think?’

‘EXPLAIN,’ the metalloids stated, sounding faintly distressed. ‘EXPLAIN UNEXPECTED PROFLIGACY OF SPIRITOIDS OR BE DISINHERITED.’ 

‘That would be something else I like to call The August Offensive,’ Aesthar grinned at the baffled robots. ‘I sourced it from this town’s real-world equivalent? It’s designed to simulate the potential overpopulation and overloading of any given built-up astral environment - It’s based on an arts festival, but you wouldn’t know what one of them was. Soon an infinitely-increasing number of foreign spiritoids will overrun the area, destroy your parliament and release the Problem. It was the Problem I came for, if you want to note that on your records? There’s not really anything you can do about it. Sorry.’

‘YOU WILL BE… PREVENTED. FROM DOING THIS,’ one of the metalloids declared, before being knocked down and trampled underfoot by a number of paper-distributing and singing spiritoids.

Aesthar felt the world begin to tremble. She produced some pieces of holocard from her hypothetical pocket and offered them to further newly-arrived and panicking metalloids, who were already getting dragged away by ghostly revellers.

‘Would you like a flyer for my show? She asked: more to irritate McPuck than for any other reason. ‘It’s called, “Blow up the outside world.” It’s just starting now! You’d better prepare yourself. The reviews say it’s an explosive experience.’

School Dinners

Och its offay frightenin. ah cannae believe how big they forks are, aw stabbin doon at us. the forks an the knives an the spoons aw cutting an choppin oor bodies up intae bits. Ah hear it yisee, cos we’ve aw got the throughspeak. It’s whit we are here, in the hall.

Ah wis hearin fae the spicy pakora oan the aer side. cheers whenivir wan ae thum smashes a plate. Chipped broon wooden trays were sayin tae plates, “dinnae leave me” an feelin the scrape, the give, the centre fallin oot. Then air, then smash, then aw ay thum shoutin, an laughin at wan ay oor lot dyin. Bits skiddin an disappearin under the dark places. the lunchboxes bein clicked open, shut. Polite hubbub ay noise.  

Thur voices are offay weird. They dinnae speak like us: jist wan tae wan. Getting allowed in wan at a time by yon “prefects.” hierarchies already in place.

Wan ay them goat stung by a wasp: wis aw screamin an cryin. Noo they ken jist a wee bit ay how it feels. Wasp wis laughin, telt us aw aboot it.

Custard is screamin. solidifying under the lights denied its natural consistency. vomitous melt, sufferin. Spooned intae the bowls which dinnae like it either. Then awaw tae the other place. Wi thum.

Ye sense the the fear ae thum also the nervousness aboot goin intae the hall when the hall is nearly empty and the food is nearly all dead. Nae sounds apart fae bubblin an gurgling. Meat lettin oot juices. Last gasps ay intelligence. Some ae the meats remember their last times as they die. Huvvin the legs, like thum.

Tryin tae avoid each other. the wans they dinnae like, the wans they dinnae trust. Some ay them will kill each other. Chlorine in the baths, that comes tae us.

Teachers the “high-up heid yins” aw cordoned oaf at thur ain tables. Click-clack ay the cutlery. Swallow-slurp. Noise noise.

Aw the trapped smell, smell ay evvrythin. Smell ay us livin an dying. Smell ae plastic and nae air. Wannae ken whit that is: smell ay fear. Oor journey intae afterlife. Food intae trash. Or whitivver comes next.

Steam behind the hot plate, curtain ae oor origin. The milkshakes shakin in thur cups. Squeaky noise ay thur feets oan the floor. Caramel shortbread says thir’s no much left. cracked chocolate an bleeding caramel, stuck tae thur mouths, goin doon intae the belly where we aw begin tae begin again.

Tuna sangwitches in wan ay the “computer rooms.” The report wis not good. The enemy wis playin a game where wee animals chucked themselves oaf a cliff. Death aw the way.

Some ay them go roond the corner shop where they say, dae ye want red sauce or broon sauce. Both ur the same.

If ye were born tae die… then ye dinnae huv tae be afraid ay dyin.

But we ur. we ur.

Psychogeographical Field Trip - City Construct: Eden Burrow

MINDLINK PENDING… achieved  

UPLOAD OF HYPERLENSES PENDING… achieved

Transtemporal mission log - uploaded by Chronosentry Quinsar (Cydonia node of Psycojog Empire).

The primary outcome of this incursion onto enemy territory is to assess opportunities for Psycojog invasion of the humanoid construct designated ‘City: Eden Burrow.’ Ideally this will take the form of a stealth-mode invasion across time. Chronosentry lensfindings follow.

(For the purposes of this datablink, the 5 highlighted lenses afford an associative and interconnected cross-section of City in question. Achromatic eight-in-one flashthrough is operational.) 

Mission objective is to identify who will kill the city in the future. Focalized precogging has predicted a multipossible that the city will-and-will-not be destroyed in 2113. A floating undecidable. Many coggers could not handle and selfploded. Now will attempt transtemporal analysis of city health to discover overall fate.

1. Beginning exploration of humanoid construct Eden Burrow. Coordinates locked on to supposed locus of humanoid control mechanisms, ‘Scottish Parliament.’ Also detonation point of Chromobomb that is believed to have destroyed city. Fixed-point touchdown briefly coincides with nightcycle. Cityghost presence strong - one of many warring factions and potential enemy obstructions in city. Many different messages of control are being sent. Engaging psychic countermeasures. Will be necessary to advance interaction with other transtemporal spirit entities.

2. Cityghosts flee to mass around parliament locus. A mechanical island fallen from the sky in the future, a crashed and smouldering wreck. This is ground zero of the blast radius. Cityghosts mine it for intent. They are unseen by the humatons but are constantly at war with them, seeking to obstruct their progress - muddling their message. Being of Small Time, the humatons on this plane operate only as biowalkers - unable to see beyond clockstopped limitations of their realm. Those of Big Time walk above and battle always for supremacy.

3. First signs of biowalker technology designed to obstruct carporters - native vehicular intelligences of city. Also first forthcoming evidence of runespeak - primitive higher language of biowalker mystics. Appropriate use of runespeak allows for basic biowalker access to Big Time consciousness. Nearby at ‘palace of royalty’ there is little indication of consciousness. 

4. Talkboard ‘Everyone home safe every day’ reassures biowalkers that ‘you are here.’ Cognitive dissonance is achieved through deployment of contradictory phrase ‘Can’t: level.’

5. Early signs of city breakage. Ground level is infirm. Wounds in stone flesh attract tubefeeders and cellular infection spreads.

6. CIGS: runespeak acrospell conjured by solitary biowalker mystic. Stands for Cohesive Integrated Gigantic Smashface. I have no further data on this.

7. Speedworm overlane. Talkboard communicating futureslipped message predicts eventual of fate overlane: ‘GIVE WAY.’

8. ‘PERMIT’ runespeak. Allows biowalker passage down assigned travellanes. Big Time intelligences are mainly responsibly for implementation of language-based control systems.

 

9. Having strayed from its designated safe-territories, a balanceboard is time-murdered for attempted lanecrossing. Balanceboards are not permitted to perambulate.

10. Greenfeelers feed on the decaying carcass of an oldpass; re-wiring its travel coordinates. 

11.  Cargo-cult mechanoids, recovered by biowalkers and erected in paean to long-extinct sky-gods.

12. Nuugrafficks engage in slow-time conflict with elder surfaces. The result is a near-permanent stalemate of colour chaos.

13. Deceased Talkboard. Killed by excessive sensitivity to carporter motion.

14. Further extant manifestations of biowalker runespeak.



15. Native animal spirits, summoned via nuugraffick ritual, guard passing humanoids from malicious cityghost intent.

16. Activation of central city defences at site of neverending conflict called ‘Leaf War.’ Designated causal disaster zone. 

17. Armoured buildings attempt to protect their pastselves from cityghost reprogramming. Counter-intuitive interdimensional malware hacks and infects oldstone with self-replicating glassteel nanotech which regenerates city edifices into strange new forms - which echo past impressions without resembling them exactly.

18. Here buildings become sad and detach from gravitational constraints. This ongoing contradiction of time is predicted to cause a chain reaction and culminate in a self-haunting citydeath event in 2113 that will completely annihilate and permanently remove the temporal image of Eden Burrow from the prima worldarc.

19. Walls burn with runespeak layers, illustrating the conflicts of City. Being themselves negative astral imprints of unresolved humaton though processes, the cityghosts are perpetually locked into a cyclical deathmatch with the environment that originally created them - which continues to endure, persist and evolve where they cannot. As it attempts to evolve naturally in co-creation with biowalkers, carporters and other more benevolent spirit intelligences, the indelible shadow of cityghost thought re-writes, overwrites or deletes its memory of earlier versions. 

20. Cybrid Elefffant infantry defend the region on behalf of cityghosts. Henceforth, the cityghosts’ ultimate attacking goal is the deletion of the cityheart at the height of miles: the Remembering Stone Which Endures And Protects City. This wrongtime energy manifests itself as City tries to cloak itself from ghost attack. It is present in the travellane-dwelling biowalkers - many of their number cast adrift by soul mismanagement. Primarily it is in the disruption; drilling, hammering, beeping. Ebb and flow. Noise of City is noise of its beginning and end. 

21. cityghosts have a constant presence and police the travellanes by means of their stopgo system. Stopgos are limited-capacity AIs tasked only with mediating between the oppositional movements of both humanoids and carporters.

22. Leaving the war zone. Carporters are disincorporated mid-flight as they attempt to escape the conflict.

23. In isolated areas outside of the main war zone, small pockets of humaton resistance have managed to use the cityghosts’ own glassteel tech against them. Here a cityghost stands trapped behind an makeshift Armani field; its purpose negated by contradictory ideas of beauty and perfection.

28. This baby binface has been hiding the whole time. It is afraid, but safe.

25. Greenfeelers have solidarity for unchanging homeshapes. The two exchange memories, unite and combine to fight.

26. I am stunned by a message from afar. CHURCH HOUSE is here. CHURCH HOUSE could help turn the tide of this war.

27. CHURCH HOUSE activates runespeak on nearby talkboards. ‘Please treat the trees with care’ incantation gives new power to green feelers.

28. CHURCH HOUSE energy breaks the forced labour camps and frees a million bin faces who join the struggle Overjoyed, the baby binface I previously encountered is reunited with its parental units. 

29. Cityghosts are in retreat. Not for ever but for now. Eternal structures and memory shapes of CHURCH HOUSE are reinstalled and reinstated in new defence of old.

30... 46? I think this is a mistake.

31. City has ended. It gives way to the sea. I have kept ambulating until the die-off; except the city is not dead. It lives and dies in paradox. 

32. City sends me a message. My mission here is accomplished; I must return to the distant bank of stars from whence I came.

33. Another communication - Alien! Rock! Thank you, city! I hope I do your story justice!

34. Initiating launch coordinates. Destination Cydonia node, Psycojog empire. I shall return to Eden Burrow in 100 cycles. Remaining now-peaceful cityghosts send me a goodbye message. It goes, 666,666, 6 66. I’m not sure what that means.

35. Final lens portion. Cityghosts drift on into the night. They raise hands in worship to all that is old, all that is new. Integration. Cities can die but they know how to survive. This one must be kept under watch, always.

Aesthar: A Head Of The City (Part 1 of 2)

Aesthar closed her eyes and fell headlong. Into the endless, coruscating, circling dream of the city. 

THE END OF ALL THERE IS - Chapter Two

Okay, I've changed my mind.

There won't be any in-depth, pretentious self-flagellating attempts by me here to try and justify my work, not just yet. Cos I figure if anyone is reading this, then it'd be better if they just read the stuff and decide for themselves whether it has any merit or not.

With that in mind, here be chapter two of 'The End Of All There Is' which I think is going to be the title its stuck with for now. The plan is to do an audio version of it in coming months (unless it goes and gets published - watch this space very slowly), so in the meantime you lucky people can have an exclusive peep into the tumultous universe contained within. Except it'll probably be more fun to listen to the audio cos I'll be doing all voices and that.

Unless you can't stand the idea of listening to a stranger tell you a very long and weird story about an coming apocalypse that doesn't ever really happen (spoiler alert in relation to title).

nb - I'll probably only do the first two chapters for now. Different and newer stuff is waiting up just around the bend. Plus, it has been scientifically proven by several accredited bodies that too much of my novel at one time can threaten the very fabric of the internet. And let's face it, no-one wants their fabric threatened. Not even for a moment. Cos if that happens, you lose your connection and all your clothes fall off. Which is not a pretty sight for anyone, no matter who or where they are.

Anyway. Lock and load!

THE END OF ALL THERE IS

CHAPTER TWO: CODIFIED

Without wishing to dwell on her cut hand or the sounds upstairs any longer, the girl in Cluskey Hall known as Saira abandoned the blank security window and stepped unsteadily away from it, trying to think where to run.

Up the stairs? To the common room, upstairs? It

is upstairs it

is waiting for me it called my name I heard

Where could she even hope to hide in the common room? It was empty - there wasn't a thing in it. Just chairs: chairs, and nothing else.

Where could she hide there? It knew everywhere. Knew every point in the building. Knew every corner of every single room. It knew her.

She wasn't getting out and she knew it. She was cannon fodder for them; for what they knew. For what they would do. For what it would do.

No I won't think like that I won't think that is the way it’s supposed to be

(it is)

She hesitated on her feet; only silence. She had thought -

She was only wearing her pyjamas. Why was she only wearing her pyjamas? Whose bright idea had that been?

I am only eighteen, Saira thought deliberately: but I am in this place and it is dark and there is no one around and it is coming to get me and it is so very cold and I am wearing pyjamas I didn't wear pyjamas last year it was cold so cold ohgod

Shaking, she ran back to the building's front doors. Without thinking, she rammed them with her scant shoulder; feeling another smart of pain that under the circumstances Saira didn't feel the need to regard as anything other than a very minor concern.

The doors didn't budge.

They were only glass with wooden frames. Small things. Why wouldn't they yield?

Coherence. Sanity

And it was still dark outside. What was the time, anyway? What was the time?

Someone...

had brought her.

Brought her back. Back. To here.

Here.

Who had brought her back? What in God's name

don't take his name in vain he won't help you

was she doing?

She had been at home. At home. In Newcastle, for chrissakes!

Okay. Right, okay. Sane. Let's get a grip on ourselves here, she thought quickly, thinking, why ourselves?

There were six floors. No, no - eight. Shit, no; nine. Nine. Six floors for the students. First floor, union offices, and down here, the foyer, the lecture hall: the canteen, the shop, security: all here still. All dark; all hidden.

And on the ninth floor, Dr. Takahashi.

Takahashi. Was he still here?

She could get to him. He could -

No; he couldn't. She would have to go up; it wouldn't matter anyway. Wouldn't make any difference.

No one had liked him. Saira hadn't liked him, and Saira liked everybody. Saira was a good girl. There had been stories.

It

Could be here, she reasoned feverishly, hugging herself and her numb shoulders: down here: Up there. On any floor: any floor. It can go anywhere.

on any floor on any floor

Oh gOD

Saira ran over to the other end of the entrance foyer and into the main part of the hall. The place looked exactly the same as it had last year; exactly as she remembered it.

Last year. Was it really only last year? Why don't they change it? Why do things never

Saira looked around - thinking of all the girls on the sixth floor from Freshers Week, and beyond. Karen and Carol: Nadja and Jess. And Stace. And Elizabeth II. Lizzy the Second.

And Fereda - always. Ferret to her enemies. Best mates.

For always.

Not a nightmare: not. Knew it was all real from the outset. All the fairies came and told me. Said it was cyclical: a closed ring. Like a movie.

understand

The lights stayed dim. Low enough for non-existent guards to see criminals by: low enough for general reasons of security, of law; but not bright enough for anyone to be able to see her.

remember what's important

Never mind, Saira thought: at least I can see everything. Where are you, Fee? What happened with that bloke? Fee?

The wide staircase with the pitted stone on the steps waited. The lecture hall over to the left waited. A sign indicating the way to the canteen over on the right waited. The balcony going up and round to the union offices above waited.

Fee, it's dark. It's dark and I don't know why it should be this way I didn't ask for this Fee I didn't ask and it's all the same

Saira looked at the decor. At the chipped paintwork; at the posters on the walls.

The same. It's dark, it's different, but it's all the same. Fereda

Fereda didn't answer: nor did any of the other girls. Instead of trying to do anything, the girl called Saira stood there in the foyer of the building called Cluskey Hall: with a sore hand, a sore foot, and a fuzzy head; trying not to think of the thing upstairs; trying not to think of something to do.

Anywhere.

Anywhere. Oh God protect me.

ANYWHERE, the beast in the walls of Cluskey Hall thought, coiling and uncoiling, in its nest of vipers; and of stone.

In the shack alone at the edge of the woods, Gregory Hunter opened his ringed eyes and looked at the back of the envelope.

His endeavours had again yielded a succession of fruitless non-words. For a few more moments, Gregory persevered in searching the skein of lines; desperate in the hope that something approaching empirical evidence might venture itself forth and assist him.

Vellodol... Gregory considered; momentarily noticing something decipherable. Seeks - vellodol?

Daffodil. That makes me think... looks for... daffodils?

Gregory clenched his fists at the desk and shouted at no one. 'Daffodils have fucking nothing to do with this! You useless piece of...'

Useless. He crumpled the paper up and threw it away.

Someone had to be saved and something had to be found. That much Gregory was sure of; the information was scant, but the vision had been momentous enough to convince Gregory that tonight was the night that something had to be done. And Gregory was fairly certain that this something involved him, others, and the girl called Saira.

On the way to this, it had been necessary to set it out, Gregory remembered; the tactics and manoeuvres lost and won: everything he had learned so far: everything they had learned together. All the stuff about icebergs and pyramids; and, of course, about mountains and molehills. About how big the enemy was; how large the opposition were, and how, in the cut and thrust of it all, it was never really all that clear cut.

It had been necessary. And they had done it; implemented it. All the necessary steps had been taken; all the paths to the chosen goal plotted.

And now...

Useless. An impasse.

But what was this, struggling to focus, swimming around in his mind? Did it actually make sense? Did it gel? Hold together?

Is it even a word?

Outside of the hut the wind muttered dryly, whispering mantras and gathering leaves; dumping them down: picking them up again.

Three girls. Three words?

Was it like a boat? If he threw it in the ocean, and left it there to fend for itself, would it float? Or would it sink?

Or isn't it real at all?

He paused in mid-thought, stared temporarily at the ceiling with all of its multifarious tiny cracks and holes that were so very good at letting the rain in, and then banged his head against the desk. He could feel the tiredness closing in: coming down.

There was nothing he could do. Nothing.

There is still time. Even without me there is still time.

Words.

Three words.

I know it's three - it's always bloody three, isn't it? A triumvirate. Trinity. Fathersonholyghost.

He was going to have to sleep; as ever, there was not a thing he could do about it. For no discernible reason other than that it might loosen up some of the unoiled cogs in his head, Gregory banged his brow on the desk one final, half-hearted time.

They might do it, he wondered. If they still can.

Christ; what am I thinking? - don't even know where they live now. Never even really seen one - Not really. Who's to say they even actually exist at all? All we've got’s subjective. Circumstantial. Balls in the sky. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Saira...

He reached for the lamp and switched it off before laying his head down on the desk; just a little left of where the backwards swastika was scratched into the wood.

Children, he mused, beginning to drift comfortably off into some parallel world. Never knew what they were trying to invoke.

Can't rely on them. Can't. It's useless. It's me. Just me

Some difficult-to-quantify moments went by. Gregory's head remained on the desk, the heat of the lamp warming his rapidly widening bald patch.

Cannot let her die

She must not die; she must be saved

She cannot be saved

Only it can be saved and then she will go on

One for all. All for the price of one. Buy one get all free

Three words

Three

How many?

How many

They had got in. Got in

Like putting a knot in a baby's umbilical cord right in the womb so nothing comes out. Don't kid yourself, Hunter; it's all totally bloody over if we don't save her.

Three

One two three

Somewhere In the distance an owl hooted: eager for answers, or news of any kind. Waiting for owl news; spoken in an owl language.

anywhere oh god protect me fereda

Gregory leapt up and balanced the lamp. It fell to the floor with a thump, landing on a pile of papers. Ignoring it, Gregory spun drunkenly around, gazing off into a specifically envisaged nowhere lying somewhere in the darkness.

'Saira?' he called. 'Saira?'

Gregory stood as still as he could. No response came. A despondent silence tickled noisily at his ears.

'Saira,' he said, not wanting to move; addressing the dark walls quietly in an owl-voice. 'If you're there - tell me. Tell me what it is. Is it three words? Oh, Saira, my love, please just tell me! Help me to help you.'

Nothing happened. The hut creaked out boredom beneath his feet. The walls went pop.

As if on cue, a bush rustled bushily outside.

Gregory raised his head, cocked it, listened again and then discounted the noise. He returned his attentions to the empty air.

No time left, he thought, feeling a familiar dread weight descend slowly onto the back of his mind and fall gradually down like an indiscriminate veil. No time at all.

Oh fuck. I can't remember. She's going to fucking die and it's going to go and I can't fucking

remember

Saira

There was still time, he thought drowsily, swaying dizzily where he stood. Before they switched him off.

There was always time - a tomorrow. Gregory knew that it was simply a matter of reminding oneself on an hourly basis that this was actually still the case; that, and that there was always more to come.

More. But different. Without her, so, so different. Come on. Fucking

Come

ON

A further noise distracted him from his desperate incantations.

The bushes.

Outside the shack? Rustling: loudly.

Someone?

One of...

It was too late. Too late, surely, even for one of...

They can't have...

The noises came again - only this time louder, and significantly closer.

Bushes rustling; definitely bushes. And bushes don't rustle unless there's someone in them, Gregory thought slyly, grimly pushing the sluggishness in his brain aside and going ever so noiselessly over to the door.

Saira glanced around, not really thinking, not really considering. Something. Heavy. Smash the doors. Come on, come ON

But then, of course, there was

(the only vase is made of gold my love)

The phones!

She jogged around a corner; yes - they were still there, up on the wall. Saira snatched at the nearest receiver but then stopped herself - realising.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this? she thought crazily; insane bells going off in her head. Is this supposed to break it? It's a phone - a fucking phone. Oh God oh shit

Phone the Police, a quiet voice said, rising clearly out of the mud in her head: Simple, dumbass: the cops are the best option. They deal with whacked-out shit like this rather more often than you'd care to think. Don't you know how many call-outs the local station gets in a night just for chicks stuck in towerblocks? What a silly girl you are, Saira; you never listen. What would darling Trevor think? Come to think of it, what would your father

999, Saira thought - at last feeling realistic. Free call. Easy. Easy. Thank God.

She looked behind her. Up the stairwell: all around.

Still not coming: still not coming. Thank God. Thankgod nineninenine

Saira pressed the receiver to her ear and jabbed the numbers in. There was a dialling tone, and the familiar sound of the connection being made: the little bips.

Thank you, she enunciated to herself: Thank you so very much come on

god

He won‘t save you, you know, the Quiet Voice said; sparkling with unexpected peacefulness in Saira’s head. He's a total dipshit. Don't ask for him. Don't count on him. He's ex-directory. Doesn't even know where he is half of the time.

Yes. He will, Saira replied noncommittally to the air. In her other ear, the bips continued to bip. No one was around. A poster on the wall said Lion Dance.

No he fucking won't, girl, the Quiet Voice whispered; seeming to emanate down the line and come out through the receiver.

Are you quite sure any of this is even real?

The line went dead. Somewhere above her on the first floor there was a crash; the sound of someone tearing at corrugated iron. Feeling her stomach turn over and collapse in on itself, Saira dropped the receiver, noticing with only the faintest amount of surprise that the noise the thing upstairs was making sounded exactly the same as it had done in her dreams.

The bicycle man the bicycle man oh God protect me, Saira thought; neither meaning nor believing her plea.

GOD PROTECT YOU, the beast that lived in the walls of Cluskey Hall thought, and slid noiselessly through impermeable stone and into some heating pipes; not making a sound: not a sound.