From:
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Mr. Eight opens the conning tower hatch and climbs out onto the observation platforms multi-environment hull. Trevor senses confusion when pointing his finger and wagging it downward.
An old fashioned antique klaxon horn commences its comical soundings to announce the imminent self-destruct sequence of the lightmach sets dedicated to
The Empress’s continuity and travels. The Pilot scoots halfway back down the ladder before
stopping, his left hand on the handrail his right hand rises reluctantly slapping his forehead with a ludicrous exaggerated thwack. Stifling a giggle he
climbs back up mounting the small deck with a priceless smile.
“Hey sailor boy, who taught you that crazy walking on water shtick.”
“The same deranged pirate who gave his best buddy the parrot a sex change operation so he could accuse it of being a Pollyanna.” The Navigator winked and crouched down securely as the boy dove back into the open hatch headfirst; surging upward he
is sprinting towards The Core.
A room of rainbows formed above The Empress its copious bridges touching the three hundred and sixty degrees of visible horizon. Woeful lamentations and sonnets of timeless sorrow exited the floating prison. Vapors rising upward began absorbing the
incalculable horrors imagined inside its cabin and bulwarks. Infested sheets of
billowing detestation reeking with the malignant decaying odors of innumerable species of conscious life tortured tormented and driven to extinction slowly swirled upward
drawn into the black monument hidden in the center of the collapsing vortex. The Empress glowed with bloody maroon lines filled with tiny golden orbs playing funeral fugues and fantasias. Falling into the sea they rose up again as six columns of the eternal light surrounding the floating spectral throne of
judgement rendered against the escaping prisoner. Colorful life drained from the broken
unplayable chords composing the barren husk of the longboat pulled upward. The whitening light produced the compression ratios that retracted the bridges from
the horizon. A solid thirty-six foot sphere of diamond lattice began
its inward pull. Mr. Eight had closed the hatch long ago. Trevor is standing patiently with a wet handkerchief over his nose while applying a set of soft pliable plugs into each ear canal.
The everlasting computation continued reducing processed presence backwards into randomized essence that dropped forlorn desiccated droplets and slugs of primal awareness into a sea of inanimate lifelessness. The All protected his eyes behind ornate
thick goggles and called out three modified commands, “Lento-Liberamente-Lentando.”
The unseen 2085 replied in confirmation “Slowly-Freely-Gradually slowing and softening.”
Trevor opened his hand allowing the small gem to fall into his palm. Bending, he scooped up the forty-four inch wooden longboat model selected as the prototype for an Exterminus Virus for the capture and imprisonment of The Owl and her followers in
the nebulous region of Oceania.
Pocketing his goggles and tossing the ear plugs into the sea he approaches the conning tower ladder. Climbing up and standing on the small deck he raps an
old signal on the hatch. He can hear Aloysius muttering as he fumbles with locks and hydraulics.
Gazing through the mounted eyepieces he sees several small storms repairing the
superficial wounds inflicted on the barrier.
Trevor asks “Do you want me to open it manually?”
The hatch opens and Aloysius’s tiny hand waves him inward as The Archivist is stepping back downward. Both shipmates solidly footed Trevor picks up the bespectacled four foot eight inch librarian still readied for work in his three
piece gabardine
suit replete with a gold chronometer and burgundy tie .
“How are you, Boss?”
“I’m in fine form Master Aloysius Stone.”
The young fellow shakes his head back and forth, bobbing slightly, imitating a parrot.
Trevor retrieves his black bowler and umbrella from the deck handing it back reassuringly.
Facially and proportionally the two boys are identical. The basic antithesis of
their dispositions and tasks personify the discongruity of the S.X. Skytrax’s
purpose. The necessary asymmetry is embodied by Mr. Eight’s role as The Overlord and Supreme
Military Commander of all matters threatening the system of intraphased lightmachs. Aloysius’s raison d'etre is to subtly cultivate every conceivable
political option or service required as a counterbalancing force to prevent the
ship and crew from
being drawn into costly overt military actions. He is the Inspector General and Superintendent Director of Oceania. Setting Aloysius down, Trevor moves up and down the hatch ladder with spirited vigor; returning with the model longboat. Taking the wet handkerchief from his pocket he pretends to remove several small spots and
fusses over the lines and sails.
Holding out his arms reluctantly the crestfallen archivist accepts his model longboat.
Aloysius somberly offers, “I’ll return it to the mantle in the wardroom where it belongs.”
Moving towards the ships center Trevor follows asking, “What investments do
you need?”
The two thoughtful old friends can hear Mr. Eight moaning outside the prime junction. Each is observing the others demeanor for clues with which to formulate a game plan. Aloysius impetuously darts in and out of the wardroom replacing the model on its
stand returning swiftly.
Readied for action he whispers, “There was a conflict!”
Trevor nods attentively, “Take your time we are safe now.”
Opening his weighty gold ships chronometer, “Seventeen minutes fifty five seconds elapsed”
Trevor knows using the 10-80 verses 1-0-8-0 modular formatting a core meltdown occurs at precisely the eighteen minute mark if the ships internal clock is not rewound. Both sailors observe smoky gray veins of salt and pepper
hair inching along the
polished metal floor towards them. Trevor stoops low and his partner clambers up onto his back. Recovering his normal comprehension and usual depth of perception he speaks deliberately with studied discernment.
“The injury is minor. The Alliant should escape this Zero easily. If ATM was of the human form the injury would be the equivalent of a plantar’s wart.
With proper scalpelling, sanding, medication and a clean bandage; everything shall be well.
Should the virus have spread further The Origin would have disgorged our core and destroyed us like a hungry bird spitting out a few loose grains of sand clinging sullyingly to a fat fresh worm. Truly… five seconds is not an acceptable margin of error
for a consortium of only five players.” Aloysius finished with a sense of qualified poise. Trevor could feel him finally exhale and release a resigned shrug.
“Were a pocket size posse of rogue gunslingers dodging a few stray bullets then.”
“There were many strange and bizarre manifestations, I scribbled and drew like a madman.
I could barely keep abreast of the cacophony. I would like you to review my observations.”
Trevor intoned gravely, “Absolutely!”
--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
* Origin: www.darkrealms.ca (1:229/2)