[continued from previous message]

Artrex waits over the dwarf who refuses eye contact. The Vagabond takes his limp hand slowly easing him to his feet like a tired toddler. Vulchario reaches
the porch. Realizing Igor’s parasites are contained for a bit, the doctor blows on the octopus
whistle. Ivan looking upward one mile at the top of The Tower Of Absolute, and the forested edges of The Parkland surrounding Library City, and seeing no descent forthcoming; toots the octopus whistle again. Thirty feet to his left and twenty feet above,
the usually black and yellow great Cephalopod thumps his arm softly three times
in disguised salutation; its deep shiny dark blue camouflage mirrors the tower’s color perfectly, granting it natural stealth. “Morbiditus you silly
knave,” Croaks the
doctor fumbling through his many trench coat pockets for his cigar case. Lighting four stout cigars, the octopus floats over receiving his: grateful for
a defense against the stench that rises even to this lofty den.
”Thank you for the indulgence Dr. V. a long night,” reflects Morbiditus settling on the porch.
Igor and Artrex take their cigars as Vulchario gazes out across five hundred square miles of thick, amply smoking still farms; protected by twenty-five million regular army and three dozen mechanized divisions, watchfully shepherded by a dozen massive
zeppelin bombardment decks.
Morbiditus relaxing with his tasteful smoking and the excellence of comfort sings to Grigori.
“The day after he kissed the sky he felt a sorrow few can know.
A deep sadness about tomorrow for the way that things must go.
Looking back on all the dancers and the crowns of glittering gold.
He remembered the devil’s answer, "When you know you’ll own your soul."
What’s missing when they kiss is a light that breathes with life.
What’s hissing when they spit is the hate they take as wives.
For every wheel time set spinning there’s three miners in a cave.
For every player that is winning there’s three losers taking slaves.
Red light, green light, please make up your mind.
Red light, green light, were running out of time.
Red light, green light, please make up your mind.
Red light, green light, were running out of time.
Yellow lights a warning to leave the diamond mine.
There’s no ship on the horizon to repair the heart of time.
A wind starts a rising oh so suddenly to fall.
The eye that is upon us is the eye of our own all.
Wandering and wondering for oh so many daze.
Drunk on speculations that thicken into haze.
We’ve forgotten why we came: lost the map in a fit.
There’s no one left to blame, we’re all stuck and in the fix.”
Frank Harris had taken his 1967 Lincoln Continental convertible out of mothballs from an LX7 consortium warehouse owned by Bill Templeton on the southwest edge of the air base; to get the four men from Oldham AFB to The Arboretum. Driving Trevor and
Pierce to the Fairfield Arena
He gives them a sunglass case with aviator eyewear inside. “Keep them safe, they’re expensive.”
The hard rock band Shredder is back on stage for one last song and the arena is almost silent. Harris takes out his pair of glasses holding them by the frames wagging them at Mac and Doc. When Alex dons his glasses the two weary young men snap out of
the fog of cerebral overload. Alex comes over grouping them together by grabbing their opposite shoulders into a huddle.
“No matter what happens, or what you see; don’t react. I need you to say it, I won’t react.”
Harris hands them coffees from a nearby machine as Trevor and Pierce agree to participate.
“Let it happen around you not to you,” admonishes Alex unequivocally intoning the crucial precaution. He waves them in behind him and they follow to
the back door of the sound truck parked and centered on the arena floor halfway
back from the stage.
He mounts a ladder guarded by security personnel and stands on the small sturdy metal roof. Pointing toward the upper rear of the auditorium, they see the VIP lounge window is awash in multicolored dots and clouds of mixed colored
lights. Looking back
across the broad scope of the stadium, they clearly recognize the difference between the white light of many cigarette lighters, lit to celebrate the final encore, and the colored dots: jumping from one person to another every time full or partial eye
contact is established. Looking back again towards the VIP lounge window: Pierce starts muttering and pacing unconsciously, nearly falling on the heads of the standing room only audience just below.
The roar of applause at the songs end knocks Daniels down onto his backside. Trevor and Alex feel the vibration. Trevor thumb between his index and middle finger punches his forearm twice.
Alex takes a six pin Velcro cuff and slaps Pierce three times on the side of the neck with a six hundred milligram injection of Methaqualone: then slaps himself twice offering the device to McBain who declines. Trevor sits down beside Pierce donning
his glasses again and putting his left arm around Pierce; pulling him protectively. Alex sits on his other side as the crowd grows quiet to file out and the medium low overhead lights come on. He whispers, “Too much for one day for anyone anywhere. We�
�ll be all right.” He slips Pierce’s glasses off and Doc is weeping from exhaustion, rocking back and forth. Harris mounts the little roof nodding to McBain.
“He insisted on coming.” Alex winks and Harris shakes his head at Mcbain,
while opening a piece of gum. Frank sits straightening and bending his knees several times inhaling and exhaling slowly and deeply. Maurice and Moses spot the foursome and
distract Aurian into taking a side route to check the backstage area. Their day
long absence without orders to RN6 members left captains scrambling to patch security holes. Strange events at the southern harborside end of the rail corridor brought: LX7,
RN6, AR20, PSI and OSG consortium members into close contact as each on duty head; Bill Templeton, Jimi Baily, Devon Astrue, Colonel Walters and Robert Bitterman respectively, engaged in a flurry of angry heated communications to determine the
whereabouts of missing members while trying to ascertain why NID is on security
condition A1.
As the hot summer day of July Seventh Nineteen Seventy Nine became a humid sultry Saturday evening, rumors began to fly that OWL was finished; completely deceased: and a new unknown consortium had risen to take its place. An unmapped
and unknown
defunct gate hidden under a large garden pond on the long ago closed Lambeth Rope Factory near the harbor was reported to have given radio math signets and brief visual microburst sky signatures. The regional NID fast response teams swarmed in at 9:00 PM
sealing off the closed factory, pond and picnic grounds.
Ignoring the coming hockey season and focusing on constantly changing activities; Trevor spent the time of July and August dedicated to keeping Pierce moving and active. In the sixty days since Harris and Alex pushed them into the deep water: McBain
has hardened some of his basic resolutions; one, don’t get lost in details, two, avoid endless conflicts, three, detour sweeping responsibilities. Mac was polite and courteous to Azrok Steppe and Kydd who had moved in across the hall from Pierce; but
made sure he monopolized enough of Doc’s free time with sailing, hiking and basketball during the day; and plenty of bowling, and shooting pool at night, to insure Daniels had enough time to catch his breath and achieve some sort of restorative rhythum,
to allow his mind to settle.
An agreement was reached after the big night to put the amber books in Pierce’s safe bolted under a kitchen cabinet. While skeet shooting on the old
motocross track on the edge of the Reed Estate Doc told Trevor the time period had elapsed and they
agreed to meet at seven that night.
Knocking softly, Trevor lets himself in finding Pierce reading the paper at the kitchen table.
McBain chuckles, “Should I pretend to clear my throat, your papers upside down Daniels?”
“Argh…” Pierce cracking his neck from side to side. Trevor volleys back, “Spill Doc Spill.”
“OK. Well it’s like this…”Pierce grimaces hearing the oversized bedroom camera’s time lapse mechanism whir. Trevor waves his hand brushing the subject to the side, “What’s the plan?”
“We boldly go where others have already gone,” proclaims Doc eyes wide and raised; lips tight.
“We’re here for a reason Daniels, aim, fire and execute,” confirms McBain ready to let Doc’s powers of deduction conceive a framework for modeling the amber books forbidden fruit output.
The books out of the safe and placed on the table Pierce writes the felonious
question on a card.
“What is the name of God?” McBain and Daniels shake on it tense and eager to continue.
Closing the top books lid Pierce politely pledges in argument, “We’ll still have one left.”
Opening the book the query card is sitting on three sheets of quality paper, the question card obscuring the answers. Pierce exhales a deep hollow whistle. McBain pats him on the back. They push their chairs up to the corner of the table and look in at
the card more afraid than before.
“We know the question doesn’t destroy these books, but maybe the answer is wrong for us.”
McBain is puzzled but committed removing the query card, “The name is a value assignment.”
“Huh, Mr. A. Value Assignment is God’s name. Well at least Alex isn’t going to shoot anybody over how these books sing their siren songs.” Pierce says petulantly mocking Mathias as Mcbain rocks his head back and forth. “Get
in their Pierce,
lift that sheet brother.” McBain pretending he is a preacher healing the sick
and raising the dead. “This is deep Mac I need a coffee.”
Coffees on the table and half in their belly, both confederates are staring into the box again. Pierce pretends he is going to pluck the top sheet and pulls back, Mac does the same and Doc starts bobbing his head like a rooster, with Mac right behind
him. Pierce inhales and exhales quickly pulling sheet one away like a hot pastry. “To name God “What” write once per page on three blank pages “The Name Of God Equals What.” capitalizing each word.”
McBain sits all the way back in his chair hand over his pounding heart, “Holy Mother of God!”
“It’s your bloody turn McBain. Don’t go all wobbly on me here,” implores Pierce Daniels.
“No, no, no no. We have both taken a turn let’s flip for the last one: loser grabs the page.”
Trevor flips a quarter; Pierce calls it in the air. It falls in the open book
creating a brilliant flash startling both of them. Trevor looks in to find he lost the toss and retrieves the coin cautiously.
He growls summoning courage and peals away the second page like a band aid stuck to a scab.
“- - - - - - Pleased to meet you.” McBain politely closes the book to compose himself.
Trevor takes a pen from the cup on the desk and fills in the third sheet of paper with the password The Player gave to him at the Grand Canyon, “A. R. T.
R. E. X.” and places the sheet back in the book. Opening the amber well the reply reads. “
2085 Welcomes Trevor And Pierce.”
Doc steps back to look at McBain, “Are you a magician?” Trevor shakes his head negatively.
“No, but I got in the habit of memorizing each unique version of the dreams
I have, plus I kept dated journals; because Dr. Ruhig said it would come in handy. Not meaning to sound paranoid but we are either; party crashing latecomers, or the guests
of honor. If the thinking I’ve allowed myself to do on the subject is reasonable it runs the gamut depending on who we deal with.”
“Trevor it is time for us to parlay with Bitterman.” Doc handing McBain the card he gave to Aurian at the concert two months ago. “Whatever he knows they shut him out on purpose.”
“You should study my dream logs too; there is structure in there that could
protect us if trouble comes our way.” Trevor peaks in the amber book noticing
it is empty again and relaxes.
Trevor ponders, “What do you make of the so called self-destruct sequence Pierce?”
“Well first you have to name God in the form: God equals Pi. Then ask the book what is the name of God. It could be anything though; as long as you follow both steps: assign X equals Pi and then ask, “What Is X?”” Pierce is bobbing and weaving
wondering if he correctly sleuthed it.
“Yeah sounds logical, maybe the other books did it to themselves or there was a struggle for ownership and the loser sabotaged them. Harris and Mathias aren’t as clued in as they pretend.”
“Alex shooting that old rancher was hard core. He should have warned us.”
Pierce ruminating one last time before letting go. “Here’s Bitterman’s private number; be a good sport McBain?”
Trevor gets Bitterman after two rings. Mac tells him what Pierce wants to talk about. Bitterman agrees to meet them at the gas station by the tracks near
the old rope factory close to the harbor.
Dr. Vulchario peers through the Dragon Eyes, a powerful spotting ocular layered with many interchangeable lensing stratas adapted from the wide species
mutations available on lightmach-24’s Sealand. The Stronghold is a granite pillar five miles in
diameter. It rises nine miles skyward towards the shifting rivers of primary colors and thousand mile wide bands of airy opaque pastels. The organic atmosphere is always filtering the radiance of five small powerful suns that dance in orbit around each
other, rising and falling together, providing the nourishing light to Sealand.
Above the nine miles of elegantly carved escarpments, compact battlements, and ordinance launching platforms, the primordial granite obelisk is capped with a six mile high
citadel. The outer walls are bluish thatch work layers of ionized titanium, palladium and osmium; sending filtrated air seeping upward, to the great diamond bowl harvested from an ancient epoch’s failed timestar, and raised aloft. Whether an
extraordinary fleet of zeppelins raised the great concave vessel or geomagnetic
sleds were stacked like a staircase or the aid of one of the Great White Beasts
was employed is unknown. The granite obelisk and capping tower predate the explosion of the
one sun into five. The giant soil filled inverted dome is a sturdy sky city.
The Tower Of Absolute marks Ivan Vulchario as the dominant military commander
of Sealand.
His rivals and opponents impugn his character, authority and battlefield skills
as a strategist and commander invoking a wide disparate spectrum of slurs and derogative incendiary caricature.
No monikers or bynames rankle his ire excepting two: The Vulture and The Grand Satanus.
Speaking any of the names of Evangelina Hossattanus in his presence, or within his earshot is a death sentence of quick tempered speed, or soaring cruelty depending on the context and content.
Grigori and Morbiditus are exempted due to their infestation, but rarely breathe the name of the detested Witchland Queen. Twice Ivan and Grigori have battled off her onslaughting hordes.
This fine and wonderful day in Sealand is not tainted by thoughts of hags or hordes.

[continued in next message]

--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
* Origin: www.darkrealms.ca (1:229/2)