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All weapons, territories, technologies and assets transferred to the new designation VUL9.
The Rover remains where it was originally scuttled and abandoned and all time
wave creations generated by The Octagon’s failed time star remain null and void. Intelligence gathered by the warring parties remains in their possession.
Illegal attempts
to generate sub-constructs powered by legal versions of The Construct remain subject to review for viability and innovations.
With settlements now finalized by The Eternal Dynamos and etched into each properly built and operated Zero Horizon Clock: they visibly integrate their consciousness from one who has become three into three becoming one again. They
are the engine and
transfer force that allows movement and communication between distant points now returning to the ever sizeless realm of Pure Contextuality: The One Existent One where finite and infinite are basic catalogues of ideas.
The two lights maintaining harmonic synchronization slow to the speed of the engine that remained at all times on the right. Achieving triple point line sphere equilibrium in all realms and domains simultaneously they pulse in harmony, a line extends
upward at 10:30 and they’re gone.
The Old Chief approaches Ted, “How are we doing Major Danes?”
Ted thoroughly befuddled still staring at DATAFACE, “Is this glassy mist dangerous?”
“A little bit in excess quantities. It’s what Dr. Vulchario distills the virus from. In this form you’d have to sleep here unprotected forty to sixty days to get the equivalent of one dose.”
“You never told me your name.” Danes shakes his head surveying the eight
edge platform.
The chief repositions the three modest size golden bells from a crescent shape on the eastern edge of the platform to an equilateral triangle orientated
northward. Walking toward the NNE console; Player One follows him, grabbing Ted
to pull him along.
The Major accidentally stops cold dead in his tracks using his other hand to clasp the boys forearm. “He never speaks Major.”
Ted recognizes the voice he hears. “He never uses mindspeech either.” 2085 stops there.
The Player allows The Major to stabilize. “I remember you. You wrote your name in my palm.”
“Do you want an injection I’ll take one with you?” Lucian asks and Ted replies, “Definitely.”
The Chief uses a wrist cuff applying two hefty doses of Methaqualone to quiet Danes nervous system to a functional level and Ted releases The Player. Taking his hand again the boy smiles at Ted nodding his head rapidly to let him know it’s OK, and
continues pulling him towards the NNE desk in the circle of consoles. Handing Danes a pair of thick goggles with lenses he tuned and selected; The Player and
The Major study the body encased in three inches of diamond dust.
Fighting to control himself he slips off the goggles looking up at the smiling DATAFACE.
“I’ll be at your house a minute after I get through that gate to blow your brains out Bitterman.”
“The creature has many tentacles; many drones to use as horsemen, kill one another arrives.”
“Lucian LaGrange, you’re the Captain of the S.X. Hunter chasing the girl in the S.X. Rover.”
Ted goes over to the version of himself trapped in the collapsed timestar. “Truly unbelievable.”
The Palace Of Nine Castles
Mr. Eight is using the edge of his right palm to cuff his forearm changing his clothes repeatedly
from the street clothes he wore to enter the building to full dress uniform formals. He taps his forehead, temple, cheek, and breastbone three times each in succession trying to calm down. He changes back into the blue jeans desert boots and baseball
jacket switching his shirt to tiny black and white diamond checks. He fusses with his hair one last time grabbing the doorknob as if it is the trapdoor lever for his own hand built gallows.
Tatianni has stuck birthday candles in the cake against the other three ladies most strenuous objections. She knows Mr. Eight is a consortium member having worked on SRT detachments trained at the air force base, but she does not know the degree of
esteem the old woman Miss Faversham holds for the young lad and his perpetual devotion to her. Behind Auri’s back all three women are grimacing comically requesting forbearance. Eight sets their minds at ease inquiring of Aurian; “Does my new haircut
look a little too butchy to you Miss Auri?”
Aurian ignoring the question takes his hand leading him to the cake. “Make a wish Boris.”
The other ladies gather round touched that Mr. Eight is pretending to be Monsieur Boris Le Spidier, a young high wire walker in training, for Auri’s current benefit and future amusement.
Wishes made, candles extinguished, the five revelers enjoy coffee and cake. Mr. Eight does his best not to embarrass himself or Miss Faversham to Lisa’s watchful amusement and Michelle’s great relief. While Mr. Eight was dressing and Auri
preoccupied Michelle showed Lisa the fire escape. A crew is already waiting outside to clean it. Lisa tells the story of how the tiny stairwell
was originally located. “Mac and Doc were living here a year before either one had the courage or curiosity to open a tiny door in their bedroom because a
light was lit behind the little door.”
“So one night boy genius is driving up the hill from the docks to The Harland and it’s very late. Well our future Nobel laureate in waiting has a moment of clarity and registers the astute observation that there are lights burning on all five
floors, one tiny window above the other at 3:30 AM. He starts that great brain of his pondering the mathematical probabilities that five of his neighbors are up at that ungodly hour burning a light at the same time and decides it is impossible.” Miss
Faversham chuckles and Mr. Eight strokes the kitchen table, Aurian is as wide eyed as usual about any and all of Docs adventures, discoveries or comical antics.
“Now both of our bosom buddy protagonists have slowly developed a bit of a polite fixation with the “Secret Door.”” Eight adds some momentum, “They were enjoying the mystery.”
“Oh yes, Pierce and Trevor both believed the little doors led directly into
a next door neighbor’s apartment and were locked on both sides. Trevor convinced Doc that because of the buildings age the doors were opened when large families rented
adjoining units. Now that fabrication put the matter to rest in Sir Trevor’s trouble me not philosophy, but after Pierce’s drive up the hill that night his proclivity for investigation cannot be quenched. Doc afraid of the potential embarrassment of
possibly barging in on a neighbor; unable to bloodhound a solution to the quandary and unwilling to hire a private investigator, begins telling fictitious tales of intrigue and possible mysterious horrors behind the “Secret Door,” trying to enlist
McBain, in a joint effort to solve the mind boggling conundrum, our two intrepid champions are faced with.”
“How did it all end?” Eight feeds Lisa Templeton her cue knowing the stories outcome.
“Well one day I’m here with them blockheads and Pierce starts in again with his regular Edgar Allen Poe cliffhanger tales of the “Secret Door” So I said enough is enough and opened it.”
Doctor Ivan Vulchario reaching Boulevard One leaves the quaint old world beauty of Clocktown in his wake for a while. Gazing at the new day with an agreeable frankness he slowly strolls through the pristine beauty of Library City; its tall glass
monolithic skyscrapers testifying to the solvency and stability of his blueprint for eternity. The translucent wisps from below and above populating the busy sidewalks are researching the Formulas Of Truth. The supplicants give the master a wide berth as
they enthusiastically scamper from citadel to citadel, bastion to bastion; purchasing the knowledge they require to live another day.
Stepping along lively his agile mind is celebrating the algebraic brevity of accumulating all of the wisdom and knowledge ever created, in a single city, stockpiled within priceless treasuries.
The Professor’s mind revels in the airy splendor that everything that is known or ever knowable is accessible; without the all-pervading influence and aimless confusion of feckless passions and the unduly agitated imaginations; that have destroyed so
many other reckless frightened slaves, who sought; without fortified courage, to construct an eternity.
Reaching the edge of the shining city Professor Vulchario crosses Boulevard Five entering the luscious fields and meadows before the small forests of Parkland. A three quarter circle of green wooden benches with a large stone bubbler rests serenely
under the ancient oaks. The Vagabond on one of the two middle benches bordering
the path to the meadows is sleeping on his back with hands loosely clasped over
his stomach, head resting on a black satchel filled with papers for his pillow.
The Professor
sits on the far right bench closest to the wide stone bowl of the bubbler. Studied across a broad range of disciplines Dr. Vulchario knows this standard bearer of disorder is a hallmark of his success and necessary function of both Sealand and Oceania.
Alex Mathias turned away first stopping a few yards up the hill. Mcbain and Daniels follow Alex back to the van. In their absence Harris has gone to the gas station for a nights worth of snacks and refreshments, spotting the antiquities dealer talking
on the pay phone when he comes back outside. Frank felt the time-glitch’s all-pervading influence while still on the access road. He had seen many strange things while immobilized at The Octagon. Frank shook hands with Silas Tobias and got in his black
pick-up truck for a short ride back to the van. The eighty-five year old rancher is singing along quietly to the country music playing on 102.5 KNIX.
“Old cowboys go… where old cowboys go, and when its time… old cowboys know.”
Silas scowls at the radio turning it off “You understand the books are sold as is Frank?”
Harris grunts as they park ten feet behind the red van getting out and opening the two rear doors. Alex, Pierce and McBain come over approaching from behind the stone retaining wall that prevents parked cars and small children from tumbling into the
canyon. McBain reaches under the driver’s seat grabbing the two amber books, Pierce watches still silent and drawn after his encounter with the unimaginable. Alex nods to Trevor to let him know he is fully present and accounted for. Opening the
rucksack two feet from the seated Silas he hears the, “Phew!”
“The visits of angels are short and far between.” Silas delicately accepts the knowledge wells.
Trevor watches Silas’s eyes glaze over asking deadpan, “How do you open the secret drawers?”
“Three taps on the bottom center, one tap on each corner.” Silas says presuming a counterfeit.
Silas tapping the box open is almost blinded by the gold plates glow and closes the drawer.
“Did you fellas kill old man Ferguson for these? They are worth a half a billion dollars easy.”
“What do they do and where do they come from?” McBain feels agitated by the rancher.
“You open, administer, and dismantle a zero clock; to earn these as your acquittal payment.”
Trevor persisting remembering Aurian, “How did Augustus come into their possession?”
“The Blockhouse on the Fairfield University rotary, it was a clock for two dozen millenniums.”
Silas inching closer to McBain; holding a business card : gestures for Trevor
to open the book.
Alex moves up, placing the Arsenal 44 Magnum snuggly up against Silas’s temple, snatching the card to read it; and then pulls the trigger. Silas falls accompanied by zero splatter as Alex hands the card to the baffled and shaken McBain. The card is
inscribed, “What is the name of God?”
Mathias throws the rancher over his shoulder, steps over the retaining wall hurling the body down the steep incline listening to it tumble until the corpse
cleared the lip. “He is Bill’s enemy.”
“Why did you shoot him?” Trevor asks watching Harris rummage through Tobias’s truck.
Harris returned with a burlap sack that peeled away to soft black velvet padding. Withdrawing the two books Silas was offering to sell he tapped the bottoms showing McBain the drawers were empty. Opening the first book, he pulled out one hundred and
fifty odd pages of numbers, closed it and opened it again; to find a new set of
pages covered with numbers. He holds the closed book by its corner throwing it hard towards the canyon. “That is how you poison a sacred well.”
Harris took the other grime and sand sullied book and opened it. “What is Trevor’s last name?”
Showing Mac the empty book he closed it buckling and unbuckling the lid and opened it holding it towards Trevor. McBain withdrew a single sheet of paper with his name in the middle. “OK?”
Harris handed the book to Trevor asking him to open it. “Put the self-destruct question inside it.”
Trevor put the business card requesting the divine name inside clasping and unclasping the tiny snaps. Opening the book the first page had a large letter “L” followed by pages of numbers.
“Whoever God is placed a run of PI between each letter. Gus found that some
numbers must be removed and the question asked again that’s how the S.X Rover
Core Disk One was recaptured.”
Aurian called a cab, saying her goodbyes and waiting outside to ride over to the arena to babysit the regular staff and summer employees through a four group concert of popular regional bands. After her generous goodbyes to everyone; the long time
traveling companions relaxed a little.
Mr. Eight comments, “Her and Pierce are cut from the same cloth, they fit well together.”
“I’ve no word from McBain yet; care to hazard a guess and put our minds at ease Mr. Eight?”
Templeton not usually the worrying sort had heard the gossip on the grapevine about the events
that had occurred at Bobby Bitterman’s party the night before. Her last call from Mac was at 5:30 PM. Mr. Eight softly squeezes Miss Faversham’s hand before releasing it.
“My gut tells me preliminary success has been achieved and we can move towards the goal. I don’t detect any large scale seismic systemic adjustments. The Existent wants the duplicate clock dismantled or the lightmach
sets are frozen out. If it
freezes the lightmach sets we never recover The Rover’s complete five disk set. It took Augustus twenty thousand years to decode Disk One. So getting the full code in real time is not practical. To rebuild we must recapture The Rover
and the complete
core. How we do that falls partly under The War Command. I’m not a bystander.”

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