039. Burn Outs Bar

He sat down in the bar. This was turning into something of a pub crawl He’d been here before, or was it that he was due to be here soon? This was the most confused he had been in a long time, and perhaps some of that was due to what he had just helped occur.

Halley stood there and Spay smiled at him. Halley was like a lighthouse for a lot of the lost souls that washed up on the shores of this place. Halley never asked any questions, and why should he? He knew what he was here for, and his reality was hardly likely to be rocked by much of anything that went on outside the four walls of his public house.

Spay was burned out only for a small while, and he always rekindled. What did it say when someone or something like him was able to survive and keep going when other more worthy souls perished? Just that the universe didn’t really operate in that way. No Anubis sitting there with weighing scales and a feather.

Carter sat down next to him. Carter took out an electronic cigarette and sucked on it.

‘Hope it’s not me that it’s driving you to that.’

‘Seems unlikely you’d care.’

‘Does it?’

‘Took me a second to recognise that laugh you know.’

‘All that Alice In Wonderland training, right? Being able to remember forwards?’

‘Well, you know of course – having been other people, and all that. Travelling in time. Destroying memories. Hacking reality. What was this about? We knew about Ardenti In Mundo, but we didn’t want to introduce him into the mix until we had put Coran Andress back together.’

‘You’re the weft and I’m the warp, isn’t that some of it?’

‘Me? I’m just an Engineer – not any kind of decision maker.’

‘If you couldn’t make decisions, what kind of engineer would you be?’

‘Fair point. You have to know you can’t win, why do you keep persisting?’

‘Well, we’ve been doing the back and forth long enough that you must see I’ve been making as much of a dent on the shape of the universe as you, Mr Brecht.’

‘I won’t win this argument, will I? Look, knowing who you are, and who you were …’

‘Knowing something of me, yes, but not all of me …’

‘OK, with what I know of you, I know you were once a Reality Engineer, so with all this effort to change things, why not work with us?’

‘Oh, well, of course, I am diametrically opposed to you, Mr Brecht. You follow a script, and the larger part of what I am is informed by the Unscripted Realms. You are order and I am chaos.’

A giant louse shuffled up to them and asked it could buy them a drink.

‘Erm, sure, how come?’

‘Oh, my name’s Jeffgar Proop, and it’s a tradition in Nitcomb City, where I come from.’

‘How did you end up here, Jeffgar? Seems a long way from home.’

‘You know Nitcomb City, Mr …?’

‘Carter Brecht, Reality Engineer at your service.’

Spay watched the exchange with bemusement, and he could read in Carter’s face that the insect’s presence was cause for concern. It was, of course, totally fine for a Reality Engineer to flit around all over the place.

‘Excuse us, Mr Proop, but we’re having something of a serious conversation.’

‘Of course.’

‘Not sure,’ interjected Halley ‘That I like the sound of that.’

‘With all due respect, Halley, you have to know that the fate of the entire quantum reality is regularly discussed in this place.’

Halley squinted at him.

‘He kind of does and kind of doesn’t at the same time,’ said Carter ‘We built him that way.’

‘He’s a construct? A tulpa?’

‘Kind of. We Frankensteined him out of what the old owner was, and what we needed this place to be.’

‘Jesus, how much of reality is like that, with you guys installed behind the scenes pulling the strings?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me. But look, I have a big pair of scissors, and I intend to cut as many strings as possible. This is a lull in the storm. This is a pause between battles. And look, while you get away by being behind the scenes, I draw fire by being out front, but do you think I do all this on my lonesome? There are other people on my side. I’m not the villain in my own story, Mr Brecht, you are.’

‘Moral relativism doesn’t work when talking about what you do, Spay.’

‘Of course it does, you simpleton. I am exactly the kind of creature for which moral relativism was created. I don’t know how much you read, but you should never have a problem getting your books back on time – so go and learn about the systems that run the world, and then come back afterwards and tell me if you still feel so sure about me, and what I am. I’ll be seeing you around.’

‘I’m sure.’

Spay laughed, even though he wasn’t sure that Brecht knew he had said something funny.

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038. Coran And David, AIM

When was this? Sheridan has shepherded David into the space and it felt like it was going to collapse. The floors weren’t buckling, and the walls weren’t bending, but you could feel something happening, something in the tight knot where your heart dreamed heartbreak into a myocardial infarction.

Sheridan noted Tendrel Plaint and his oversized chicken companion and he briefly wondered what kind of perceptual filtration was necessary to cruise over that narrative speed-bump.

Carter Brecht was guiding Coran Andress around by the elbow, and the man looked ill. White as snow, or perhaps a sheet of newspaper. What was written beneath this frail surface? He realised that he knew so little watching this of what went into making an Immaculate Author. He figured that they were made rather than being born and being groomed into what they became – because that opened the door to so many errors, didn’t it? Reality Engineers turned, didn’t they?

He’d breadcrumbed this whole thing so that Ardenti In Mundo turned up here. It had been easy. Most people failed at manipulation because thought that it was all about getting people to do things that they didn’t want to do, whereas it was all about finding that thing they wanted to do which would serve your purpose and leveraging that. The interesting things about groups and organisations was that the myth of the key individual was mostly a story device – if you failed with one you might succeed with another – machines were cogs and had mny working parts that might providean in into the organisational structure.

He watched Quint Essential moving around with the arrogance that he and his kind often fell prey to. Was there no connection between what had happened with their Engineer Station being attacked and what was happening with their Immaculate Author now? Why would Belwether, who they had handled, be any kind of problem now?

Their short-sightedness baffled him, given the nature of what they were. Perhaps they did not expect something or someone to come back to a place where he had been defeated? No, that had to happen all the time. Did they not expect some other iteration to come back and correct whatever error had occurred? That, he believed would be more than half the traffic in time travellers, and weren’t those who wished to hack reality just slightly more advanced time travellers?

He sometimes found himself a little confused about where he was in his own story – as if he had flicked forward a few pages. Burn Outs Bar, Eschaton, here? Maybe. What was he calling himself now? He wondered if, after having deposited a slightly altered version of Ardenti In Mundo to the scene he should, he should go and test Carter Brecht and see if he was tracking. He knew that Reality Engineers could juggle multiple timelines and realities in their minds – a stream of ribbons all flowing in the same direction. Might not an individual swim against the current, amongst those brightly coloured lines, and remain invisible?

He found himself threading through the crowd here, smiling at this intricate tapestry of collapse, and he wondered – would this be as it were if it were not for the people working to unravel it as much as the people working to enlarge it? Were the embroiderers really so self-determined or were they reliant upon the urge forced on them by those working to damage their masterpiece? He suddenly realised that he was pitching himself as a necessary evil and he let out a laugh.

Carter turned around at that moment, recognising the sound, but not quite able to place where from. It would be thrown into the hamster wheel of his continual analysis devices and something would get spat out the other end.

The man upended a salt shaker near the bar, which he supposed was something to do with tequila, and he used his finger to write four letters in the salt: S-P-A-Y. Yes, he had remembered, that was what he was calling himself now.

Coran Andress reached out his hand to shake the proferred hand of David Arnover. Ardenti In Mundo, suddenly struck with a vision of what might happen if the two men touched, interposed himself.

How does one translate what it is like to be at the center of an explosion? How does one explain when that explosion has no obvious ball of flame, but is something that is detonating deep within the engines of the very fabrics and dimensions that hold everything together?

Reality flies apart. Doesn’t just buckle – but splits and breaks like a mirror someone fired a bullet at.

Carter Brecht suddenly realising something is very wrong. Sheridan looking his counterpart, his Dying Element, in the eyes. Ardenti In Mundo nothing more than an explosion. Coran Andress a cut-up dream of shrapnel narrative. David Arnover a disembodied eye, trying to hold onto a sense of I. Quint Essential holding onto himself purely because he is everywhere already, but wondering what this meant.

Spay, a distance away, smiled, as he felt the eddies of a reality bomb washing over him.

037. Hen Gauge, Pen Gauge, When Gauge, Then Gauge

Carter popped a black olive in his mouth. He was hogging the bowl. Quint smiled at him and sucked down another whiskey.

‘Slow fucking war, eh?’

‘Well, what do you expect? We’re dealing with pens not guns – these bastards roll up slowly on a kill.’

‘You’ve been baby-sitting writers for an age, eh, Carter?’

‘Yeah, not my favourite part of the job by any means – I’d rather be working with a hack-rig and breaking down and building up reality.’

‘It seems like the reality eddies are destabilising everything – none of my equipment seems to be working very well.’

‘We’ll have to sit down with you and help you calibrate everything at some point in the future. Quantum Elements are starting to be the go to guys for spatiotemporal work.’

‘There is so much work to do, it’s hard to know what tool you’re going to have to pull out of the tool box. We’re not the only ones handling this, are we?’

‘Of course not – this fragmentation is manifesting in multiple levels of reality, and it is pulling in all kinds of people with all kinds of skills. Anything you can think of that appears to be a manifestation of reality not behaving as it should is something that traces back to this. Nothing exists in a vacuum, and nothing could be more true of Immaculate Authors. Sad to say this is not the first instance of something like this happening. I am not sure we have worked out what the issue is, but there is something these guys seem to be prone to that someone on an external level knows about that they have not communicated to us.’

‘I heard that there have Surreality Engineers abroad.’

‘Rogues, those who think they know better – all manner of alterations and problem makers, sure … doesn’t every field attract that kind of thing?’

‘I suppose. I know that there is something a little surreal about me.’

‘Hmm, not sure I ever thought of you and the other Essentials as surreal, more that you are the extension of a logical progression of the physical matching the spiritual.’

‘You make us sound like the word made flesh.’

‘Didn’t the word make flesh?’

‘I suppose so, but you know what I mean.’

‘Yes, I do. Of course.’

‘So, we are just going to observe this guy and see if there is something we can understand.’

‘How long has Sheridan been in place?’

‘I’m not honestly sure, because he’s on a Stutter Protocol, so he can be in two places at once, and his Seymour is floating through the space too. I have an idea that we might just want to sit down and ask Coran some questions until we find the right answer.’

‘And David Arnover too. And Ardenti In Mundo. And the Musehick, up there in the overtext.’

‘I heard there was something called the Insomnihack too.’

‘Yes, have you ever heard of a flick book?’

‘Sure, where the pages are allowed to flick and it makes it look like the images are moving.’

‘Imagine every book in a super-positional library were assembled into a vast flick book …’

‘That’s a lot of pages.’

‘Yes, and that’s where we are.’

‘Is that Tendrel Plaint in the corner with his Bloop Hen?’

‘Of course, we’re pulling out all the stops. What better way to bring a writer to the end of the story than to have a really good editor there watching him and providing editing suggestions.’

Tendrel waved at them to come over, and offered his hand in friendship.

‘It’s a mess. A non-sequitur mess. We kind of went stream of consciousness via self-indulgence, and ended up with an over-emotional, and non-logical whitenoise, instead of the literary jazz I think we were aiming for.’

‘Ah, that good old entropic slide towards that final cymbal crash.’

‘Final symbol crash?’

‘Bit of both, all told.’

‘OK, well that’s where one part of the story ends, right? There is always a new chapter.’

‘I suppose Well, with a story. And although this is a story, it kind of isn’t as well, right? Don’t worry Quint.’

‘Not worried, Carter. Well, I am, but not completely feeling hopeless yet. How about you Tendrel?’

‘I’m fine. Don’t speak to Sheridan though.’

‘Why not?’

‘Talking about a Dying Element being somewhere around.’

‘Did we pull him too close to his rebirth?’

‘Maybe. You know how it is, Carter – the Crooked Wombs these Living Elements use aren’t exactly running on the orderly programming that a normal Reality Womb employs.’

‘It is what it is. For all the damned engineering we’re supposed to do, half the time we’re playing catch up. Karmachanics aren’t deployed as much as they should be.’

‘I would say this is frustratingly confusing, but apart from not knowing how to piece Andress back together, this is pretty run of the mill for us.’

‘Yes, I am doing this kind of thing all over,’ said Quint, smiling.

Tendrel wrote something down. The Bloop Hen pecked space. Carter adjusted his watch.

036. Immovable Editor

Time was stuttering in a hang-frame. The narrative ceased to unspool, and a figure stepped into the room from somewhere that was not immediately visible. He touched each of the people in the scene on their elbows and unstuck them from the freeze.

Quint Essential, Carter Brecht, and their visitor stood in silence for a moment.

‘An unexpected visitor who somehow managed to step right through all my security measures, and pause reality. it seems.’

‘Yes, Mr Essential. Forgive me, I need a second to adjust my perceptual filters to accommodate for the speed of narrative unspool.’

‘Any idea who he is, Carter?’

‘It’s like a variation on a theme – his garb; if I didn’t know any better I might say that he was an Immaculate Author.’

‘Immovable Editor.’

‘Sorry? Never heard of one of those.’

‘Why would you Engineer, there is more to all of this game than we ever told you. And given that this game is far from over – it is not something that is likely to be revealed yet. Call me Tartarus Unk, if you must call me anything. I am, like you, but a pawn.¬† You know that editors walk in the shadow of owners, and boards of directors. You have what you call Oversight, and so do we, and they have told¬† me that i must come down here and tell you to let this chapter play out. Let Coran Andress do what Coran Andress must.’

‘The fragmentation serves a purpose?’

‘Doesn’t everything? Isn’t everything a kind of narrative device affecting the way that the story is told and experience?’

‘Will this reality and others being affected by it survive without us doing something to help put him back together?’

‘Let me tell you a story. There was once just us, the storytellers, and we all told them, and they were received happily by an audience who understood that they were stories. They were just words, and when they were spoken and heard, they were alive; and when they were unspoken they were nothing. But there was a listener there – a man with a pen and with paper, and he wrote it down.
‘They called him Iblis, a man who was only know for slaying a great storyteller, and here he was, the inventor of a Mirror Technology, first seed of The Metaphor Tech on our level of reality, and we fell into the mirror.’

‘He’s just repeating the pattern?’

‘We all do. He fell, and the mirror broke, and it must break further. There is something in the collapse of reality around its creator that gives birth to something new.’

‘But we fought to protect this. We fought against that creature from the Unscripted Realms, and now you tell us we must let it all be taken apart from within by its creator?’

‘Not taken apart. Instead, try to think of it as a reboot within to reinvigorate the architecture without.’

‘Great. And will everyone survive?’

‘Has everyone survived thus far? Do all the characters in a story ever survive? Does it matter? I know you have studied this world’s Harlequinade – are all these identities not mere masks?’

‘And how do we know you are not just a well-spoken distraction?’

‘You don’t, of course, Mr Essential.’

A figure assembled behind Mr Unk, aimed his rifle, and fired.

A big bang.

A hanging frozen red wave.

A bullet with a name on it. Murray smiled, and then he evaporated.

‘Oh,’ said Quint.

‘Huh,’ said Carter.

‘Immovable but not invincible.’

‘Apparently so.’

‘Didn’t expect that.’

‘That’s going to have repercussions.’

‘Did you see the guy behind the guy?’

‘No. You recognise him?’

‘You would have to. If you want to know what he looked like, go and find a mirror.’

‘Oh, hmm. That must be a futureself, seeing as I don’t recall anything about hiring an assassin to kill this guy. I don’t know why I would be motivated to do such a thing – for a Reality Engineer to think that bullets are the answer is more than a little odd.

‘And so, time seems still hung. How are we to proceed?’

‘Observe more closely, Mr Brecht – the engines are moving, though they are slow to power up. As we don’t yet know what future you is doing behind the scenes, and we have no clue what Mr Unk was all about, I suggest we proceed as we had already decided. Adn go hunting for those we suspected beforehand.’

‘Sounds as good an idea as any I have.’

‘Would you like some tea while we wait for reality to recommence?’

‘You think you can make tea with this going on?’

‘I have few odd reality wombs dotted around, which one might step into, and have that always necessary cup of tea.’

035. Pack The Essentials

‘I am going to have to have my Mormon friend over there do your family tree at some point, Carter.’

‘And why would that be Quint?’

‘Well, apart from us Essentials, you yourself seem to pop up all over the damned place. If one were to sit down and try and diagram your timeline they’d get a bloody headache.’

‘No doubt. Big difference is, I’m bouncing around and you are just rolling along not getting any older as far as I can tell.’

‘Oh, I get older. I just don’t age.’

‘I don’t understand the difference.’

‘I am sure in your own way you do.’

‘Yes, maybe. Anyway, I know since you put together the Quantum Elements that you have been dealing with super-positional realities, and we wondering if you might have some kind of insight that would help us to deal with an Immaculate Author who has suffered a total identity collapse and fragmentation, and it seems to have polluted the whole reality.’

‘Wow, that seems like a tall order. I take it we are talking about Coran Andress, or whatever he is calling himself.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Come on Carter, why are you even asking that? You know who I am and what I can do, or you wouldn’t be here; besides he’s a Reality Lynchpin.’

‘Ah, OK, good, we have it established – we both know a lot of shit – look, I don’t like having to ask outside of my own group, which should have the expertise to handle this, but we are reeling after an attack –‘

‘I heard about that …’

‘And we need some help.’

‘OK, well you have Sheridan on the ground I think, and he would be a great source of ideas. Otherwise, I have some people up here that I can re-task, and set to thinking about ways to help with this. I also, because of the nature of what I am, can’t get anywhere near this situation physically, but I have what I am calling the QEDs, or Quint Essential Dopplegangers, one of which I can send down there to plug into the flows and see if it can decipher what is happening with subtext governing this space. What the QED then does is create a Mathspace Adjunct, and within that MA it will be able to run simulations and will be able to plot out for us some possible courses of action.’

‘That sounds good. I hope it goes without saying that i appreciate what you are doing.’

‘It does, but Carter, you have to remember that with something like this you aren’t asking for some selfish thing – you are actually trying to save a section of reality, and I am all down for that, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Do you ever find it hard keeping it all in order when you try to gauge from the other person whereabouts they are in terms of their chronology regarding you? Like, have we met before – did they do something bad to me, or me to them? Are we the friends we were, or enemies, or friends again? How do you keep it all straight?’

‘Practice.’

‘I can never tell if you are being humorous.’

‘Would it be funny if you could?’

‘Maybe not. I can’t tell when I am supposed to laugh any more, since the whole thing got so damned ridiculous.’

‘I never thought about that – how ridiculous the whole thing seemed to be getting …’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘I am wondering whether we still have tabs on Munchausen, because this smacks of his brand of insanity.’

‘Shouldn’t be that hard to uncover his kind of interference, should it?’

‘Well, we haven’t uncovered it thus far, have we? But with a pattern to look for we might be able to dig in at all levels and route the bastard out.’

‘Can you ship us a couple of your encounter suits and I’ll shoot some of my guys down to you immediately.’

‘Sounds good.’

034. Names Or Masks, Nom, De Plume

Early days didn’t make the disintegration easy. The man sat opposite him was talking in terms that were so modern they may as well have been archaic. Magicians, artists, writers, engineers – they weren’t much different if you looked at it from the right angle.

He’d just come from Angle Land, had been speaking to Leroy, a Rastafarian iteration of The King, or Le Roi. He met Leroy back when he had caused the Celtic Brotherhood to shit bricks by being declared Ard Ri after standing on the Stone Of Destiny in Tara, and being blessed with the gift of poetry. A Pen Dragon turned street poet, dropping knowledge via a heavy dose of Linton Kwesi Johnson and Leroi Jones, with a dash of Public Enemy thrown in.

Bringing a Massive Attack with Black Steel in the Hour Of Chaos. They were sat at a structural weak point in the system, where Renaissance Italy overlapped with L’undone in a Narrative Collapse.

‘You been hanging with Da Vinci, De Plume? Talking about Ardenti In Mundo again? You know I’m the Pen Dragon of the moment, and I am supposed to know about these bastards. Word of The Unter King abroad again.’

‘All of that. You’ve been watching things change in the Ark Hive?’

‘Surely. Blanc and Noir come and spew crap in my ear every once in a while, and who else is going to be tampering with the blockchain?’

‘I am not hiding myself very well, am I?’

‘That’s part of your game? You are leaving large enough clues lying around. De Plume? Who the hell is going to fall for that? I knew you were Coran Andress the moment you stepped into the room.’

‘How? That knowledge didn’t just came when you stood on that damned stone? Or when you pulled the word-sword out of the other?’

‘Nah. Could have happened when I sat down with Black Jesus though. He was in Logos mode at that moment, and Gabriel was his drinking buddy. What does it matter? Proliferation protocols, metaphorm fluidity – what the hell is there in this world that you didn’t make complex?’

‘I kept sex pretty straight forward.’

‘Oh, god, we’re fucked. You really think that?’

‘I suppose not, huh?’

‘Sometimes, I am not sure if you are kidding me on. This place is a kingdom built on sand, and knowing what I know about you and the nature of what you are, I am not sure whether you have been downloaded here into your own creation from the start or whether it was ten minutes ago. You seem super aware and super confused all at the same time.’

And he was back in the room with his current interrogator.

‘You were seeing Leroy? Word is you’ve had Nephilim here too.’

‘I speak to anyone and everyone. Even you, Mr Brecht.’

‘Ah, well we’re friends, aren’t we?’

‘We are? I suppose we are. I forget how long we have been speaking.’

‘Doesn’t really matter does it?’

‘Maybe not. Maybe so.’

‘I’ve heard what you are. I’ve heard what you were.’

‘That isn’t so clear anymore.’

‘Ah. Well, I have to go, De Plume.’

‘I will see you around.’

‘You will.’

-*-

‘Pieter?’

‘Yes?’

‘Carter.’

‘You’re in?’

‘Yeah. Total identity collapse and fragmentation. Seems like The Fire Mirror didn’t do a damned sight to repel him, but it may have caused this.’

‘Not something we’ve had much experience handling.’

‘But he’s there. Now I have to find someone that can help with this.’

‘Yeah, I’ll put on my thinking cap.’

‘You do that.’

033. Influence Writing

Multiple realities pushed close against their reality, and everyone could feel it – there were those that were other, but might be considered to be benevolent, and there were those who were attempting entrance that were unwelcome.

To look at them was not to understand them – merely to know that they were there. Space and time buckled around them, localspace physics sputtering and failing like tiny engines crushed under the bootheel of illogic. Poured into a form that configured itself from the narrative data contained in the substrate they were interfacing with, those from the Unscripted Realms unfolded themselves into a giant humanoid form, and once they were there, they moved rapidly away from their ingress point. Leaving behind them only a single writer.

The Inviolable Editor handed a small note to the Immaculate Author, something that no one else would ever read. The Author smiled and placed the note in his mouth – ate it, and sat down to begin typing.

Change came from both of them, different tensions pulling at the physical structure; felt in the spirit; understood by the mind. And no one knew what it meant, because in a very real way it meant something that had never been meant before in the entire history of this reality.

And to some degree it does not matter who is writing. It may be the one brought in through Bellwether, or it may be someone else. It may be something else. Maybe Bellwether’s echo is merely a translation of the editing that someone else wishes to impose. Do those in the story recognise the push from outside, or does it merely translate as force? Do words foam around the causal chain thrusting its sharp point of effect at certain characters.

Light swirls around,seeming to speed up, and to drag the sky with it. Everyone feels a moment where they are fixed and the world is reconfiguring around them; where it is moving, light ribboning out from stars dying in the transmission of their energy out into the universe.

Two fingers touching. A spark. A repeating spark. A hung moment. A stutter. The words repeat on a loop. But it is something – something is happening.

Reality Engineer level one shakes hands with Reality Engineer level two and they know that they have not met, and they know that all is possible, so anything is probable. Does it mean you should not tend your area of the garden if you discover there is another garden and another gardener nearby? The seeds are carried by the wind where they need to go, and they grow how they will grow into the shapes that are buried in the instructions that rest at their centre.

Gruff is a frozen moment with nothing being typed.

Bellwether is a refutation. His envoy a refutation.

The Immovable Editor is a conversation with the Immaculate Author.

The Unscripted are a journey deep into alien territory.

Stories don’t really have an end, the books just leave us dangling, and wondering, after the goal that was set up in the early chapters was achieved, what shape the stories that get told by their descendants will take.

Sometimes a story only seems done because the landscape is changing and you can’t quite see what it is that is being cooked under the fogbank of steam rising out of the cooking pot.

Reality has always been engineered though some may have failed to see the intelligence behind the design and running of the machinery. What is needed when the machinery becomes an ill conceived engine for the navigation of existence? It needs to be reconfigured – it needs to be reimagined – it needs to engineered.

A garden – flowers growing, blooms dawning like the waking sun, and people arrive to cultivate them, and to refine them. Some would call them gardeners, and some might call them Reality Engineers.

Carter Brecht pulled on an encounter suit.

032. Overarch

There are always levels above where you can see. There is no conspiracy – it is just that as beings we never stop climbing. You reach the highest hill you can climb and you want to leap up and touch the sky; you touch the sky and you want to leap higher and touch the moon; touch the moon and your ambition is to press your palm against the underbelly of the heavens.

There are always those who believe that their reality is a sealed circuit, and that there are no truths beyond the ones that they might touch with their fingertips and weigh in their hands. At the same time there are those visionaries who see beyond the ceiling and push through the walls, and discover the undiscovered territory that was always there unmapped.

So, the Inviolate Narrative and the Immaculate Author were, in truth, truths for people in one room. Step through the door into the rest of the house and you learn that there is more to the picture; more to the building. That the limits of the truth are in fact a lie. You stare at a fragment and think that you have a synecdoche but all you have is a jigsaw piece.

When a system is ready to defy the order that governs it, and it starts to break out of the box that has imprisoned it, those outside the bedroom start to take notice. Inside the box is a training ground, and outside the box is the world. At least something analogous to that.

A child plays with Russian Dolls and they miss the fundamental truth that they are witness to – they do not realise that they are witnessing a model of reality, and that what they hold in their hands is a key to understanding how the multiversal structure of reality works. One truth inside another truth being contained within another.

There is no exit sign that ever leads you anywhere but into another level of the game.

I am the Immovable Editor says the man at the Gate. Here is the Guillotine Truth for the childish Inverted Pyramid that kisses the lips of The Tesseract Translator.

He is still typing when the figure sits down next to him and holds out a card with the hanging man inverted upon it. This is the world turned upside down – a tree uprooted and a man floating above the branches turned root system. The runes are a code that can only be deciphered when you map it onto the genome; when you attach it to the sephiroth; when you acknowledge it’s place in alignment with the chakras.

The Inviolate Author turns to this man from beyond the realms of the possibility that he has been scripting, and he sees in him a denial of his own branching creation. Sometimes saviour and jailer are not too far apart … like many things, it is all about perspective.

Totalspace shudders, something is sending riptides of change through it just by being there.

031. Crashwrite

Gruff was trying to shut down the gate, trying to cut off the power; he hoped that the one that had made it through wouldn’t act as an anchor to allow the others to come across.

How had they knocked out so many agents in one go? Was it possible to revive them? He didn’t know and he couldn’t worry about that for the time being. He had to concentrate instead on helping by correcting the error that he had made.

Coding reality was like writing poetry. In fact he often limbered up by writing sonnets and sestinas beforehand, and it seemed to undam whatever creative juices he needed to be able to sculpt something out of thin air.

It was interesting to watch reality bubble as you stripped away the logic underpins, and worked to break down the agreement interfaces with any other intersecting realities. He spent a lot of his time in programmer isolations capsules, so he had developed an interesting relationship with the place where he lived … something of a tangential acquaintance if you will. The place was the crucible in which all other things that he crafted existed though, so he wasn’t totally detached from it.

He knew as he wrote that someone else was coding in opposition, and that the ramifications of what they were doing with the edits might felt far away in other galaxies. It was tiring, writing this stuff, checking it to see what had survived and what had been updated, and then correcting it. He was trying to write quick enough and in an ironclad method that locked out further edits.

He was plugged in with a standard deck, but he got the impression his opponent was a hard-wire implant, and was just thinking his changes into place. Speed was an important factor, so anything he could do to give himself an edge was a good thing.

He concocted a spiralling fractal framework and pinned a tesseract gate to it to interfere with time-space anchoring by overloading the localspace index. He loaded do it in with a narrative spike to disguise it.

He put together some barnacle splices, wrote them in the style of his opponent, and floated them in within some Trojan commentary. This should go undetected long enough to allow him to combat the gate.

He drove in a fat wedge of Incommensurate Data that pulled at the fusion with the other reality. The gate began to splinter and the interloper fought back. Reality in the localspace began to crash.

030. Splice Storm

Four narratives competing distort the localspace. The Immaculate Author writes; Gruff, the hacker, writes; the interloper from elsewhere writes; and the reality writes itself.

The Prime Throughline isn’t apparently in the driving seat anymore. The thing which pushes is a confluence of divergent streams, like psychic floodwater pushing through the throat of a single river.

Seasickness swims through those who are awake and moving around. De ja vu stutters the movement, and indecision anchored footsteps plod onwards into no-direction pathways of causal amble.

Reality is sick; heavy with the dread of forced edits. The vying histories and competing futures are rewriting the software and rewiring the hardware of existence. Everyone and everything is ontological crisis, as logic tries to re-sort itself in the causal shuffle of things on a quantum scale.

Is this part of The Inviolate Narrative? Is this buried subtext protocols kicking in? If people are sat behind it driving reality, can it really be thought of as the self correcting mechanism it was meant to be?

What can truly remain fixed in a dynamic system? Rules? Rules designed to cradle evolution; rules designed to promote change within a framework of overall survival. Can the rules be designed to allow themselves to be changed without destroying the system? That was what The Immaculate Author had intended, but most realities were sealed systems not designed to allow ingress from exterior systems.

As the author of this reality he was aware that there were others like him, out there beyond the realms of the continuous story he was creating. These creatures that Belwether had enabled to impact on this reality were not from one of those places though … it were as if they derived from between the lines, and grew fat on the meat of narrative inconsistency; swelled to fill the narrative gaps. Had he not been taught that no amount of detail was too great when it came to setting out his stall as a universal narrator? How did one account for this? What might one do to guard against rewrites from unwanted authors?

He had had hack jobs before … one created that as one wrote; as one sought to define the boundaries of the thing they had created, individuals would rise up from amongst the masses to challenge the ultimate authority, which was him.

Gruff was an issue. The alien was an issue. It’s own presence here was an issue. How did one write the rules of a game that they were embedded in? To be in the box and write rules concerning the box was more than a little worrying, what if you wrote yourself into a corner, or wrote yourself out of the story?

He flexed his fingers and began to type swiftly. He would have to outwrite these people trying to corrupt this place.