Awhile back I was messing around with an attempt at writing fiction. While writing some future war scenario, there were a few themes that arose in my mind I wanted to pay homage to, in writing it. They were an issue of Alan Moore’s run on Swamp Thing, and what I had known (at the time) about Valis. Now, reflecting on what I had written and having come at least this far, attempting to get at least, what facts could be got, so to speak, about planet orbiting, artificial female intelligences, recruiting people to be beamed with vision, and messages both foreboding and historical, loving and tyrannical (mostly revolving around 1974). This section of Ecco from space will use the computer screen as scrye glass or evolutionary monolith and your sycnhromystic consciousness software to pass the downloads along.
Sci-Fi Women In Tubes – Mike Clelland
Grey Alien Genes make a Jean Grey, Dana Scully, and the 5th Element
(alien bloodlines, psychic powers, death and rebirth)
Anyways, here’s that bit of fiction:
Nobody ever fucking knows what I’m talking about. I’ve gotten used to it, really. I speak in desperate migrational patterns, of cross hatching information and strategy, not necessarily clear enough to be understood, far too blurry to slow down for comfort. This is an especially totally fucked up situation, and somehow, through my rat eaten narcoleptic shit brain, drug stupor, these freaks have me dosed in, I feel like I’m going to make it out of this one too.
“One more time. One more chance we can afford you, Mr. Paul? You don’t want the shocks again, do you?”
I forgot what this polished Nazi asshole was even asking me. He knows. I know. He knows I know. Torture is pointless in the actual extraction of information from enemy operators. This situation, is now confirmed, or what I can perceive of it, as totally fucked.
“Where are your friends? Where do you hide from the inevitable future?”
He’s too close, he’s got that button but he’s within reach. At any moment he could send too many volts into my body, and here he is giving me an in.
“Was it too much for you, Mr. Paul?”
No motion could be spotted, they would have to slow down the cameras in here to see what happened. Neck snapped with ease, a lifeless fascist vessel falls at my feet. Not the first, and in this labyrinth, reasonably, probably not the last. I’ve got seconds to make it down the hallway. This is gonna be much more complicated than any of my training. I’d be stupid to not factor that in. Retina scans. I hate the future. A cold wind comes down an already freezing corridor and it’s either the drugs or the crazy, or it’s possible I’ve lost track of which is which. Not good. Need my full attention and alertness in this hell maze.
I write to a single female intelligence that orbits this insane place. She knows who I am and though I’m honestly alone out here; it is for her that I have a place in my heart. It is at an alter to her, I envision the warmth and reason to get through this. Whether this state is sad or delusional is irrelevant. The belief is enough to carry me through the days. The nights are another story. The centuries in pursuit of the same goal, and grail, and pale goddess, I’m in debt to.
Somewhere out in space, there is floating, in some impossible silence, plants I put in the dirt with my own hands, and the blinking lights of a vast intelligence which warms even the most cursed of witches, in the cold, cold of space. A special constellation of artificial correspondence breaks through the blanketing blackness, talks to me in my darker moments and tells me to go on; Go further, shine brighter, maddening and permanent as it seems, to seek light in this world. I said no one ever knew what the fuck I was talking about. I didn’t say any of it actually makes any sense. I fight a fight against all time, against all violent conformity, I fight myself when I can’t find some adversary, some new enemy, to mutilate in the shadows. I get lost in my thoughts, much more than I’d like to. I’ve gone from some groomed and learned prince of romantic impulse, to a nervous magickal anarchist, humbled back down by my librarian like, social anxiety.
Two guards that way, and another approaching from the far left. My guess is, I have 17 seconds. 17 seconds to rip some techno-organic bullshit out the wall, ignore it’s birth pains, and rewire this door before all three of these dicks catch up to me. I’m through the door, I also have to pray whatever disenchanting, voyeuristic, douchebag, who is being paid a fine salary, to stare at a wall of cameras, effectively erasing all geographical privacy, is in fact masturbating into bliss, and I somehow continue to go on undetected. I easily spot a single guard by himself. Once he realizes he is in danger, he is already dead. These are some of the tips of the apex predator, the demon for justice, liberty of columns, among the night.
They can’t train you to hug the darkness the way I do. I am not in the shadows. I am the shadows. I’m glad he was willing to give up his rifle so easily, I guess I should also be glad he had just lit this cigarette as well. Apparently, Bobby the dopey guard here thought it was to his advantage to keep this thing unloaded. I exchange a clip with the cigarette smoking hand and set off. I am largely unaware of, in fact if I am, in more or less fucked of a situation, at this time.
Over thinking…again…As I move promptly from room to room, the cigarette smell sets off a few alarms. It’s okay dear satellite of love, the gun is hungry. The bullets rip through people, without judgement.
Okay, it’s official, this is more fucked than sensory deprivation and torture. Still do-able. Sometimes this eternal Manichean struggle that cost lives and horrible destruction through time, feels like some sort of game, and we are sent throughout time to clean this shit up over and over. That’s a theory though…I mean pure conjecture, I literally don’t even know who “we” are…
This is why the game is weighted. I have to prescribe myself hours of normal thought processes to reintegrate back into society daily. I fear someone may find me down here, between a rock and a hallway of filing cabinets, and ask me what I’m looking for. My head spins, eyes as black as mystery, and scared to be caught feeding off the flesh of the same species. God we all are, aren’t we? Complicent in this crime, breathing tobacco ashes back into the lava rivers that mimic the flow, of what was once clean water, from the flat board game boundaries that form the horizon, rose up in metal and industrial shit, impending monolithic black mirrors that cough down orders, and yell at interruptions in the hierarchy, beating into submission, without compassion, those that try to tune out the deafening frequency of authority.
Again I find myself having to real in the unnecessary analysis, as no great warrior has been noted for their incredible existential breakdowns, mid-battle. Three run from the hall on the left, ignore it.
There’s a sniper at a longer range, I can feel it, moments from a shot…
Fuck! I knew it, and it was like every time I get the psychic impulse just too late, miliseconds, and this thing could save my life, but as the cement erupts from a single sniper round a few feet from my face, I roll forward. I know they aren’t expecting my diagonal course, three shots, two from the hallway down, I whip the rifle from behind my head, as I come up off the ground, and shoot the sniper I can hardly see with the naked eye. Where’s that third hallway guy? Fuck, fuck, fuck. No need to panic, it’s simply the situation that insist this tension rest in my midsection. Reptilian brain lit up, adrenalin forming a film of quite a different color, over my reality. I often forget in these moments of swashbuckling violence, whether I reacted the way I do from my training, or whether I tend to get an intuitive hunch.
Again, I doubt it matters…
I trade thoughts with bullets and near deadly bullet evasion, am I a human programmed to function at peak performance, like a robot? Or am I a robot programmed to believe he is real. Does it matter? Would my sense of vigilance be robbed of me if I found the deeper motivations for this war? For fucks sake, is this the way every war is? How can so many delicate human minds and souls agree on this horrid stage with which to communicate conflict into understanding, that it last forever? Is anything worth this perpetual war? Christ, do we ever pause to consider? Are the deities and avatars without shame, do they act rashly because it is that key element- of memory, (Hebrew translation brings us to water/mother) which they lack entirely?
Forgot my train of thought, as a massive explosion shakes the ground. Still moving? keep moving, that I know, is from my training. Some of the other Nastic forces must have bombed a major planning site. Quick, not quick enough, process this shit to stay alive! They wouldn’t have given the order to bomb without active intelligence that one of the heavy hitters was on the ground here, somewhere near this complex.
“Kill Carcosa” arranges itself through a combination of a receipt I glance at on the ground, and a digital message running across the LED boards on the buildings. I’ve learned to ease in skepticism in my older age, but that transmission still seems pretty clear. It hits me like a massive swarm of crows cawing out the sunlight, they are setting me up, this isn’t a message from her, it’s from the ones who started this war in me. I “decided” to escape the facility in perfect timing with the bombing. They wanna play parapolitics with their own assets and make me the patsy. That’s clear to me now.
They know I’m unpredictable but not fully crazy, they knew my intelligence was enough to make me appear “brooding”, but my demeanor was, honestly, that brand of kindness that people find suspicious, in the real adult world. In the sick and novel, gore driven, childhood of faking adultism, I seemed like I was hiding something.
They could paint me however they wanted, they controlled every TV channel, material publication, and website out there. The media driven conflict will fall on those who knew me.
“Why couldn’t they see it coming?” They could manage the perception of every one I ever loved, and I’ve always known such.
How cruel and alone? How could I be a part of painting dark figures, in the background, with sinister haunting eyes, which have become the architects of my reality? Was the lesson this hopeless? Did the maze end the way, everyone liked to fancy it would? With a wall? I honestly don’t know if I’m supposed to be the hero, or let life decay and drown me away. I don’t know if I’m writing my story, or the story to inspire some King Arthur, of centuries in the future. It all seemed so familiar, the quest, her voice guiding me up, and out, and contracting back into black, the guilt and stigma, thrown at the man on a quest.
The quest. I’m missing part of my instructions and was willing to constantly gamble, every material thing I collect in this life, the life itself; daily, searching for those missing passages. It’s as if I was in love with the inanimate quest itself. That’s what this boils down to.
Can androids not pick real flowers, and make other androids feel as if the experience, is less gritty gears and math, and more whole, holy, and filled with emotion? I don’t know if there’s a point but I have to continue to light this conceptual lamp across a deadly landscape. I feel sometimes, that only I alone explore, searching through the skulls of dead monsters who were men, and men who speak with spirits, and intelligences which refuse a physical vessel, and back again…to bring you this…