Tel: Notes from a Labyrinth

During a day of dark and spine and bone, in the sixth year, in a place where the disconnected heads mouth soft, innumerable chants, as they float in groups along through the tunnels, you are passing alone, tooled up and wired , through a long sequence of repeated monotonous interchanges of open straight passageways, the ground, grit of broken numbers (tangle of hair)
and the walls, a slate gray intricate pattern (mosaic of bone) and at length; miles; days; years; data, find yourself, at nightbreak; as the mouthers of chants (flesh chants) retreat into their niches, within the edges of a network, based upon a towering house (fractal
scape of steel and glass and flesh), surrounded by a few spare data trees, and reflected in a black, barely rippling random sea, mathematical mirror.
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Never and less, here is where you will be scanning the next few weeks. The operator of the site, Tel, has worked with you before, but you have not been on site with him for a few years. A message rider from him, image, sound and data files, has gotten past your filters,
and offers you no other alternative than a reply. The rider was detailed, in convoluted form, sound files montaged with the vision and data bits.
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The software was all wrong, the circuits and memory ran fine, but there was a wild inconsistency between the types of software tools. What was a volume simulation of downtown LA doing wired together with a database of Japanese bond transactions in the 1960's and some early 21 century 3-d porno loops?

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An avatar of death white face, liquid luminous nitrogen eyes, thin curved lips, and hair softer than the web.
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He spoke.
"All the creation here is not simply of one single substance. All you see and feel is a pattern of remembered codes, objects painted and recorded, parts of their qualities preserved, and merged for example, a sound recorded on lower Broadway at two in the morning,
placed into a spreadsheet and merged with the architectural plans for the world trade center, while this mixture is painted on the pattern of sand in the Gobi desert after the Romans destroyed the ecology. We have interlaced this on a digital framework of the
taste of the milk coming from your mothers breast, and feel you will be well pleased. The more desires and urges and sacred objects, the more detailed plans and histories and contents of libraries, the more complexity placed into an object, the more fascinating and powerful and endlessly variable it can become."

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The soft space was patterned from pleasure as well as from need; all interfaces became games of joy to play. The data was enclosed in Andalusian castles of flowing water and music, where information came as your own true song.
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And with digital bits; chaos and complex deep to the linked clone minds the seething net was wired, simulation wrapped tight to; across all natures world close touched; a mime of simulation, joined to the real, the hard and quick of this once only world.

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And now through this valley, through red dimmed windows. vast forms move fantastic, to music of machineries and the throng moves ack and forth and does not smile.

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No sooner than the control commands had entered the surface fractal structure, and you speak these words, then, as if the entire network had crystallized into a metallic state, you can feel the chain reaction of screens and images locking across the entire network.
You become aware of hollow echoing inside the room. like an entire Balinese Kepchar orchestra is clanging. Screens across the room go blank or flicker with hundreds of images, and all the images start to become the same, simultaneous. multiple merger, you stare across the room at Tel staring at all the screens, like stone, you place your pseudo hand, on the image of his shoulder, and he speaks, almost grimly, monotonously staring ahead and as he speaks , he relays a sequence of repeated images, simple and direct, and you drink in the portent of the words.


“Can’t you hear it? You have heard it for many nights. but I did not speak. They are locked up, alive.”

And tonight, the door breaking down. The death cry. Struggles within the metallic archway.
“Where will you go?”

"They will be here soon.” Footsteps.
A heartbeat. He flashed a whole sequence of hitherto concealed images. “It's all over. They stand outside the door."
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The computer network starts to fall apart. The simulated room starts to flash images of the room it is inside of. The walls were being broken down. They burst in.

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The electric storm was still raging.
The world shot full of wild light
You turn back to look.
The radiance is the blood red moon.