From: intraphase@gmail.com

For some deep unfathomable reason McBain can’t fully touch he admires Michelle. Sitting there alone determined to follow through on her stubborn willfulness to the bitter end endears her to him. Right or wrong she is going to see her will through:
and unwaveringly abide in the final outcome. The almost equal size cone of golden light opens between the old Human Kingdom in Disk-2 and the new Disk-1’s fountainhead of the Animal Kingdom. Her version of The Dream.
Trevor surveys the four distant cubes and powerful engines above, each capped
by five triple crowns of slowly revolving light. He sees the first person arrive, to what would be their north;
if not locked within the titanic world of The Eternal building The Core. A small blond haired woman in a solid breastplate and leggings of shining steel and medieval chain mail armor on her arms and sides is standing steadfast and resolved. She unties
the thongs of the leather scabbard protecting a four foot sword and holds it aloft. Shifting her grip to hurl it by the hilt across the circling essence in a final act of defiance: a Winter Owl unseen and unheard disarms her, in one quick swooping motion,
and clutching seizure of its mighty talons. Three quick seconds later the modest, shining, ownerless sword rings like a tuning fork after clanking to halt at Michelle’s feet.
Michelle picks up the sword and lays the hilt to her left side on the bench. A black man in share cropping farmer jeans appears to the south; waving his right hand three times. Several natives appear to the west, as several Oriental
and Slavic players
appear to the west. The swirling, misty, clockwise current around the central cube quickens. All four engines flash together in a fiery blinding shade of yellow; The anonymously appearing, Origin Players, disappear back into the rhythum of The Construct.
Trevor looks at Michelle and smiles softly: she is holding back tears in a strong minded unflinching way. The disks begin exchanging the forms and truths of the rival kingdoms. An occasional lightship leaves the death march for sanctuary in the Amber
Rooms.
The petite golden funnel between Disk-2 and the new Disk-1 concludes transferring its rivers and mountains of forms. As Disk-2 moves over its twin: ATM sized to only ten feet, appears on the eastern edge of the cube that shall form the new core. Mr.
Eight steps out on ATM’s left side and salutes Michelle, who nods politely. She closes the Amber Wells and stands up putting her jacket back on. The swell of white light momentum is sweeping in a circle at a prodigious rate its outer rivers brushing
the sides of the four failed monuments. The rainbow colored abridgements allowing information transfers and sorting between the four engines no longer shedding mist are suddenly and silently gone. The four bright radiant engines now as big as houses sail
gingerly off the failed monument placing themselves equidistant between the four failed core attempts and the ninth and final attempt, the eternal white light circulating a few feet below.
The twin disks from the original core and the new one are synched; waiting. The Vault floating centered the bench now sixteen feet in length a few steps back. “Do you want to do this?”
McBain attempts to have Michelle read the code and she waves him off. Mr. Eight
staring at him stays put. Trevor walks up to the open vault speaking softly to
the small group of fountainheads becoming the automated mechanical mind and heart of The
Construct: “Love Trust Respect – Power Strength Endurance – Courage Heart
Intelligence –Hope Joy Enthusiasm – Confidence Competence Competitiveness.” For a second, Trevor believes something has gone dreadfully
wrong. The Alliant is still
slowly circling the edge of the cube being shaped into a sphere with a monument
inside. Michelle points to the eastern engine holding both hands out as if pushing a trunk shut. Trevor stares long enough to notice the engines are descending into the
rotating mist at an extremely low cautious rate: and the four sets of five triple crowns are evolving into a circle of twenty bordering the mist. He calls
across to Mr. Eight, “This is the very center then, AT20?”
Dr. Vulchario’s eastern army, disrupted and disheveled briefly by the failed monument rising from the center of their ranks, laying waste to a two mile square block of soldiers, armament and ordinance; has regrouped into four large deployments. The
heavy guns are turned on the swelling spearhead of Rya Talon to their northwest. A momentary cheer goes up amongst the conscripted soldiers, forming The Vulture’s army of eternal damnation; when ATM disappears from view far to the east, where he had
stood, blocking out the light of the five small tightly orbiting suns.
The brief revelry turns to gloom, as the two mile wide monuments, having methodically risen to the height, where the line between the towers ancient natural granite and modern metallics meet; begin slowly turning upside down, in
alignment with each
other. The troops and equipment that could not escape to the edge or jump to safety in time, having moved towards the center, are now trapped in an avalanche of epic proportions; as the megalithic monoliths, shed a gargantuan dirty waterfall of bodies,
soil, rock and equipment; in a tumbling detonation, back towards the hollow jagged fissures they arose from. As it tumbles nine miles, the air thickens with a choking sandy dust; as the main body of descending turbulences touches down; sending a thousand
foot wall of loose debris, mushrooming out from its central apex, of exploding pressurization.
The generals of Vulchario’s V360 Drow Knots having once restored order after the completely unexpected occurrence of the rising monuments; which they were not forewarned and alerted to as a battlefield contingency are now adrift in the ensuing
eruption of pandemonium as the regular army and mechanized divisions, struggle for breath, in a sea of effluvia and toxic particulates.
What little space that exists between the loathsome plume of falling fatality
disappears as each of the four standing armies is subjected to the coup de grâce. The monuments begin plummeting readied to annihilate; generalship, soldiering; logistics,
military ballistics, gunnery and chivalry.
Mr. Eight can see the dead blocks of hardened Eternal Essence drifting away solemnly emptied systematically of every single speck of Eternal Presence. In his mind he is thinking of coconut cream pie and hot coffee and what a bitterly
disappointing
appeal to arms, and wagering of battle
Dr. Vulchario is engaging in. He wonders if he should’ve declared the monuments into battle; giving his opponents a sporting chance, to avoid the shame of being defeated by giant boulders.
Scouting Vulchario had been great fun, but in the end he was a mathematician and physicist playing at war, by amassing troops; and enjoying the ritualistic comfort of keeping them polished like a vast toy army. All those years in The Tower Of Absolute
with his distillery and pools of essence had blinded him to the naked facts of existence. Mr. Eight glad to have come this far:
“It’s about power. Who’s got it. Who wants it, and what are they willing to do to get it.”
McBain begins to walk in Mr. Eights direction. “Zip that vault up were done
here Mac.”
Trevor slightly embarrassed by the boy’s quippish rejoinder does comply. The old Disk-2 is ready to be withdrawn; its substantial range of activities and inclinations; transpiring all around them, as the Eternal Presence and the Eternal Essence;
begin a long and complicated process of infusion and inculcation, so they can combine their efforts into an intricate system of managing the frame by frame sequencing of The Totality, utilizing the clear lights range of absolute zero to instantaneous
transfer speed; that successfully orders the experienceable parts of The Construct: into a habitable and traversable realm, of distinct domains, composed of lightmach abridgements.
Trevor closes The Vault with zero fanfare, the unfolding progressions, a type
of evolutionary construction, he has seen the end result of in his nocturnal and waking journeys, to the small central black ship, with twenty consoles; forming the fourth
major wall and dividable circle.
Trevor moves toward Mr. Eight. He sharply salutes him and boards ATM returning to battle.
The Vulture has arranged the arrival of a lightmach bridge purchased from Arc
Volte leader of The Outliers. It can be seen only by his devastated dust clogged western army as they watch the unfolding formation of their death from above. DATAFACE is
slowly circling the central spire of the V73 Battle Tower, absorbing fire from the passing RN6 Aeromyd formations, the pellets of presence reduced to a chalky
colored dust; when hit directly by self-propelled light grenades. The vibrations shudder in
waves, as the central monument falls backward into the abyss it carved while rising up from the depths below the Crystal Spring, the tower is swaying, set in motion by each strike of the sinking monument, on an impeding ledge or jagged protuberance of
collapsed distilling equipment. The gate is open and flashing only a few feet onto the broad circle of the battle porch. The ATM is once again standing at the halfway marker between the Crystal Skull and his besieged creation. The constraint is
excruciating, his brow is tightly knit and gloomy.
Put to rout and not wanting to risk the loss of his escape route, Vladimir pulls the brass billeting pin releasing the extravagant voluminous scarlet flag’s cabling mechanism; and the red billowing insignia drifts sideways, held aloft temporarily; by
the smoky thundering currents of air created by the aerial bombardment. Stepping inside the gate; he orders DATAFACE to follow igniting the golden orbs
inside to draw the bridges full allotment of power. DATAFACE is still swarming into its safety as the
Battle Tower lurches sideways again. The southern monument touches down with the concussive displacement of a small meteor, followed every few seconds by another: the four tremblings of the ground; thunder the Crystal Skull five thousand miles away to
the east.
DATAFACE safely through the gate and in the abridgement The Vulture swipes all three golden orb switches forcefully and the gate closes and the wide bridge withdraws across a long white arc leaving the V360 Drow Knots and The Tower Of Absolute to
decide their own fates.
Deciding to follow Mr. Eights lead, Trevor readies Alex, Frank and Major Danes to exit the process forming The Core. The question of where this version of the ATM comes from, and is connected to has occurred to Trevor as a deep intuitive caution; along
with the lightships allowed a measure of sanctuary by entering the Amber Books;
the limited amount of interaction between The Alliant and the boy as The Overlord: and the one statement Mr. Eight has made to mark his position as openly clear. He is
performing the actions required for survival; as are Michelle and The Alliant. Lost in thought, McBain comes back into the moment when Michelle drapes a black
leather satchel over his shoulder by its carry strap. Michelle looks calmly reassuring him.
“Every being granted sanctuary tonight gave its life to save my life and can be safely released.”
“I have a lot of questions: if and when you have the time.” Michelle offers her hand looking Trevor in the eye and shakes his hand firmly. Michelle bends over to pick up the beautifully crafted four foot sword. “I’ll have to make a new scabbard
for this. If you allow the beings to rest in the Amber Rooms; I’ll make a first class protector and give this to you: forever.”
“How about I say, “Sorta-kinda-mostly yes.” but I really haven’t got a clue.” Michelle giggles reaching up to pat him on the shoulder, “You have
a true mind and heart: that is your mystery.”
“How do we leave?” He asks flustered. ““Vault – Core Nine – Parkland” once your back at the bench, touch the diamond dome; “Disperse – Misty Hob.”” Trevor eyes wide “If you say so.”
The Alliant continuing his inspection of the processes: stops a moment and turns, “Thank you.”
Mathias, Harris, Danes and McBain in a small left arm to right shoulder human
cube of their own, respectively: toting a hand truck of automatic weapons, a still mostly full duffle bag of food stuffs and medical provisions, and a twelfth century sword;
allow Trevor to trigger the exit code mechanism. Outside the protective barrier
pulls away like an inverted waterfall in reverse time.
Moses is standing halfway above ground waiting for them on the blue steel stairwell to the old Bell Tower Station. The returning party quickly move below
with Moses closing the recessed cover. The main waiting area of the station has
twenty long wooden
benches. Lisa, Auri, Doc, Jack Barret and Morbiditus are each separated by a couple of benches; a burly black medic and a few RN6 corpsmen attending their medical needs, trying to lessen the profound stupor and rank absence of cognitive thought. When
Morbiditus makes his six or seventh attempt to open a vial of The Presence and inject himself; Moses calls out “Let it be,” waiting for McBain to arrive, assess and learn. Morbiditus fumbles lining up the small golden needle and tiny
glass vial but
with practiced perseverance succeeds after several attempts. His transformation
is marked, acute; and extraordinary. He is fully present relaxed and concentrating on McBain who looks funereal.
“There was a difficult situation I came upon after the fact. No one but me utilized the ZB mist.”
The site of Lisa, Aurian and Daniels stupefied and having drool dabbed from their lips by the medics wielding cotton balls, has put him back on his heels, and in need of serious thought.
Harris looks at Moses who responds; “We’ll load them in an A28 and slowly lower them down the tower. Once through the gates and back at The Octagon they are going to need to be walked repeatedly along the hidden circle of tracks hiding Train World.
Hopefully Morbiditus is correct and they have not started in on any variety of The Presence. They can’t be suddenly moved they have to be withdrawn slowly” Looking at McBain, “We’ve got this matter contained, try not to worry yourself excessively.
Meet us at Oldwood Station when your business is wrapped up.”

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