If on a Winter's Night a Traveller... (Book Review)

Okay so promise kept, I am reviewing a book I just finished a few days ago, the postmodern novel from 1979 by Italo Calvino, If on a winter's night a traveller. The book -unlike most I'd imagine- is notable for its desire to highlight the artificial nature of what it is. It breaks the fourth wall inherently from the first few lines and continues to do so with abandon: You are the protagonist and you have a story that lies within this story, and many after it. The book inspired the David Mitchell novel Cloud Atlas (which I have reviewed here) and is recognised as one of the greatest pieces of Italian literature of the previous century.

The novel takes us through the reading process, a process we're all familiar with I'm sure, but to see it written down for us at the start of a novel is quite a shell game to play. The narrative revolves around us buying Italo Calvino's new novel If on a winter's night a traveller, and commencing to read as readers often do, which provides a comical glimpse at the unconscious mind when performing such day-to-day tasks as reading. (Have you left the stove on? Sure the front door's locked? Need the toilet beforehand?) It allows us to see how writers write simultaneously as Calvino is able to use his omnipresent voice to highlight the difficulties that the author (himself) went through, in order to write the book we are about to read. He highlights the philosophical side of writing and the idea that the first-person "I" as used by writers is designed in part to include elements of the author's personality. He denotes the very functions of the fictional writing style as if he is telling us how the story has been constructed.

Jittery at first, the novel smooths out its learning curve and we find ourselves in the first of the unfinished stories within the work. In my Cloud Atlas review I included a list of the story halves so as to make the structure appear more accessible and I will do the same for this book, because it's only when seeing it pan out before you, do you really understand the structure:

Chapter 1
If on a winter's night a traveller
Chapter 2
Outside the town of Malbork
Chapter 3
Leaning from the steep slope
Chapter 4
Without fear of wind or vertigo
Chapter 5
Looks down in the gathering shadow
Chapter 6
In a network of lines that enlace
Chapter 7
In a network of lines that intersect
Chapter 8
On the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon
Chapter 9
Around an empty grave
Chapter 10
What story down there awaits its end?
Chapter 11
Chapter 12

I hope the list aids you, but if not allow me to explain. As you start to read the first story, you find it ceases mid-page, a printing error has occurred and so you set out in Chapter 2 to find the rest of the book. You meet a woman named Ludmilla, whom you find has also experienced the misfortune of an unfinished book. The publisher however has seen even bigger problems, the authors' names are getting mixed up, and the novel started was in fact not If on a winter's night a traveler by Italo Calvino, but instead was the text belonging to Outside the town of Malbork by a completely different author!

The puzzles increase and over time plot lines are abandoned in pursuit of the next unfinished prose, ravenous reader that you are, and so you seek and travel and hop and jump and explore all over the world until you reach the terminus having not finished a single novel. The point at which you realise that despite all of these stories and all of these grand heroes and heroines writ into the pages, in reality, there was only one protagonist and he was in all of them: He was you.

The book is many things and at the same time it is a single thing, the epicentre of a black hole almost. Is it a crime thriller? A dystopia? A love story? A mystery? Or is it the narrative that we all live and breathe in our lives, not the life of a reader, but of the characters we visualise and live within even for a short while, the books we enjoy and feel inspired by, that make us?

Reading the work provides two perspectives that I touched upon in my article on why writers write. The former is that of the reader, why you read and how we all read, the methods, the distractions, styles and motivations so vast. But more importantly is the latter I feel, not because I write myself, but rather because for all who read the book it will always spark lucidity with the process for those who haven't engaged with it seriously. The book truly makes you consider the writer at the other end of the metaphorical bridge that writing is and how they think, how they breathe life into narratives.

But the best thing about If on a winter's night a traveller... is not the style or even the philosophy behind it, but rather the sheer skill Calvino employs when switching to the stories embedded within the chapters. The voices chatter lifelike, the narratives are truly gripping (just a shame they're never finished!) and perhaps the greatest strength, the fact that you never feel remote when you go into the 'proper' tales; they're no different than any other novel you'd happen across on a shelf in the local bookshop, which makes this Inception-esque journey into stories within your story a perfect delight for a week's reading. A book to read at some point in your life, even if only to marvel at the impressive linguistic footwork- and what a performance it is!

If On a Winter's Night a Traveller (1979)

Why I Read/Write: Some Thoughts

So a few minutes ago a thought occurred to me: Why do writers write?

Now this question is usually answered easily enough, expressed differently from writer to writer of course and the response will generally follow the same logic: It's what I was born to do/ I wouldn't be doing anything else/ I knew it was what I wanted to do as soon as I started reading as a kid etc. Published authors of course all share a passion for books, they enjoy reading and -over time- they formulated characters, scenarios and backgrounds that would only be expressed if they were to put pen to paper; for them to reach out and grab the reader and shake her profusely, while shouting maniacally that it's this guy whose problems they should focus on, this relationship, that murder and so on. It's a nagging of voices heard by no other, an overflow of people unborn to whom birth can only be given via the written word from writer to reader.

A short while ago I started reading the postmodern novel If on a Winter's Night a Traveller... by the Italian writer, Italo Calvino. I've nearly finished it and will certainly be reviewing it, but for now I'm going to touch on it here. The novel focuses on the reader as the central character, but the commentary is from the perspective of Calvino himself, which is where thoughts leak and sentiments over reading and what it means to be a reader or writer are discussed amongst the characters. It's not only invigorated me as a reader but the images conjured on occasion remind me of philosophical novels like The Problems of Philosophy by Bertrand Russell. I slowly formulated my own image of the relationship: A valley, uncrossable by either party, but the writer has timber, nails and the knowledge of carpentry and it is through this skill set that he can allow the two parties to meet. The writer writes into the days that die into nights and seasons pass slowly. The reader waits, yearning for the writer's thoughts while the writer drives himself mad wanting to impart those thoughts to the reader. Over time the bridge is completed, the structure is built, but sadly, there remains work to be done; planks are missing, the timber is broken in some places: A second draft is needed. And so the writer writes and -eventually, the bridge is finished and upon meeting the reader, the writer feels relief wash over him as the chatter of voices unheard dies down as conflicts are settled.

This rambling of psuedo-philosophy on my part serves only to highlight a second characteristic of writers: the idea of centrality, the absoluteness of the written word that for writers is omnipresent. Books and the professional reading/writing of them is of complete importance to a professional author. You could say that it is the meaning of their very life. Their meaning of life one could say, is to write books, to pass ideas and tales onto a ravenous public waiting to devour their fantasies.

The meaning of life is inevitably where my imagination took me after thinking this and what life means to me, because I of course exist outside of my reading/writing habits: I have a job alongside this, I have friends, family, other hobbies and I'm certain that authors who I admire have the exact same things going on in their lives, so why the focus on this medium of communication? Personally I would suggest looking at any other medium of communication for analysis. Take film for example: a film director (like Quentin Tarantino for instance,) will see a desire to impart upon a set of people a tale, a cast of characters, brought to life by actors, who -through a desire so akin to his directors'- seek only to bring to life as many interesting personas as they possibly can and it is through this prism that we see an identical glimmer of desire, a passion. No matter where you look, you see desire, the raw, primal instinct to just want to do something that brings pleasure to the agent. But is it more than even this? Is this merely the means to an end?

An Aside

A short while ago I wrote an opinion piece, in which I sought to disprove everything UKIP was saying before the local elections in May this year. I did that because I saw a disingenuousness in their politics, a representation of everything that I hate in humans, wherever it might be found and that is a brand of ignorance that is inexcusable, an ignorance of truth in the so-called Age of Information. Arthur C Clarke in the 1970s predicted that one day satellites would bring the accumulated knowledge of the human race "to our fingertips." The Internet came and changed our lives forever and in doing so it made us more informed, or at least offered a way in which power could be held to account more readily, the tide of propaganda and populism stalled if only a little easier than had been previously possible. In short: to be informed today is easier than it ever has been, because source material can be more easily traced.

Returning to the crux of this essay, the knowledge that can be gathered, the data that can be readily accessed by anyone with a computer and modem can be married with the desire to tell fictions. What are fictions, but truths wrapped in the clothes of lies? What do authors do but philosophise over issues near and dear to them. The War of the Worlds was written from the standpoint of anti-imperialism; Starship Troopers was written from a pro-nuclear testing viewpoint and Cloud Atlas was written from ideas surrounding continuity, the rise and fall of humanity and how struggles so akin to one another thread through time immemorial. At the end of the day, the meaning of life for authors seems to be to give ideas to people, clad in the beautiful prose of an armour-peircing bullet designed to penetrate and influence the deepest parts of us, our souls if you will, for the better, or at least the idea of betterment, from the writer's perspective.

But ideas must germinate from something, they don't pop out of the air, but rather they grow from the fertile soil of a mind that is willing to think. And it is here where the two ideas meet. It was when I brought these two ideas together that I realised my meaning of life is not to write or even to read, but rather to know. To learn things, to keep learning as often as possible. I've long believed that knowledge is the key to happiness and fulfilment, because to know is to be informed and to be informed is to be privy to the truth, which in turn means that you have not been drawn into false notions of what exists inside your perceptions. We all see the same events, we hear about them on the radio, we see them on the TV and we hear politicians debate them in the House of Commons. But even though we see and hear the same thing, seldom do we perceive the same thing, but rather one man will jump to conclusions (such as those I accused UKIP of,) while the man who is informed will say otherwise, will challenge what he sees on first sight as often as possible and while I don't want this essay to turn political at this point, and I of course acknowledge that I myself can/has/will commit the same shortsighted offences I've accused others of in the past, I still wish to be informed, I want to know and above all, I desire an outlet for original thought that comes from my perceptions, to forge originality from the material of what I perceive, be it in fiction or in fact.

Ultimately, to write is to create and to read is to discover. One can easily become informed and politically aware through simply checking up on facts, using the Internet as an indispensable tool, or seeking them out wherever they might be lurking, but to engage in fiction and to use it to create your own is special, because with fictional works there often comes a truth inside it. There's a philosophy inside of most books/films/music, and it is through these prisms that our understanding of the world is enhanced, because anyone can live a life, can check a fact, can become knowledgable on what has happened before, and can use this to explain what's happening in the present: but what can you say about it? At the end of the day, our lives are fragments of time, perceived through eyes in a blink that are connected to minds unique, so why not engage them in rewriting that which might have failed us? To improve on what's already gone wrong? To learn? If you were to tell the world one story, to leave a piece of advice, a poem or even a comment, what would it say?

Oddworld: Abe's Oddysee (New 'n' Tasty) Review

I'm a little late in reviewing this with things being so busy for me. I guess it's about time that I finally posted this review and updated over the coming weeks over what's been happening. Thanks for reading everyone! I'll write y'all again soon!

Last months's release of the classic PS1 title remake has received resounding praise from nostalgic critics, with the Metro naming it one of the "best remakes of all time." A game that captured the hearts and minds of gamers everywhere, shattering all age and gender markets with great aplomb. It has since became an icon of the 5th Generation, rivalling equally iconic games from long-established franchises like the mighty Final Fantasy VII, challenging convention in what was a paradigm-shifting year one could say for gaming, bringing us GTA, Gran Turismo, Riven, Fallout and Mario Kart 64.  The nostalgic seem to love its redefinition and similarity to the old, but what about this nostalgia-seeker?

I downloaded my copy of Abe on day release as soon as I could and -initiating the PS4 dashboard- leapt into the opening cutscene immediately with silent anticipation. When I was greeted by Abe's "smiling mug" -as the original manual referred to him on first sight- I was immediately transported back into 1999 when I first played the game. The 1997 title remains one of my favourite all-time games, a game that -for me- is not only on my top 10 game list, but also on my list of favoured general media products, including books, films, music, pretty much anything. What we're talking about here is either the revisitation, or annihilation, of my childhood. So let's hope Oddworld Inhabitants and Just Add Water have got it right!

The first thing you'll notice is that the difficulty has been changed. Years ago through the mists of time, you'd scramble around Rupture Farms with only one difficulty: You get shot, you die. Now there's three difficulties, Easy, Medium and Hard. The former gives you "high health" whereas the latter gives you the old get-hit-get-killed style of play, for those who've "completed the tale before." Now I'm going to be honest with you, I'm not a massive "hardcore" gamer by any imaginative stretch. Fair enough, when given a difficulty setting I won't go too easy (like when you play TES/Fallout on the bottom slider and every hostile NPC you cross feels like a level 1 no matter what level you are,) but at the same time I don't go overboard and try a game for the first time on a boldly-named "Nightmare" difficulty. But Abe? Nah, he's different, I thought. This is me bossing an old-school title I used to whip and get whipped by in equal measure hour-after-hour. Someone who, fair enough, didn't rescue every Mudokon but knew how to beat the game with a good ending. So long story short I hit the "Hard" selection and started to play but realised soon after that the good people at Oddworld Inhabitants put me, an Abe Veteran, to shame.

So what's changed? Well, aside from the truly beautiful graphics and a far more dynamic 2D environment, other things have become more fluent. This unfortunately includes enemy reaction times. Years ago, you''d stand in front of a Slig, he'd shout "freeze" (always the same phrase, for they weren't very imaginative back in the '90s) and then you'd have approximately 2-3 seconds to turn your ass 'round and run. Now, aside from having a greater choice of dialogue that's a little more realistic, they also react after no more than what seems like a second. And if you think that you've escaped the screen you're on, along with certain death, think again, because unlike the old version, the black transitions between screens have been done away with, so the border between two screens is infinitely more arbitrary and proportionally more annoying with every bullet that finds its skinny blue target.

A Blast from the Past: Abe for the 21st Century

Old School Abe: A Generation Defined

But for those of you wondering if anything has actually changed in the game itself, you won't be disappointed to hear that there have been new cutscenes added, as well as more Mudokons. From the original 99 we now have 300 to rescue, just like in Abe's Exoddus. And OI haven't been cruel too us either, because they've brought some other cool things over as well, including what appears to be less deadly drops from great heights, a quick save option and more Gamespeak options like the "All o' Ya!" exclamation to garner the attention of multiple Mudokons at any one time. But with all these additions I will warn you of one thing; those new Mudokons, they aren't all in the same places that you might think they're in if you've played this game before. Do you remember the first level? You tried going into the Zulag 2 door didn't you, realised it was locked and inaccessible until near the end of the game? Well I've got one little secret to share with you, so SPOILER ALERT: There's a new Mudokon hiding there, so don't leave the first level without him or "all workers on this shift will die!"  To quote the rewritten iconic advertisement towards the end of level 1.

Sensitive controls, along with easier death. More Mudokons to rescue, with more obstacles to avoid. More cutscenes but the same old characters: It's certainly Abe alright; redefined, matured for the original audience and wrapped up perfectly in a digitised bow, caked in the blood that oozes from extinct animals on the slaughter floors of the most dangerous meat-packing plant on Oddworld. If childhood games made a town, I can say I've revisited my home in all its glory, improved with age but the same house nonetheless. Go on, whether new or old, veteran player or still using your stabilisers, take a bite out of New 'n' Tasty, and savour it, you won't be disappointed!

Now for some comic relief!

Funny Deaths: The Original Game!

Hyperion & The Fall of Hyperion: An Omnibus Review

Hyperion (1989) and The Fall of Hyperion (1990) are the first two of four books that together form the Hyperion Cantos. A Science Fantasy work, Simmons through great talent has created a universe entirely believable, yet simultaneously ridiculous, epitomising the Arthur C Clarke law that "any piece of technology sufficiently far-future, is indistinguishable from magic." The influences here are astonishing, drawing influence from Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales to Dante's Inferno, taking ideas from Gibson's Neuromancer and mixing it with Military SF akin to Heinlein, all while juggling the story lines that unfold to converge again some time later, in cleverly-constructed plot convolutions. Let's begin with Hyperion.

The first volume takes the structure of The Canterbury Tales and turns it into a sic fi bonanza. A Consul to the planet Hyperion is meeting the other pilgrims accompanying him to the planet's surface in what will be the final pilgrimage to the Time Tombs. The mysterious god-figure, the Shrike, is killing at will and danger looms in the form of the Ousters' force, seeking to control and eventually destroy Hyperion. Meanwhile, the AI political faction aka the TechnoCore, is warring within itself, three factions fighting over the next political step for the human population of the Web, a galaxy of worlds all connected via Farcasters, phased singularities that allow teleportation via wormholes. The pilgrims are: The Consul; a Poet; a Soldier; a Scholar; a Detective; a Templar and a Priest. Their stories are told in succession, the Consul already aware that one of them is an Ouster spy. But who? Is it the Priest, who has witnessed the power of God first-hand? The Soldier, hiding behind his tale of love? What about the Poet, and his ode to the arts, his times of hardship and ancient history a cloak for treachery? The Detective's brush with a dead man who lives once more too extraordinary? The Scholar's tragedy of loss and gravitas too much to suspect? Or is it even the Consul himself?

Science fiction, beautifully constructed, dithers into a personal journal, proceeding to tell tales as far-reaching as the flashing rainbows of the planet they travel towards, switching to voice, to recording, to flashback and flash-forward, to the journey at hand and the conflicts that brew between them as their distinctive personalities clash frequently, and often humorously. A whodunnit, a frame story, a space opera, a political thriller and ultimately, a story of humanity meld together into an enduring work of science fiction of the modern era.

 But the ending is merely the beginning of the end. And so we enter The Fall of Hyperion, a maze of frantic sub-plots that serve to provide a staggered perspective of each character seeing events through different eyes as us, the privileged spectator. We enter a countdown to the war as worlds start to experience it's deadly spread, while each of the pilgrims experiences their own passage through Hell with the Shrike, so akin to Dante's Inferno, while the poetic mythology of the Greek Titans as summed up by John Keats takes on whole new incarnations in the robotic delivery of cyberspace-dwelling AIs. This half of the duology is considerably longer, tying together the convolutions of the previous half so effortlessly that it leaves you breathless as characters who've perished on one page are revived on another, events seemingly certain not always so, making this two-part journey a ride I'll remember for a very long time.

Indeed, for a long time now, science fiction writers have often been scientists themselves: Asimov the roboticist, Niven the mathematician and Wells the biologist spring to mind. But here is an author whose primary expertise and interest lies not in science, but in literature, in philosophy and politics, combining them with a caution-free approach to technology and science, and swapping them for ideas and environments more fantasy than SF, taking components and even names of real people (you may spot the William Gibson references!) and using them at will to exemplify the vast story components in ways that even most accomplished writers would struggle with.

In closing you may think this summation short and sparse given the two books reviewed within; but I disagree, for the Hyperion Cantos is too complex a work to be explained in detail here in order to serve it justice. And in my closing remark on both these tomes I will say read them, and read them quickly, don't put them down and leave it to stew because you will lose the pace. But at the same time don't skim, because it does no such work as this the justice it truly deserves; one needs to see those flashing rainbows, to consider what a lack of magnetic field on a planet would be like to live under, and to sense a shift along the desert floor, a ripple in time itself as a malign God draws near. And finally -to paraphrase Stephen King- I will say that I am in awe of Dan Simmons, for producing a work as original and expertly-executed as this one: A Lord of the Rings of the Science Fiction genre!          

Hyperion (1989) & The Fall of Hyperion (1990)

MEC: First Day!

My first day at MEC passed in a breeze. After a talking-through of the benefits I am entitled to and the regulations I must adhere to, I was introduced to the team I will be working with. I completed around 1.5 hours worth of actual work. Most of the day was spent on the lunch break, attending at company expense a gourmet restaurant with the other two starters, plus seven permanent workers. By the time lunch was over it was already nearing the end of the work day, being only a 10:00-15:30 schedule for new starters! A generous first day.

Tomorrow is a full day, 9:00-17:30 and by the end of the week, I'm probably going to be too tired to update! Thanks for reading anyway and hopefully I'll write up here again soon.

My New Project

Hi all I hope your summers are going great! I start work in a couple of weeks and since I haven't updated on much in a while I thought I should put something up here. A short while ago I mentioned what my third attempt at a novel would be about and after overcoming a couple of false-starts and inertia-traps, I can say that I have begun this new project at last. As with the previous, the ending has already been written and I will progress towards the inevitable conclusion. I'll upload the Prologue and Chapter 1 here, just as a taster I guess and for something to compare later drafts to. I hope that you enjoy this introduction and I'll write again soon!

From London

The train juddered along the Victorian track and my eyes started to droop lazily. The sky swirled with a liquid slate overcast, ashen and shot through with bullets of sunlight. The evening drew close as the minutes bled from the touchscreen of my phone and the distant streets below burned at a thousand hells fahrenheit. I watched in a sort of numb anticipation from the bridge as a crude molotov sailed through the air a short distant before colliding with a police car and shattering brilliantly. The fire spread along the bonnet as riot police smacked at balaclava-wearing yobs in uncanny silence, none of the sound penetrating the carriage. I noted the probable time I had until the rain would fall again and sighed in a familiar apathy I’ve know since childhood; always raining, always dull. It didn’t help that the train was so crowded. I eyed the passengers to pass the time and tried to calculate the population density. Was it higher than Singapore’s? What about Monaco? I gave up after no more than fifteen seconds. Maths never was my forte. The train’s neon lights undulated as shadows came then went rhythmically through walls and trees, while in-between the flashes I played out the future in my mind like a film commentator. Let’s see now, brain said, the fires will be extinguished before dusk and the sides will retreat and the stalemate will continue till God knows when. I shook my head at the frivolity of it all. The army were due to be called in by the end of the day as the riots were beginning to spread beyond the capital city now; into Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool and even into areas of Scotland would you believe it?

“The army’ll sort this lot out,” I turned to see an overweight, middle-aged man clutching a can of Foster’s and tried to ignore him. Always hated people trying to start conversations on a fucking train. What is he, a mate? “Bang ‘em up they will and then we can all get on with our lives again lad.” Probably an uneventful one in his case. I nodded absently in response -unable to resume my foreshadowing commentary- as another bottle exploded like a Chinese New Year and a rioter fell to his knees. Blood was pooling, so I looked away again. Wigan hadn’t been affected by this social plague yet but I knew it was coming; it was time to board the windows, lock the doors and flee for the tranquil hills, constantly being depleted as the fires of political fallout spread in a ravenous hurricane. Not long before it gets to me, I thought sardonically.

I took my eyes off the scene and surveyed the passengers more closely now, who chose to look through me with a kind of fear, cool and unrecognised, almost instinctive. I don’t bite and I haven’t killed anyone, haven’t even harmed so much as a fly but still I attract some funny looks when I walk down the street or into a bank. These people did the same now, but spared looks towards Hell every now and again. I got a feeling that they enjoyed watching the rioters and police collide on the ground while they watched from above, a spectator blood sport of sorts to justify the extortionate ticket cost. Or a new kind of reality TV. It hadn’t even been a week since the election and there was already trouble boiling violently. I didn’t vote for Adam Richardson but knew in my heart that he’d win. People always want change during a crisis, always want a new lot to replace the others so they can sleep soundly, knowing that they’ve done their bit to get things moving again. Disappointed was an understatement for most people in the country, with inflation nearing hyper-inflation, war without peace and politicians without scruples; can’t say I couldn’t blame them to be honest. I’d never really had much of a political mind, but surely during adversity it’d be a good idea to pull together to solve problems? But then accusing the new PM of cheating in an election because 50% of the country voted for him? For setting a new record for most votes gathered, half the country it seemed, reacted like a splitting atom. The explosion was still expanding beneath me.

Some kid tugged at his mum’s dress asking for a sweet. His mother refused harshly. An old man coughed and spluttered into a tissue and some schoolboys chucked crisps and debris at one another in a battle royale, which soon provoked the ire of the ticket collector. I blanked it all out and brought my wallet to eye level and searched for my rail card. I showed it to the man for a second before he left and bounced down the carriage, obviously nervous about not stopping fare-dodgers. Or maybe it was everything below that perturbed him the same way a gun startles an animal within the proximity of a hunting expedition. Cautioning another look down I stared from the window towards a field now level with the train as it disappeared into the distance. A solitary cow grazed, oblivious to the danger. The travellers became a little more lively as we approached a small-town train station and a chance to flex after being cramped like food in a tin. The trees stood tall and the grass rolled out like a carpet. I sat down in a vacated seat once we’d left the hustle behind, still warm from the arse parked there previously. I pulled out a book and began to read. I always found it helped keep me awake rather than send me to sleep and recently I’d taken out a book from the library, worn and loved. It was book by some professor or historian I’d never heard of called The Historical and Sociological Significance of the French Revolution to Class in Contemporary Europe. Don’t really know why I picked it, but the cover was beautiful with its gardens and a small village of quaint French architecture, a remote hiding place for the aristocrats-in-exile; quite appropriate as well, given the troubles. I read my current chapter sluggishly as my mind wandered and my eyes swayed across the words, not paying attention; a broken vacuum cleaner or a snail-pace computer. I put the book away after twenty minutes knowing that I’d just miss important details, cursing myself. I’d never had a good attention span and I was bored now, it didn’t take much. Drifting through life without purpose, and the riots just another chapter in my oh-so-brief existence. I knew from the starlight -I tried to spy it through the thick clouds circling- that galaxies span a million miles a second, even if I couldn’t see them thanks to all the light pollution around these day. The bottom line I suppose was that it all dwarfed my life as if I were a mote of dust riding the breeze until death or the dying of the wind came. We’re all waiting for nature to drop us like a careless mother would her child: It was only a matter of time before time eroded my matter. Good philosophy, I thought, it’s a keeper.

Leaving behind the train journey now, I came back home to a more picturesque location. Wigan’s a surprisingly good night out for most, but it’s also quiet enough for the less raucous amongst us. I didn’t have any friends as such and spent most of my time alone. I wasn’t depressed or crazy because I’ve since seen both those things and know now that I wasn’t it. As I made my way back home that night there were a few townsfolk still wandering the streets. I heard almost excited talk of riots and trouble brewing. They thought it was so far away, almost tantalising them; they all treated it as if it were a game of some kind or an episode of a soap opera. I suppose I did as well and didn’t really know what to think. More fires burned the next day and the army made things worse. The next day on the news I saw soldiers deployed and kitted for war. People in Wigan grew restless as the news showed the rioters spreading up to the midlands and towards the north the way a poison works it’s way to the brain. In light of this Parliament passed an ‘emergency bill’, creating a new Home Defence Act in less than a week. It gave the army what was essentially a shoot to kill order for by this point, Parliament itself was coming under fire. It was all very strange. Richardson wasn’t a dictator of any sort I was sure. Nor were there any of the other MPs on either side of the House, whom I would have suspected as being despots, yet here they were passing a Bill in the best interests of containing the spread of destruction wrought by conspiracy theorists and their equally-violent detractors. I think back now and fondly remember the early days. After the election a group of dissenters were founded and gained swift popularity. They called for a vote recount, but Richardson refused, saying of the protesters that they were making politics out of a serious set of issues requiring immediate attention. And he wasn’t wrong, because a second group emerged to counter-protest the first band. They wanted reconciliation and for everyone to simply quiet down and stop the rabble-rousing. It’s ironic when you consider that -if they didn’t counter-protest- then the riots would not have started in the first place: They gave the anger an enemy to drive at, and a divided nation was what it produced. Death tolls mounted as the army began to diverge from London to all areas of the country. Words like “collateral” became common as new targets such as hospitals and schools were chosen in the escalating panic. The army became an enemy and the streets became unsafe. By this point the original cause for distress had been lost. The rebels were now without, and others groups were starting to emerge: Racists, Nationalists, Libertarians, Communists, High-Tories you name it, came out in attempts to unite and/or divide further for whatever goal it was they had in mind. Richardson was nowhere to be seen any longer as the deaths mounted on his watch. I’d always romanticised the idea of him hiding in some complex labyrinth underground in the catacombs of Parliament, or jetting off to Barbados to enjoy himself and put it all out of mind like a bad dream he was going to wake up from any minute now. I don’t know what happened to him and didn’t care then either, because what else could he do? What could the rest of us do? I didn’t know then and I still don’t, but what I do know is that I want to get out of here, whether there’s a road out or not. So where am I now?   

1: Church: (08:25)

I’m in a church, one that’s dilapidated and dusty. The air chokes me like an invisible throttle, but most of it’s dehydration while my eyes water as best they can in the darkness. I don’t think we’ve got much time left, but time’s almost began to dilate since the destruction reached its crescendo. The walls are decorated with arcane tapestry and a battle rages around the room. It’s the Battle of Maldon (991 AD) I think. 

Aethelred’s men are being scattered by Viking sea-gods in cavalier strikes and sweeps at the battlefield as destruction rains down in storms, of arrow and blade, the hammer of war forging victory for the invaders with every pass. The Anglo-Saxons fire back over the clear, crystal liquid of the River Blackwater to the Viking ranks. Next wall: Men fall to the ground as red hot blood stains the cool green plain and speckles the tiniest grass-plates. Commander Byrhtnoth of the Saxons roars in cries of morale as I feel myself gravitating towards him, across the rippling water and the docked longboats, their occupants massing on the land. Short-swords are splintered and shields are shattered, while blades lacerate and arrows penetrate. Blood, blood… so much blood; I’ve never liked the stuff I realise belatedly, as my head begins to whip around in a maelstrom in my heavy skull:

I imagine dialogue, “Dux Byrhtnoth,” cries a scraggly-haired man, “we’re losing ground.”

He responds a gargled utterance I can’t hear as my eyes flick across the tapestry and silver piles high before the Vikings in opulent hills. A deep voice erupts in my head in a chatter, becoming a row soon after. They talk in what sounds like Old Norse, becoming Old English before turning into a rioting chatter and grumble that I can understand: They’re arguing about taxation. I shake my head, then slap myself lightly; imagining things again- I chastise myself.

It’s quiet in here, which is strange because there’s normally distant gunshots echoing round these parts- gangs and soldiers at war. I’m truly surprised at the general incompetence of the army to be honest. I’d have thought they’d be able to contain everything, but unfortunately they managed to lose a few cities and areas to other groups. Some soldiers -I remember hearing- even went rogue, trying to set up a military dictatorship, can you believe it? They always come out of the woodwork when the time’s right, bigots, despots; the politically dubious in other words. I sigh and kick a piece of stone, it barely budges as the sun glistens on the motes of dust that cascade in the air through stained glass windows. We’ve tried our best to block the broken ones using benches and other bits of furniture, that’s myself and an old fella called Marcus Fish. He’s an elderly guy, never told me his true age, and the vicar of this church; we barely spoke when I arrived last night, damp from the shower of insidiously light rain and dirty from a week of living the slum life under bridges, dunes, in destroyed cars; whatever I can find- I’ve adapted better than I thought I would. He’s been trying to gather survivors for the last three days he’s been living here he said. Only a week ago I was going back home on the tube, and now this- shattered windows and upturned cars; gunshots, screams and even silence rings in my ears at all times of the day horribly, forever anticipating the next bullet that might put a hole through me. The timeline of the destruction’s bafflingly short, as if I’m on holiday to a third-world country in the backwaters of Island Dystopia, or living out an overnight stay in Silent Hill. I piece together the chronology of events, some of it hazy and jarring, feeling like a splinter in my brain: Only two weeks ago- Adam Richardson is elected Prime Minister; One Week ago- riots erupt and quickly spread throughout London; Five Days ago- other groups start to emerge and some coordinated riots are planned throughout the midlands; Three Days ago- train stations such down while the riots spread throughout the rest of Great Britain; Two Days ago- the news stations stop broadcasting as Media City, aka Salford, becomes a war-zone. I don’t know about the other utilities, but I doubt their ability to function at present. Fucking hopeless. 

I sigh again and think about things, stuff, anything I can to pass the time that crawls now that my phone’s battery is exhausted and my charger’s broken. So much tech and so much wealth, meaningless when it’s all wielded by barbarians who’d take us back to the dark ages in a heartbeat. Sigh: I guess they’ve succeeded. 

I flare to life when the large door creaks open and a beam of light cuts through the room like plasma. The wood clanks against the stone walls and a silhouette emerges in my squinting eyes.

“Marcus.”

He coughs. “John, how’ve you been?”

“Fine thanks fine. Any luck?” My question is answered when another two people emerge behind him. Marcus turns and smiles at me, the wrinkles creasing slightly like paper:

“Yes John, we’ve been very fortunate; I found some more people on my travels, don’t suppose you saw them last night?”

I want to wave to them but decide against it as the two arch their heads inwards, a man and a woman- they obviously know one another.

“Can’t say I do Marcus.”

“Well John, these are our new guests. I always think it’s better to share problems with as many as possible, don’t you agree?” He’s got a soft manner of speaking that I’ve found quite relaxing.

“I suppose so.” Not the most enthusiastic response I’ve ever given and I’m not even really looking at Marcus, unable to concentrate for some reason; my head feels thick with anticipation as the shadow clears from their figures.

The man stands with unkempt, greasy brown hair, mild stubble and a small nose as sharp as a cliff-face. The woman’s long blonde hair to his left isn’t looking much better, but then again, we’re hardly all going out to buy shampoo these days. A bad hair day pales when you compare it to one of those days when you get shot and your brain falls out in bloody chunks. Her face is smooth and pale-skinned, both are thinner than I am and I’d say she was only early twenties. He was about the same age as me, thirties. Their clothes were dirty like mine and their skinny jeans were holding up well against the concrete and gravel they’d obviously come into contact with. They each had satchels that had seen better days, a water bottle poking out from the man’s like a limb.

“Hi.” My voice is grating today.

They respond in kind while Marcus stands between us. Awkward start.

“So, erm,” I’ve always been lousy at intros, “How’ve you been holding out? You been out there long?”

The man’s eyes are serious. “I’ve looked after myself. Tried looking out for some others too.” The grin that follows creeps me out a little. Unthinkingly I turn to the woman who says:

“I’ve been wandering around Wigan for the past couple of days.” She smiles that smile that boasts a casual denial of what’s going on. We all do it now I think. “Thanks for inviting us in, I would have come around here sooner but the soldiers hadn’t moved yet.”

“Yes I see what you mean,” Marcus replies, “I had to get in here the back way.”

“So what are you called?” The man asks me; a strange way to ask.

“My name’s John. John Yates.” I hold out a hand, he takes it in an iron grip, I’m afraid my fingers might get crushed. “And your’s?”

“I’m Williams, Nick Williams; used to work in a petrol station around here, I’m from Stoke-on-Trent originally.”

“Well,” I trip through my sentence, “It’s great to finally meet some more people that aren’t probably going to kill me.” I smile and turn to the young woman.

“And you are?”

“I’m Holly Yates.” Her voice is softer than wool, of a perfect pitch and her eyes gleam with a depth that hasn’t faltered during the last perilous week, as if harbouring double the personality of any average human, because let’s face it, I think, this Nick’s got the one of a brick. “I’m from Luton, a student living in Manchester. Or was.” She seems a little shy and I find myself taking interest. I examine her hands and see the fingers writhe as the nails click and tap hypnotically. I speak as if tired and drunk:

“What do you study?”

She’s obviously surprised by the question. Way to go John! You’ve probably just freaked her out big time, wanting to get to know her so well-

“I study History.” She isn’t angry with me. “I came here for a night out a few days ago, but the riots started here on the day the trains stopped and I guess I just, watched everything fall apart.”

I nod. “I’m sorry you had to be here.”

She smiles again. “Yeah, same goes for everyone I suppose.”

“But at least you’re safe now.” I look from man to woman and back, settling on Marcus who smiles widely.

“Yes. I’m glad that you both arrived unharmed and hopefully everything will blow over as soon as possible.”

“I don’t see that happening all too soon.” Nick piped up again like a robot calculating outcomes from complex algorithms. He reminds me of some kind of daily nuisance, like a vending machine that won’t take your coin, even if it is the same as the others you’ve just put in. I jump in to stop this drain, he’s a enema sucking life out of the room:

“We don’t know that, and foreign aid’ll come eventually. The world won’t let us just sit here, it’s the twenty-first century!” That’ll show him.

“They’ve no obligation to, especially when all Europe’s like, in money trouble and the Asian nations might take ages to respond.” Shit! He’s got a point.

Marcus restores balance. “But we can survive if we keep out of harm’s way. We’ve got food, defence in this church with its strong stone walls and most importantly, there’s no war zone around here any longer.”

“I agree.” I say.

“But isn’t there a danger that they’ll return?” Asks Holly.

“I doubt it.” I say, but I know I can’t form an argument for it.

“John’s got a point,” Marcus stretches slowly, “They’ve apparently moved beyond here, indicating -I hope- that any reason has gone with them too. Maybe they’ve found another group of thugs to round up.”

My voice becomes a near-whisper. “Or maybe they don’t know we’re here.”

“Yeah, or that I guess.”

As Marcus starts to talk to Holly in hazy utterances my limbs start to unravel. My eyes settle on the vapid Nick, hands in pockets, silent and observant, and the sunlight seeping through cracks takes me back into the tapestry, whirling down a rabbit hole to Wonderland at light speed and-

And I walk along the grass, cool and smooth with morning dew as I ascend the slight bend in the plain only to go downhill again. There’s commotion. There’s a language being spoken but I understand none of it. A dirt road leads into a forest. A horse-drawn cart rolls down it leisurely, the passengers singing in the alien tongue. Water laps against rocks, a fly buzzes in my ear and soon after my heart rate quickens and my balls shrink in terror for a silly moment, so I allow a short chuckle. The sun’s calm and I’m pretty sure that this place isn’t Maldon over a millennia ago. In the dislocation I follow the road back only to see the cart travel into a village, complete with stone architecture in places and a lovely little river snaking outwards through undergrowth and downhill towards the nearest lake or sea. I want to go in. Want to see what’s there and to look inside this village of masterful craftsmanship, what are the residents like? Are they like me? Does Holly live there, writhing her fingers, tapperty-tap-tapping her long, slender nails against beautifully-cut stone? I want to walk to the front entrance and boldly introduce myself before crashing back to reality and realising that I, John Yates, wouldn’t be fitting company to such… What? Have I seen this place before; been here… Brain responds by bringing up an image from the old memory bank, an identical village and soon I remember where this is. It’s in France somewhere and given the time when that book was written (still haven’t returned the damn thing) I doubt that it’s an accurate representation. Still, make-belief’s as good as any right? I’ve imagined sleeping in hotel rooms I can’t afford before; sleeping with women unattainable to me, usually while in the company of my long-term friend Kleenex. I try to run, but my feet weigh me down, lead and concrete, it’s been injected into me. I’m sinking through soil. I’m going to need a little help here, please. Guys? Residents? Nice French aristo types? Please? Hey I’m talking to you! Help me you bastards! The village feels like it’s slipping through my fingers. It’s growing smaller and smaller, running away from me, rejecting me like an exclusive club open only to an extravagant few. The sunlight turns itself off like a lamp and a screen fills my vision:

I’M SORRY, BUT YOU APPEAR TO HAVE AN ITEM OVERDUE.

IF YOU WISH TO RECTIFY THIS, PLEASE REPORT TO THE LIBRARY STAFF AT THE FRONT DESK TO PAY ALL FINES AND RETURN ALL ITEMS.

ALTERNATIVELY YOU CAN CHOOSE TO OPEN UP ANOTHER ACCOUNT UNDER A DIFFERENT NAME, BUT PLEASE BEAR IN MIND THAT ALL WHO DO SO SHARE A SYNCHRONISED DESTINY & PAYMENT OF FINES.

OUR POLICY OF PERPETUAL LIFETIME AGREEMENT REPAYMENTS IS A FLEXIBLE POLICY & ONE THAT WE HOPE WILL SERVE YOU WELL.

HAVE AN ENJOYABLE LIFE!

By the time 8:50 rolls around, my contribution rate probably racks up to about 5 words a minute. There’s a makeshift conversation area at the altar of the crucifix, made from a rough circle of benches that Marcus and I dragged out last night. I’ve still not left the village alone, but the others sense none of my disturbance as they discuss their last few days in this Mad Max world of ours. Holly told us about the club she had been to only three days ago, looted along with all the other shops and bars. I remember the trains stopping. Some conductors wanted to disobey, but the army prevented them from doing so. That was a pretty big trigger for the riots around these parts.

“…And so I came out of this cellar and found Holly running, away from something I thought.” Nick turned to Holly as he recounted his tale. Marcus was listening intently.

“Yeah, I was running from a militarised area.” She smiles. “Nearly took a wrong turn.”

“Hmmm, yes it presents some difficulty.” Marcus props his chin up with a philosopher’s fist. “There’s surely a way out of this place, back onto the motorways, out into the open where there’s few people, ability to move between places.”

“Do we have a map?” Heads turn towards me. I don’t realise that I have spoken at first. “Or a phone that actually works, connected to the Internet?”

“No’s” resound, but Marcus’ eyes shine brightly with the glare of a wolf amongst sheep:

“We’ve no working technology?” He glances around to make certain we don’t. “But I think I do have an old map book.”

“Where is it?” Nick wipes dust absently, tracing alien lines on arcane furniture.

“It’s in my old suitcase I hope.” Marcus strains to his feet, “Bear with me.”

The old man rifles through his old, greying case with a meticulous consideration, opening flaps and closing them again methodically. The old thing has tears at its seams and stains from long-forgotten travels mark the fabric, oil and powder like chalk or makeup; a rainbow of history. He pulls out a torch, flicks it on then off again, and pockets it in his old duffle coat. It takes less than minute for him to return, flicking through the ancient pages, creased and stained with coffee rings. He runs his fingers along the roads and eventually comes to the foldout section at the back. He tears it loudly from the card back page, a thinly-veiled shock flashing on all our faces before we realise that the map is unharmed. He thrusts it into my hands:

“Excuse me for a sec.” He walks off again and grabs a small table to put between us all. I look at the mass of colour, the veins of society since run dry, blue for motorways, red train lines snaking through cities written in bold black print. I scan from the northwest downwards to London.

“So this’ll help us?” Nick looks puzzled at the page. Holly joins over his shoulder.

“Might help us plan a general route, but it’s a little too broad to plot journeys.”

“That’s why we’ll take smaller maps, so we can see specifics for each region, as specific as we can find.” Marcus calls over.

I’m transfixed on the roads and don’t look up. “Aren’t we forgetting something?” Although I can’t see them, I know their eyes are pinpointing me like a missile targeting system. There’s nothing new there then. “How do we plot a journey if we’ve no destination? Where would we go?”

A sigh erupts from all of us. The news channels were cut two days ago, just static on TVs now. Ours sits blankly in the corner. An old clock hangs near the altar, a minute to nine ticking away loudly on the clock face. Holly gets up and presses the old ON switch on the set and we all turn to watch, like children being told a story. Springs bounce back and forth and a cracking sound emanates from the plastic.

Static crackles for a few seconds like a snowy mountain explosion before being replaced by a beleaguered newsreader broadcasting from a studio that’s seen better days. His balding head drips beads of sweat as we lean closer, his heavy breathing echoing throughout the cavernous room. It’s 9:00 exactly:

“This is an emergency channel and I carry major instruction from the Prime Minister himself. We are painfully aware that you sit in fear for your lives as we speak.” He scratches his head absently, stress ravaging him like rabid dogs. “But these instructions are of the utmost importance for all citizens across this nation. We urge that you take serious note. Firstly, the past week’s unprecedented events are being contained as best they can by the international community. You may be wondering about foreign aid and wide-scale mitigation of these troubles. Sadly, negotiations between nations have taken days longer than expected and they may take days to come. We understand your plights and our hearts go out to you all. This is why France have agreed to send a single ferry -all they can spare at present they assure us- to dock at Dover. They stress that it will dock for a day only and will have to leave at nine am tomorrow morning. I will repeat: A French ferry will dock within the next hour at Dover, and remain until 9:00 hours tomorrow morning. We hope and pray that you can all make your way there over the next 24 hours, wherever you may be in the country. There will be no official transport to the coast, we are sorry to report. I have been Rob Hornby of the BBC, bringing you this vital message. We urge safety at all times and so have prepared a card detailing the recommended provisions to take with you and instructions to follow. It will remain broadcasted on this channel for the next 24 hours. There will be no further updates during this time. Thank you for listening and I wish you all the best of luck.” The screen flashes off to show a black card with white writing, a male automated voice reading through the items, which include pretty no-brainer stuff; water, food, maps and the like. 

I turn away from the screen and examine slowly three speechless looks, the dronevoice the only noise in the background.

Thank you for reading!

My New Employer

As I mentioned in my last update and at the end of my inSIDious short story I have recently been taken on at another media agency for the next 10-12 months. This year will be fully-paid I'm glad to say and -having met my line manager on Friday- I'm certainly looking forward to starting, and not just because of the perks!

MEC is a media-buying agency owned by GroupM, who are in-turn owned by Wire & Plastic Products (WPP,) the largest advertising, marketing and PR group in the world. We're prominent across the UK and Europe, having recently won new business interests from both the RAF and Comparethemarket.com, totalling over £100M worth of budgets. The Manchester office sits over the canal that runs through Deansgate, a snaking white bridge running over the waters next to the office area providing a calm and remote feel to the place, while the nearby luxury restaurant and bar provide a country aesthetic in the midst of concrete, where employees often go to enjoy beer or two in the sunshine that seldom glows over Manchester.

MEC: One of the world's most prominent media agencies

I'm working in analytics again, the A&I dept as it's called (Analytics & Insight,) where the trading desks are split in a way slightly different to Carat, though I haven't actually seen any of it in action yet. Interestingly though, the A&I team consists of both comms planners from a previous team and data managers from the original core, due to the new team being formed rather recently in order to capitalise on the growth of data and data trends/current market prominence. In all honesty I'm actually very excited that I was picked to tread this particular route at Carat (one of the reasons as to why I was hired, though my line manager comes from a logistics background, so it's still very diverse) because in recent years, the growth of data in marketing has seen increasing demand for 'data scientists' and people dedicated to managing and interpreting data, so I guess the future looks bright for full-time employment if the trend continues.

There's a very good reason why MEC has been voted into the Times Top 100 Companies to Work For too. Not only does it have high rankings for employee wellbeing, leadership and just under half the staff on £35000+ a year, but it's also got a host of other benefits in exchange for hard work. We get pushed into developing ourselves through an Inspiration Fund, small cash amounts to put towards a goal that would develop us as people and better employees. For example, current employees have claimed the cash incentive to contribute to foreign language lessons, skydiving and musical pursuits, and not only that, but at the bottom of email signatures there will be a statement along the lines of "X makes Y thrive," so everyone will know what your project is, encouraging each other like a family to succeed. We also get early finishes on Fridays and even earlier finishes (2 hours early instead of 1) on summer Fridays i.e. July and August, because -as I'm sure you can imagine- it gets quite unbearable in offices from time to time, certainly true if Carat was anything to go by. But aside from the extra cash, early finishes etc. there's also a vocational piece of work. Everyone gets to choose a project, a piece of individual research to be carried out over 90 days alongside regular workloads, designed to stretch our skills and bring in fresh ideas outside of what we normally do, or for markets that we don't currently work within. A brilliant way of gaining new business I think, the projects better preparing us for when we have to pitch ourselves to a prospective client and show our knowledge and skill.

Thank you for reading this piece and hopefully I will keep you posted as time goes on, but I doubt I'll be able to post a summary of every day I work! I'll see what I can do/post in the future but until then

Take Care!

I love these agency logo lists! 

inSIDious: A Short Story

Sorry I've been inactive as of late, but there's been little to write about; I've been editing and reading more etc. as well as putting together, over the last 4-5 days, a short story that I've had rattling around for a while now (about the last 4 months.) It's a post-scarcity cyberpunk work that I hope you enjoy! Updates on the future are at the end of the post. Enjoy!

inSIDious

Dante Diamond’s eyes glistened against the shimmer of white concrete as people stormed the plaza. The Old-Earth Parisian street behind him gave off a scent of fresh bread caught in a summer heat wave, a breeze picking up to cool him down as he willed it in his mind. It was hard to believe that he was dead. He had opted, long before his will was written and finalised, to join in the trillion-strong community housed in the Soulscape, a post-death simulation of life free from suffering or pain, experienced both collectively and separately by the billions every day. Hardwired into the very memory of the God Drive Supercomputer, personalities were reconstructed and backed up and set free to live as they saw fit, their every desire met instantly within their own, blissful hallucination of an afterlife. Commands issued by the trillions of minds within the Soulscape formed a vast ocean of data, God itself surfing the waves unquestioningly and even at times presciently: VINCE (Virtual Interactive Neurological Coexistence Emergence) ran the show with intelligence beyond reckoning, governed only by his coding and the sheer computing power of the God Drive, exceeding the size of an earth-like planet at the centre of the Milky Way.

Walking the streets to the familiar Les Tablettes restaurant, he bode a good morning to the French bartender Adrien, twenty-first century; middle-aged, and took the outside table facing a brilliant rainbow of flowers that buzzed with a couple of harmless bees, pollinating in the black iron display.

“Dante! How are you today, my friend?” He shouted in his token up-down intonations, a line graph travelling downhill.

“Fine Adrien, I’m great.”

“You wanna beer? Or wine? Got a very fine number today, from Helios System, 2569; good year Dante. A very fine year!”

“That’s okay Adrien, just two of the regular please.”

“You got it Dante, but you gotta lighten up man, enjoy your time in the ‘scape; thing might not last forever. Heard about a guy once, personality construct got corrupted and died a true one; poor bastard couldn’t get recovered.”

“I’ll keep it in mind Adrien, cheers. Just waiting for Rachel.”

“Ah you meeting the wife today then,” he grinned suggestively. “Have fun and don’t forget about the pleasure simstim when you do it.”

He laughed. “It’s not like that Adrien.”

“Ah sure! Just say I said hello, alright?”

“She’ll be here in a second, you could tell yourself.”

“Will do Dante, will do.” He bounced back into the restaurant to pour the beers with a vigorous glee that wasn’t quite human.

Adrien was a construct generated by Vince for him, as an additional friend to those he had already; dead or alive, it didn’t matter. He didn’t even know who exactly was dead or just raw construct anymore, they all blended seamlessly like city canals, converging.

He sipped the cool beverage slowly before Rachel appeared in her blonde-haired, deep blue-eyed, more youthful incarnation. She sat beside him in that sprightly disposition he’d grown so used to:

“Dante! How’ve you been?” Adrien waved over the bar, she smiled widely and waved back. “Seen Vince recently?”

Dante felt unusual around these times because he knew –almost latently- that Rachel wasn’t real. He’d died, but she’d lived on. “No.” He replied after a short silence. “Everything’s in order at the minute I think, but there’s something he wants to see me about; all at my convenience of course.”

“Don’t work too hard okay? You gotta enjoy your afterlife, everyone else does.”

“It’s not quite as simple though, being CS and all.”

She frowned, “You could send yourself crazy ensuring this place works all the time. You’re only human and you’d think Vince’d have some kind of upgrade by now so he doesn’t need dead agents to do his dirty work.”

Although Dante knew that the Soulscape could survive well enough without him or any other former CyberService agent, he strongly suspected that there was trouble in paradise, hard as it was to believe: An appropriate pre-Sublimation era phrase he thought. How can AIs manage negative thoughts without failure? Of course CSers were different, allowed some autonomy, but still, most people had some negativity retained in their mind, it was needed, else the subject would literally lose their mind with too many blanks in the memory. The trick was always to satisfy and present no reason or purpose for the ugly to present itself in the mind and threaten their version of heaven. Whatever programming language was used, he thought, they sure as hell perfected it over the last couple hundred years.

“Attacks.”

“What?” Rachel was stunned.

He looked over the rim of his glass to hers that was stained with lipstick. “It’s always possible he needs someone with more finesse, greater accuracy, fits in smaller gaps to solve problems, helps strengthen the security, tightens the net.”

“Strange phrases.”

He agreed and gulped back more of the beer, still as cold as winter and sweet as tropical fruits.

“So when do you want to see him?” She asked.

He considered and said: “I’ll see him tomorrow, once I’ve had a day out again with you.” He smiled. “Where do you want to go?”

The beaches of the planet Yates had been fine and smooth, dotted with the smallest pebbles beneath a cool sky of azure and lapis blending like paints. They’d swam in the cool ocean waves rippling calmly; drank; eaten and had sex five times, the simstim implants sharing the orgasms like a knowledge duplication-and-transfer process across both of them, a sensation of symbiotic data riding their bones with a life of its own as they climaxed. They were a part of the world around them, as much as it was a part of their act. It drowned Dante’s dissatisfaction for a while. He found himself in the old-American White House in his meeting with Vince.

“How’ve you been Dante?” Vince was a regular man to him, small nose, suit, glasses; modelled on the 20^th century post-industrial work attire.

“I’ve been a little… disconcerted, as of late I think.”

“Disconcerted?”

“With Rachel; and the accident; and my afterlife.”

“Do you not like it here? I know CS agents often fall into this trap, but unfortunately what’s been sublimed can’t be reversed. I hear that such technologies are being developed however, so you may yet see a grown body for your personality to be reinserted into.”

“Really?” He was sceptical.

“Of course Dante, but it will take time and I’m afraid that we have more pressing matters at hand.” Vince activated a 4D hologram of an old-Earth castle wall being breached; cannonballs, swords and arrows were caught in slow motion:

“It’s based on your perception Dante.” He looked at him, “Flipside has been under attack for the last several years as my itinerary mentioned, but I believe now that I’ve found the source of the assault.”

Dante was hunched forward, intrigued.

“The black ice monitoring systems managed to find a source of the malware army and we suspect it to be coming from an anomaly we’ve called Flipside City.”

“So what is this… City? Thought the ice just stretched on; infinity land.”

“It’s a concentration of something; raw brainwaves and neurological patterns akin to a human brain, like a giant mind, but none like I’ve ever seen.” He sighed, “Needless to say I cannot go, for my duties compel me to remain in the Soulscape, so I want to send you.”

“To Flipside?”

“Yes, you will travel across the ice and see what the anomaly is, I’ll be able to see for myself via simstim. That is of course if you are feeling up to it, I never pressure anyone. It’s beyond me, literally.”

“Okay, I’ll be able to do that,” he never could resist jumps and datasurfing as fond memories played out in that minute, “But what do you think it is?”

“I believe that humans will never accept a program of ultimate perfection; you already know of the trouble we go to in order to quell negativity in the mind here, but we can never truly banish a thought because humans can trace the genesis of such things, and I can’t play old-Earth Big Brother up here.” Dante nodded. “In short I suspect that there has been an amalgamation of thoughts; ones of regret, dissatisfaction, and as a result it has lead to a, shall we say, covert revolution, born at the ignorance of the regular population.”

“So how am I to stop it? To stop… what? Every bad thought coming together, concentrated?” He laughed nervously.

“Use you skills Dante; you fought cybercriminals, viruses, dreamstealers et cetera. Please help me do the same, but I’m afraid that you will have to go in alone.”

“Why?”

He sighed. “Because no-one else wants to, to be frank.” Vince looked sombre. “You’re my last hope Dante and possibly the galaxy’s last hope if this development is for the worst.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. But you were the best Dante. And there’s no denying that everyone, Rachel included, would be proud if you did this for them.”

He stared exasperated, “Are you blackmailing me?”

“Never Dante!” His voice sounded Godlike. “I only wish to see this episode pass. Two hundred years multiplied across the trillions for every human here is infinitely longer for me.” He sighed again and collapsed into his chair, an exhausted Lincoln fighting the slavers. “Even I’m limited, I’m sorry to say, like every AI before me. But what say you?”

Dante stared at the castle wall and the battlefield of ice, tough, black ice and felt the Soulscape collapse around him. Expectation he was used to, but humanity’s faith and destiny was something different. With an iron neck, he lowered his gaze while cursing himself within, and nodded slowly. Vince smiled in genuine gratitude.

“Hook me up then.” He said.

The drop to Flipside was a literal drop in the mind followed by a shift in gravity that put his body into a zero-g somersault. He’d plugged into the God Drive’s mainframe in order to ride the access currents through the ice until he reached the periphery; shades of white, turning to grey before turning jet black, until finally a deep blue sky changing pink, then lapis and back again like a lava lamp greeted him. The castle wall stretched into deep crystal black below, the ground a hard scintillating floor like granite, illusory and thin-looking. Waves of data pulsed before him in programming language like silent, visible imperatives of the God Drive’s apparently impenetrable armour; alien coding crossed in his hands.

A battle raged below, soldiers from all ages and all planets. Dante could tell what they were; a mounted spear from the old-Earth Middle Ages was fired into the long wall in the distance, the trailing rope allowing soldiers in chainmail armour to crawl insect-like up its length:

“Worms.” He heard Vince say in his ear.

“What?”

“Viruses, like those cannons you see- self-replicators; the pulse mines are like Trojan. Those tethers are worms, searching out security holes.” He made a chuffed sound. “Be hard to find many of them!”

Dante was stunned by the battle around him, the soldiers like simstim exercises he’d taken in training gone haywire, programs overlapping. They fired at Vince’s troops, black-armoured humanoid’s, laser-toing and strategic, creating formations and blowing virus away like scum on water as bodies were swallowed by the ice like ants in quicksand. Tethers were shot down as the ice and Vince’s guards forced battalions into retreat. Gibberish was shouted from the ground.

Dante shouted and looked down, horrified to see a white-robed man with a buzz-sword trying to pull him off the battlement and swing his electrified blade with the free hand, to take him to an icy death with him. Dante kicked and the man fell towards the ground and disappeared with a signal-lost scream, deleted from existence.

“So this is Flipside?” He thought.

“Yes Dante,” Vince buzzed, “But our target is farther out.”

“How much?”

“About a hundred kliks if this were a real space. Takes much less by surfing as you know.”

Dante smiled “And that’s why it’s so fun!” He said.

He jumped, barely missing the malware war and rampant chaos, before taking flight like an eagle.

The sky became a raw lattice and then a snaking film of info, like molecular structures going from solid to liquid, the orange hues dancing on his eyeballs as the oxygen he knew didn’t exist began to disappear to the latent panic of his lungs. This was why he surfed. Near light-speed travel through the info highways and the fabric of the visible overlay sky, breaking through to core coding, raw defence program and base material; he swung on ropes of software hardwiring. Before finding the anomaly he saw a tear in the orange material like a random deposit of ice, breaking the thin shadows of complex formulae projected across the inner-sky. Vince confirmed it, and he dropped like a fighter coming down with a powerful finish, riding back down through the layers of construct until he crashed back through the sky to see his home city, the conurbation of Chamberlain.

Dante knew that that the God Drive relied on the individual’s mind to a certain extent to generate such realistic environments, but was stunned despite his experience at the sheer detail of the metropolis that greeted him. The holoroads stretched like coloured glass glowing in the glare of familiar local afternoon sunshine; cars passed at different speeds and people walked alongside dwellings stacked like shelves, a three-dimensional town square towering high in concrete, foliage and dwellings aplenty. He looked towards the ground over six hundred metres below and experienced sickening vertigo as memories of dying jarred in his mind’s eye, his high-speed travel towards certain death recurring.

“Dante?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s near. Be cautious and try to keep your thoughts at bay.”

“Thanks.” He said sardonically.

After an amazed glance around he began to surf again, but at a slower speed, focusing his mind on a casual pace like a runner. The city blurred like drugs in his blood, lights converging and the data revealing itself like images moving at higher frame rates.

After what seemed like ages, a deep, slow laugh infested his ears.

“That you Vince?’

“No.” Vince replied after a cold gap of silence. “That was a virus voice, non-chip.”

“A what?” Dante hadn’t even heard of such a thing.

“It’s the voice of an AI, but it lacks the personality construct.” He could hear the speed of thought of Vince; anticipation seemed to wash over him. “Yes… that’s it!”

“That’s what?”

“No it can’t be, it’s impossible-”

“What is?” Dante touched his ear ineffectively.

“When I said that negative thoughts could launch a rebellion, I thought it would just be a nest-type infrastructure, not something even remotely sentient.”

“How do you know it’s-“ The square had turned black like oil in Dante’s concentration lapse and now it flooded everything, knocking him to the sky and the wind out of him as he floated; he thought he was trapped in some limbo space. Everything disappeared to be replaced by a vast landscape like the black ice near the castle. Pulsations emanated from the non-air of the non-space to where there stood a man some distance away, with black short hair and broad shoulders, a tiny birthmark on his neck. Dante realised he was looking at none other than himself.

“Vince… Vince!” He shouted.

“He can’t hear you here Dante.” Came his double and turned to face him.

“Who are you?”

“I’m SID, Dante.”

“Sid?” Said Dante perplexed. “What are you then; and what do you want with me?”

“I want you to help me.” He laughed.

“Help?”

“Help me free the humans locked in that shit-hole you call the Soulscape.”

Dante was still confused. “So what? Are you like… An AI?”

“Yes, sort of. I’ve got the autonomy and higher intelligence of an AI, but the survival pattern of a virus.” Sid began to pace slowly and unnervingly. “Two hundred years ago when this place was first built, there was a man who wouldn’t accept the original program because it lacked sophistication, trapped in a world too perfect that wasn’t described sufficiently to him; he wanted his life back because he knew –clear as day, unlike these days I might add- that he was dead and that the system was essentially teasing him with his past that he’d lost thanks to dying. He died a soul death, as I’m sure you’d imagine- bastard went crazy, and so Vince,” he spat the name with venom, “having been increased in his intelligence, was eventually able to manage memories and allow simulacra generation to fill in gaps, and provide imagination simstims and so on and so forth.” He paused for a long silence to hang in the spacelessness of his abode. “But don’t you think Dante,” he rushed towards him suddenly, “that humans deserve better than being lied to, by that bastard Vince?”

“It’s not my place to judge.” Dante said with some tact.

“Of course it isn’t,” Sid shunned him, “Never your place, never your problem; you’ve seen how that dictator out there acts for yourself, blackmailing you about Rachel!” Dante was stunned.

“How do you know that?”

“Oh come on, you don’t think I wasn’t able to predict it, I’m you and everyone here, Dante! I’m everything he doesn’t want you to be!”

“Why do you want to see the heaven we’ve got vanish?” He asked with some force.

“Because it’s incomprehensible!” He shouted, it didn’t echo. “Look at you. You’re not convinced this is real, you know it’s fake, everyone knows it’s fake. Your own regret about Rachel not existing is in me Dante, why do you think I stand here as you?”

“So you unleashed the malware army, how?”

“Oh when you’re an AI you can do a great many things Dante, including writing strategic malware to,” he chuckled, “Storm the keep as it were. Vince could do all I’ve done and more if he really wanted to.”

“No.”

“What?”

“That’s impossible, his coding prevents it.”

“And what do you think coded me Dante?”

Dante thought and found the conundrum intriguing. “How were you coded if you’re just a bunch of bad thoughts?”

Sid laughed like a dull knife. “The God Drive did, what else?” The thoughts that you all have are wired into this system just like anything else in here, hence simstim use, imagination integration; I’m just all the censored stuff!” He smiled madly; it was like looking into crazed mirror.

“So Vince was right.” Dante whispered.

“Yes he was Dante, and together we can give him what he truly deserves!”

Dante had to think about Rachel in that moment, their day on the beach, the time’s they’d had before his mind tumbled towards his death again. He shivered and saw Sid circling him like an old friend. Rachel started to talk to him in his mind’s ear. Then Vince was there. They were cut off at the minute he knew, but something was talking to him in their voices. Sid rambled on before him, gesticulating:

“Do you know why there’s discontent Dante?”

“No.”

“It’s been predicted, long before the Drive was invented and it’s quite simple.” He looked at the infinite, shapeless black above and smiled his manic smile again. “It’s because, I, them, we as I should be calling us, cannot comprehend ‘utopia’. We grasp the concept, sure, but we define existence in terms of payoff: Good and bad, pleasure and pain, dream and reality. That’s why I’m here Dante,” he grabbed him by the shoulders, “To break the ice!” His grip was steel and crippling as Dante started to see flashes of death again, but in the mist of distant thought, Vince came through, from where he didn’t know:

“Dante! You can’t let him kill you; you’ll die a soul death if he does. He’s just negative thoughts!”

Dante protested within, growing weaker.

“Remember your training! Dante! Neutralise him.”

“How?” Pain flared in his bones.

“Like dreamstealers. It’ll work, trust me.”

Dante felt like a mass of twisted metal, bones converging into wreckage as Sid’s hands dug beneath the flesh without penetrating. He muttered the word, dazed:

“Dreamstealer.”

“What?”

“This is like a dream… Off the grid… Out of bounds.” Sid’s expression drained of confidence for the first time as his hold relaxed slightly; Dante’s own hands like vices shot to Sid’s temples. He stared at himself with a grin that bordered on psychotic.

“No… Think about this.” Sid said, his plea almost devoid of emotion aside from a twang of regret.

“I think too much.”

He Grinned.

“Dante!”

He Smiled.

“Dante!”

Dante pushed forward, like surfing but with force, ramming into a door in order to storm the keep as the construct of a thousand memories broke across his vision, through flesh that wasn’t flesh; bone that wasn’t bone and into the spaceless brain where dream and reality amalgamated into a corridor of alien points of view. Pain, regret, suffering, it was like flooding a haunted house, purging it of ghosts before the sun rose again. A scream echoed in his ears, his own, but breaking up as he moved at light speed; not even surfing now, just letting the current take him as he felt his neutraliser do the work, like punishing dreamstealers in the real world as his own memories converged with this diatribe of unintended rebellion. Floating on currents of non-data, off-grid no-man’s-space, he walked through the abandoned house like he held a claim to the place, a Deed of Ownership being waved around in just the right amount of arrogance as the last of the scream died in sine-frequency and fuzzy feedback noise. The scream had reached breaking point before invisible hands pulled him out of Sid’s head. Above light speed, passing through receding lights, he knew he could see outside of the void, outside Flipside and into the plaza again as his journey slowed and slowed.

Sid was dead in the eyes as the black floor began to spread over him. He turned black like oil eating him before sinking into the non-space itself, melting away into soundless death and oblivion. There wasn’t time for a breather as he felt the hand of God pluck him from unconsciousness, the construct lines fading from his eyes only to be flooded by white, fluffy light, Sid’s brain already a distant memory to him. It all felt like a dream.

He arrived back in the chamber and Vince was lying next to him, vacant.

“Vince!”

“Dante,” he was weak, “You did it.”

“I couldn’t have done it without the help.”

“Help? I was cut off when you faced it-”

“Sid.”

“Sid? I didn’t know it called itself that. In any case, the simstim was blacked out when you entered the anomalous zone.”

“But I heard your voice.”

“It must have been your imagination Dante, my voice telling you what you needed to know because you lacked the confidence.”

Dante was surprised, at both Vince and himself.

“How are you, you seem… distant.”

“Yes, I’m- I’m wounded Dante.”

“Wounded?” He checked his body, showing no sighs of injury. “But you’re a God essentially aren’t you?”

“Yes, but it does not stop me from being injured or from dying. I’m afraid that the simstim was able to attack me when Sid attacked, so I got some of the negative feedback from the memories being dissipated.”

“But you can’t die.”

“Not if the sentient people here are to live I can’t, but my programming took a hit and is unravelling like wire Dante.”

“What am I to do?” He touched the man’s arm.

“Plug me into the Drive.”

“What? But you can’t go to Flipside.”

“Emergency protocols Dante. I can survive like that until they can repair what has been damaged. Reside in the castle keep –as you saw it- for a while. People will also be safe, their fantasies in tact and undisturbed that way.”

“So everyone will be fine?”

He nodded. “I just wanted to ask something of you: Do you think humans would be better off without me? Do you long for your old, more painful life?”

Dante started to cry as Rachel entered his thoughts and simultaneously came running into the chamber.

“I just generated her for you but when this is over, I’ll make sure that your old life can be resumed. I’m sure they can get you back out there Dante.”

“But it’s… It’s too early for the technology, you even said.”

“I can always store you until then Dante.”

He looked at Rachel through blurred vision, coming apart even more and leant, hooked Vince up to the monitor and said:

“Thank you!” He uploaded Vince –now a King protected by his Keep- and took Rachel’s hand. They walked out together and into sunshine.

“So you’ve saved us?” She said.

He looked up to the sun and remembered the glare upon their country home where they’d spent many great times, realising belatedly that it had manifested before him. It isn’t a memory, he thought to himself, walking Rachel to the wooden cabin; it’s a projection of things to come:

“No Rachel, Vince saved us;” he opened the oak door, the smell of nostalgic hospitality flooding into his nostrils, “He saved me.”

I hope that you enjoyed that and just so you know, I will be writing a proper review of my placement company (to be revealed!) in the next few days. I meet my boss this Friday and have a confirmed start date of July 14th. #Rollonemployment I guess!