From:
mpa@ThatOleRanch.deluxe
"Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping...into the fu-ture,
tick-tock-tick, doot-doot-do-do...."
.mpa looks up from his guitar toward the soft chirp of one of his
alarms. It is early evening after a fairly busy but relatively calm
Saturday of errands, and visits, and lunch. Alarms sound and agents
return with tidbits all the time, but the provenance and content of this flagged message is unexpected.
"PATTERN CONTACT: PRIORITY ONE, GENERATION TWO, PRIMARY ALIAS"
"Interesting."
A whispered directive causes the previously dormant display on his left
to crackle to life. On the screen appears a 2d representation of a 3d
web interface. Crude by 2018 standards, the textures and shapes coalesce
into a fairly cartoonish but cohesive scene as automated agents,
detecting his avatar's impending presence, begin to canvas the
surroundings and promptly dispatch scripted bots to survey the nearly
abandoned region which still houses his small but ancient outpost in the selected reality.
"Now THERE'S a pattern we've not seen in a long while. Right place, long
time no signs or footprints. Better be sure though, before letting
sleeping dragons lay or not lay, as it were. If it's not him, someone's ghosting one of us and that's probably a sign of something bad."
As the recognition algorithms begin their work, the now grey former
apprentice keys-in the first of a long sequence of passtokens that will
be required, regardless of whether the identity of this contact is
positively confirmed or not.
"Saturday night down there in Phil's Pholly", he chuckles, hoping a
little that the systems would need real HUMINT to supplement the
confirmation of a live 2nd generation alt.cyberpunk sighting.
"Okay Myke, play Big Ball's in Cowtown, the Bob Wills version."
"He's still the king, Michael."
"I know, Myke. No matter who's in Austin."
"Passcode accepted. Awaiting secondary confirmation."
"Secondary confirmation: Babylon5, Amiga, Beacon Street."
"Accepted."
~~~
The almost-forgotten-but-oh-so-familiar split in consciousness catches
him off guard and, for a brief lifetime, mpa experiences each of his
moments in every of the worlds at once. As the infinite fades and he's
left with just the active threads to focus on, another chuckle escapes.
"You taught me too well, old man. Is this me or am I a dream you had,
sitting on a back porch outside of San Francisco in 1969, guts raw from
peyote and mind freed of war and peace, stretched out over grinning
fields far from the GreenFields."
As the echoes of pasts and futures coalesce into just the few NOWs, it
doesn't escape the Caped One's notice that he's a little bit older and a
little bit greyer than his old mentor was when the mantle of
apprenticeship was first laid on him in the belly of that BeastMachine.
****************************************************************
Distilled to its essence, this is our creed:
The collection, organization, storage, analysis,
and dissemination of information is the most fundamental,
the most important, and the most sacred of vocations. It is in
these endeavors that we can best serve ourselves, our families,
our fellow man, and our God.
Our tools encompass (but are not limited to) art, craft,
science, engineering, and politics.
Whether Librarian, Records Manager, Archivist, Programmer,
Poet, Scientist, or person of any calling, it must be
understood that effectiveness and good can only be achieved
through respect for, preservation of, and reflection upon
accurate information.
****************************************************************
"Might as well check on the chapel and other facilities while I'm
here.", he says, checking his HUDs for geographic information, weapons
system readiness, and local currency balances."
With access to the local communication facilities established, mpa waits
for the bots to do their thing and report back what he's already
confirmed to his own satisfaction: It really is one of them.
"Michael, processing of Priority One pattern contact is completed.
Identity is confirmed as one of Johnny Fusion's primary aliases. Would
you like me to read from the biographical sketch I've assembled?"
"That won't be necessary, Myke, but thanks for the effort. I'll make
contact and will file notes for you if anything regarding Rancho
security or the lost history is revealed."
"Acknowledged, Michael. Clearing the alert, returning to passive agent
mode."
As he catches a glimpse of his avatar in reflection, mpa wonders if it
isn't time to give it an update: grey out the beard and ponytail, fill
out that Santa stomach a bit, a wrinkle or twinkle or two....
He taps a key on the in-world comms interface and clicks the still
familiar icon for an old comrade.
"Greetings from an old friend here in the dystopic future they warned us
about. I hope this finds you well, [ALIAS REDACTED]"
"Hi mpa!"
...
[EPILOGUE - Several hours later]
"Myke, transport out and archiving for this excursion, please. And can
you get me an archive of alt.cyberpunk for the past couple of years?
While in-transit, I caught a glimpse of goings-on at the Rancho that we apparently missed back in 2015."
"Acknowledged, Michael. Reality split confirmed. Primary
singular-experience reality has been altered in unexpected ways."
"Unexpected ways? Can you be more specific, Mycroft, before I have you
fold me back into primary experience?"
"Shifting back to singular reality in 5..4..3..2.."
[SIGNAL INTERRUPTED]
.mpa
--
"Make weapons of your imperfections.
Everything is grist for the mill." -- Sourcerer
"RL is a story told in cyberspace" -- Sweet Poly
--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
* Origin: www.darkrealms.ca (1:229/2)