Michael Moorcock Series General Discussion

BardicheAssault · Apr 27, 2021

Jugadors are Broken, Pt. 2

Jack confirms Colinda's statement as the multiverse isn't a globe, time isn't cyclic and there's no real linearity for the multiverse is a tree, root and branch, a living organism, a creature that is forever adapting and changing. Like them, it's made up of spheres but is not itself spherical. They've evolved beyond the merely spheroid shape he hopes. Walt asks if the Singularity's fatal error is confusing the constituents for the whole which Colinda confirms. Mike ponders if the multiverse can think or if it's a moral being but Jack asks if the multiverse is God.

Jack's question gets the board to unleash Chaotic Colors (those Colors are tears in the multiverse as explained by Blood: A Southern Fantasy).

The Original Insect, protected within the First Ether, advances into the multiverse and devours the Chaotic Second Ether, excreting its atoms as the Straight Arrow Ships of Law. Walt says they're living on the lips of the multiverse sucking monster, surviving like fleas in its mustache which gets him to wonder what they think they're controlling but Mike tries to reassure him.

The Silverskin appears within the board with Jack and Colinda having Law-aligned cards while Walt and Mike have Chaos-aligned ones.

Silverskin keeps screaming at them while the Jugadors just observe him. They were getting into the final rounds and Mike wasn't sure any one of them was up to the strain. Mike's head starts hurting as he asks the game to get started which gets Jack to be the dealer.

Silverskin appears to Elric and Moonglum, saying that Chaos is all one mass that calls itself King Silverskin.

The Original Insect and The Rose's Scaling Ship appear in the board. Walt thinks they can save Sam from their reality but Mike says to let him go. Colinda wonders about saving him or playing on which she and Jack leave to them to make the move

Spammer Gain is the Grail of the Chaos Engineers and the Jugadors keep playing. In the board, Elric and a bunch of blank faces appear.

Pearl Peru, Professor Pop and Little Rupoldo connect the poles at various points in the multiverse, seeking to reverse the polarities.

The polarities of the multiverse are reversed which sends the Original Insect and the Singularity Ships towards Oblivion Dock.

The board brims with energy that originates from the Grey Fees as the Chaos Engineers are all saved.

Spammer Gain appears in Jack's universe and reunites with her Fishlings which are the Machinoix.

Spammer is revealed to be the sentient Grail with Rose getting the massively shrunk Original Insect to fall into the fishbowl.

Walt and Mike high-five, saying they switched the poles and saved the multiverse though Mike asks for what. Colinda says that with Spammer redeemed, the Insect eaten, it's the full reverse and it looks as if the game's over for them but Jack thinks they still have a move or two left. Their end game decides their future, the nature of reality for the eons ahead, whether justice triumphs over blind appetite or if they're doomed to perpetual self-destruction.

Silverskin threatens to absorb Elric but Elric feels the polarities reverse and that's his one moment to absorb Silverskin.

Elric strikes at Silverskin and says he'll absorb Silverskin.

Elric makes good on his promise in absorbing Silverskin, returning to his full power and has ecome strong enough to reduce the whole of time to a single perfect moment as he blows the Horn.

Elric's absorption of Silverskin allows the Cosmic Balance to manifest with the familiar images of the Black Sword, the White Sword, the Holy Grail, the Balanced Scales of Law and Chaos and probably more.

The triumph of the Cosmic Balance manifests in Jack's reality as the Chaos Engineers greet the Jugadors onlooking.

The Jugadors and the board descend with the Holy Grail manifesting before them which Quelch takes for himself.

For this part, the main takeaway is King Silverskin. Namely, the only reason Elric managed to defeat him is because of the Jugadors doing two things:
1. Jack and Colinda, the Law Jugadors, tipping the game in Elric's favor. He wouldn't have won without outside help.
2. The Chaos Jugadors, Mike and Walt, tipping the Chaos Engineers into reversing the multiverse's polarity, which ended up weakening Silverskin and amping Elric. Again, Elric isn't this strong normally and even with this level of power, he still falls extremely short of the Jugadors.

BardicheAssault · Apr 27, 2021

Jugadors are Broken, Pt. 3:

Tanelorn's the end of all stories with the Grey Lords playing the Game of Time. They say the rules are being broken without consequence, Law and Chaos alike making moves forbidden in the Game. Sepiriz warns that the Lords of the Higher Worlds are not acting of their own accord as some other hands guide them though he doesn't know why. They note that it appears that the players have ecome pawns in another game and they wonder what the stakes are and how close the finish is.

The Game of Time's scale is unfathomable and it's like chess played on a board as large as the multiverse itself. Whole worlds and entire histories are contained in a single square. The pieces on one side represent Chaos and the other, Law but the pieces also include Eternal Champions, including Elric himself.

Various Eternal Champions are doing nothing about the Balance's restoration as their entire realities fall to Chaos or Law.

Chaos and Law pieces are on the board but once again, Elric and his fellow Eternal Champions and Compaions, Corum Jhaelen Irsei, Eric Beck, Dorian Hawkmoon, Jhary-a-Conel and Huillam D'Averc are also on the board being played.

All across the multiverse, Eternal Champions can sense that something's wrong with Erekose distracted from searching for Ermizhad. Fellow Jugador, Renark von Bek, is also sensing something is up though he doesn't appear to be playing the Game of Time at the moment.

Once again, the pieces of Law and Chaos are pitted against each other while a broken Cosmic Balance looms overhead.

Sepiriz told them that the Cosmic Balance can be found in Ko-O-Ko The Lost Universe so the offenders must be there which they are.

It's none other than the Lost Gods, Rhynn and Kwll, playing a Game of Time with Chaos and Law as their forces, respectively.

Corum introduces the duo and says he's never encountered more powerful beings, never heard of anyone more powerful. They rid his world of the Lords of Law and Chaos with as much ease as a man might crush an insect underfoot and wonders if they are the authors of their present troubles. Hawkmoon says they stand no chance but Elric says all they got is hope.

The duo's game and absence of the Cosmic Balance affect the entire multiverse with realities falling completely to Law or Chaos.

Spammer Gain's as big as a universe and scale or mass is relative in the multiverse but still, they are gigantic. The pieces on the board are the size of living humans and Kwll and Rhynn are on another scale entirely which affects their size.

Elric wonders if Ko-O-Ko's really the home of the Cosmic Balance because the air smells of imbalance with the ground unstable in both directions. Elric asks if they can be harmed but Hawkmoon still doubts they can and Corum confirms that if they cut for a thousand lifetimes, they would do no damage since only a Lost God can harm a Lost God.

Kwll reaches for a Law piece with Elric asking that if Corum wore Kwll's hand, how can that be since Corum isn't anywhere near Kwll's current size but that's because Kwll was closer to human size when they lats met. Kwll left the multiverse and has apparently re-entered the multiverse at a different scale.

Elric says that if they cannot harm the duo or force them to give up the game they're playing then he wonders what option is left for them.

Kwll addresses Corum and despite retrieving their lost parts, he tells Corum to go away anyway. Corum shoots back that Kwll once told him he had no pleasure in playing games of Law or Chaos or manipulating the fates of mortals and demigods. Hawkmoon demands they stop for the Balance must be restored as countless lives will be lost and entire realities doomed.

Rhynn tells Kwll not to contend with those nuisances since their worlds are puny to them and asks they finish the game to figure out who is the winner.

Kwll says he and Rhynn got into another fight so they had to settle their differences some other way so they decided to use other forces as proxies. For the game to begin, the Cosmic Balance that regulated the multiverse had to be demolished so that nothing would impede their moves. The forces of Law and Chaos would be their playing pieces and the multiverse itself their gameboard and they agreed that whichever of them came to dominate all of reality would be the victory in their disagreement. The choice of sides was Kwll's and he chose the forces of Law as his pawns.

Kwll's first moves in the game were subtle feints, opening gambits designed to test Rhynn's technique which is reflected in Gary rallying the Law Party in his reality. Rhynn mirrored Kwll's moves with Dherek rallying the Beelzebub Cult in his world. As the game continued, the moves became increasingly overt and the pieces' arrangements became more complex.

Elric disputes this since the contest can't be won when the playing field itself is corrupted and destroyed with each passing turn. Kwll points at Elric and says that he's one of those who should have been his pawn but instead served his brother's cause. Play will never be complete if the pieces continue to switch sides.

Rhynn says that their tactics are upset when one or another piece doesn't move across the board as they intend as their plans may have been thwarted by the Champions not acting as they command.

BardicheAssault · Apr 27, 2021

Jugadors are Broken, Pt. 4

Elric notes that they're talking of changing the field of play but if their game is played across the entire multiverse then they are meaning to make some new moves with the duo agreeing to the new rules to continue the game.

The duo have changed the field of play by summoning the armies of Law and Chaos. Corum notices that they summoned their armies there to carry out their battle directly instead of waging it all across the multiverse and directing their moves from Ko-O-Ko.

Gary and Dherek notice they've gone to another dimension, leaving Tanelorn behind but Elic says if they can't restore the Cosmic Balance then nowhere will be safe for long.

Kwll and Rhynn addresses their forces of Law and Chaos respectively with Gary and Dherek waging war on each other.

The victor of the game will claim the whole multiverse as their reward but there would scarcely be a multiverse left to claim after the war's end. Corum, Hawkmoon and Eric are overwhelmed by the sheer number of combatants but Elric gets his ring out to summon an army of the Balance.

The Warriors at the Edge of Time are awakened, standing vigil at the edge of time and awaiting the moment they are called to serve one last time, their numbers legion. Little fun fact is that the narration for this panel matches Silverskin's dialogue earlier on during the Game of Time played by Jack, Colinda, Mike, and Walt. This means that these Warriors at the Edge of Time are Eternal Champions that are part of King Silverskin.

Elric asks that Eric point his Black Blade at his ring. With both artifacts joined, they can summon an army in service of the Balance which he does, calling them from the edge of time.

The Warriors at the Edge of Time arrive being Veterans of a Thousand Psychic Wars and Eternal Champions who once served the Cosmic Balance and who now will serve it again.

The Champions rush into battle, hailing from every age of the multiverse, from a thousand different worlds, all fighting as one in the name of the Balance which gets Kwll to notice new pieces appearing on the board and complicating the dynamics of the game.

Elric says their only hope is that they might find some way to restore the Balance while their allies keep the armies occupied.

The Champions arrive at the broken Cosmic Balance and note its incredible size, wondering how they're going to fix it.

Corum remembers that they were told they already possessed all the tools that they would require though the way to restore the Balance is cryptic to the Champions.

Eric remembers that Sepiriz said the Balance is both metaphor and physical reality and gets the artifacts together to try and recreate the Balance.

Kwll moves to counter the introduction of the Balance's Warriors by bringing in the Singularity Ships which Kwll plucked from the far reaches of the multiverse.

Rhynn responds by bringing the Chaos Lords in from the higher dimensions to level the playing field and it appears that Xiombarg joins the fight. Again, "higher" and "lower" dimensions here aren't higher or lower infinities; the "dimensions" in Moorcock's multiverse are geometrical dimensions and they go higher or lower via changing their scale through their mass, not due to transcending infinities.

Eric's plan pays off as the Cosmic Balance starts to repair itself.

Rhynn notices the Cosmic Balance is being restored which gets his attention while Kwll is still engrossed in the game.

Rhynn destroys the small scale Balance and nearly crushes all the Champions

Rhynn breaks the Cosmic Balance again though their artifacts remain intact and devises a plan to take the fight directly to Rhynn and Kwll.

Elric says they are going to fight not as four separate individuals but as one, merging the four together until Gary interrupts Eric.

BardicheAssault · Apr 27, 2021

Jugadors are Broken, Pt. 5

Gary attacks Eric which forces the other Champions to become the Three-Who-Are-One.

T3WA1 and Rhynn prepare to battle which gets Kwll's attention.

The battle is raged on high and low as the cosmic beings fight at the same time as Eric and Gary.

All across the multiverse, adepts monitor the struggle between Chaos and Law, hopefully searching for signs that the Balance might be restored. In Mu-Ooria, the Off-Moo are taking careful measurements, performing delicate calculations. Metatemporal Detectives and Temporal Adventurers are accessing vast computer banks processing mountains of data in the Time Centre. The Grey Lords in Tanelorn are pondering the position of the pieces as the endgame approaches and in all cases, the conclusion is inescapable for like the Balance itself, all hope is lost.

Deep within Ko-O-Ko, the conclusion of the game arrives as T3WA1 and Rhynn fight while Eric and Gary continue to brawl.

Rhynn says T3WA1 are interfering with their game but they seek to restore the Balance before all of existence is lost but Rhynn doesn't care about either existence or the Balance.

While Rhynn is distracted by T3WA1, Kwll sees a chance for an easy victory but Rhynn asks that Kwll help him which he feels he cannot just stand idly by and watch his brother be defeated by another's hand.

Kwll joins the fight while T3WA1 replies that the conclusion of their game will bring with it the end of all life in the multiverse, either in formless chaos or sterile rigidity. Rhynn tell Kwll to ignore the mayflies since at any scale, they are beneath their contempt.

T3WA1 says they'll not be ignored as the trio unleash forces in a titanic struggle that are beyond imagination and comprehension, so potent that those forces begin to distort the very fabric of reality itself and the walls of the Lost Universe start thinning.

As Ko-O-Ko continues its erratic course through the multiverse, different worlds phase in and out, barely visible through the rips in reality which causes Eric and Gary to fight on different worlds.

T3WA1 are overwhelmed by both gods and as the battle rages for longer and longer, the chance for the Balance's restoration slips away. Eric meanwhile notices he's got all the pieces to restore the Balance but he just needs a few seconds.

Gary stabs through Eric but Eric just takes it and stabs Gary in return.

T3WA1 has lost the fight and the duo are about to end them and finish their game with Eric pulling the sword out and saying that the only way to get inside Gary's guard was to let him hit him.

Eric attempts to restore the Balance again but Gary tries to stop him though Eric pulls him into a hug and forgives him.

Eric merges with Gary, becoming one being. They are a potent mix of Law and Chaos though the merge seems unstable but they pick up the swords regardless.

With both swords of Law and Chaos in each hand, the merged Beck stand equally balanced as a living metaphor and by the special logic of Ko-O-Ko, reality and metaphor are indistinguishable from each other. With one balance restored, the other begins to repair itself.

The Cosmic Balance is fully restored and puts an end to the Game of the Lost Gods, there needing no victor when every conflict leads to equilibrium. Kwll asks if they should upset the Balance and begin a new game but Rhynn's tired and asks if they even remember what they disagreed over but Kwll doesn't and agrees to send them back whence they came and be on their way, leaving the multiverse again it seems.

During this entire ordeal, the one time Eternal Champions could hope to match a Lost God was if they became the Three-Who-Are-One (should've been The-Four-Who-Are-One but they got interrupted). Even then, the Three-Who-Are-One could only match one Lost God at a time. Against two at the same time, the Three-Who-Are-One got overwhelmed.

Individually, Eternal Champions couldn't hope to even be a threat to either Lost God/Jugador. That's how massive the gap is between them.

Malomtek · Apr 28, 2021

@BardicheAssault What would you peg Elric of Melnibone's tier at?

BardicheAssault · Apr 28, 2021

Malomtek said:
@BardicheAssault What would you peg Elric of Melnibone's tier at?

As in Elric himself?

As he normally is, I’d put him at around Tier 9. Around 9-B or a bit higher than that.

With amps and/or summons, he can go up to either 2-C or 2-B.

Malomtek · Apr 28, 2021

BardicheAssault said:
As in Elric himself?

As he normally is, I’d put him at around Tier 9. Around 9-B or a bit higher than that.

With amps and/or summons, he can go up to either 2-C or 2-B.

That sounds a bit "downplay-ey" to me. If I recall correctly, doesn't Elric have feats of slicing up universal entities or such?

BardicheAssault · Apr 28, 2021

Malomtek said:
That sounds a bit "downplay-ey" to me. If I recall correctly, doesn't Elric have feats of slicing up universal entities or such?

In base? He doesn’t have feats of those, no. If he does, then they’re massive outliers; the only times he can contend on that sort of level is if he’s amped up.

It doesn’t help that the amount of power Stormbringer gives Elric at any moment varies depending on the sword’s mood. In fact, Stormbringer has been overloaded on several occassions and has even refused to give Elric power.

And in certain universes in the multiverse, Stormbringer just flat-out doesn’t have any power and can’t function at all.

EDIT: Adding the passage from The Vanishing Tower.

As he dodged another swing of the scythe Elric tried to think of some rune which would summon supernatural aid to him, but he could think of none which would work here. He thrust at the tiger-man but his blow was blocked by the scythe. His opponent was enormously strong and swift. The black wings began to beat and the snarling thing flapped upwards to the ceiling, hovered for a moment and then rushed down on Elric with its scythe whirling, a chilling scream coming from its fanged mouth, its yellow eyes glaring.

Elric felt something close to panic. Stormbringer was not supplying him with the strength he expected. Its powers were diminished on this plane. He barely managed to dodge the scythe again and lash at the creature’s exposed thigh. The blade bit but no blood came. The tiger-man did not seem to notice the wound. Again it began to flap towards the ceiling.

Elric saw that his companions were experiencing a similar plight. Corum’s face was full of consternation as if he had expected an easy victory and now foresaw defeat. Meanwhile Voilodion Ghagnasdiak continued to scream his glee and flung more of the yellow balls about the room. As each one burst there emerged another snarling winged tiger-creature. The room was full of them. Elric, Erekosë and Corum backed to the far wall as the monsters bore down on them, their ears full of the fearful beating of the giant wings, the harsh screams of hatred.

“I fear I have summoned you two to your destruction,” Corum panted. “I had no warning that our powers would be so limited here. The tower must shift so fast that even the ordinary laws of sorcery do not apply within its walls.”

“They seem to work well enough for the dwarf,” Elric said as he brought up his blade to block first one scythe and then another. “If I could slay but a single . . .”

-The Vanishing Tower

BardicheAssault · Jun 2, 2021

For the next few posts, I'll be focusing more on the Jugadors' feats from the Second Ether book "Blood: A Southern Fantasy".

I'll be splitting them into several parts simply because of how lengthy they are.

BardicheAssault · Jun 2, 2021

BLOOD: A SOUTHERN FANTASY, PT. 1

Michael Moorcock: Jugador feats

Although I am known for my skills as an editor of others' work, the Begg collection seemed at first impossible. Yet I was duty-bound to prepare the papers for press and seek a publisher for them. I am doomed, I am beginning to understand, to remain a kind of eternal editor.
However, as I worked on the manuscript I began to perceive its coherence. A complex and intriguing story emerged as all the disparate elements came together to form an unfamiliar whole.

Michael Moorcock is the Eternal Editor, doomed to prepare papers for press and seek a publisher for them. As he worked on the manuscript, he begun to see its coherence as a complex, intriguing story emerging from disparate elements.

The world described in Begg's papers was not our own, nor did it appear to know of our own. It was a world in which the white races had fallen into decadence and other races had risen to build a more dynamic civilization.
When the "color spots" had started to appear they were regarded as a boon—a source of free, apparently limitless, energy; raw energy which could be harnessed and used for almost any electronic purpose, but little else.
Seeking further color as the world's other resources diminished, engineers determined to drill to what they believed to be the source of a great color mass which had erupted one afternoon in the ocean off the port and resort of Biloxi, Mississippi and for a while provided enough electronic fuel for the whole state and much of Louisiana.
They were boring into what the engineers defined as “ultra-reality” the Source Matter of the Universe, but they drilled for only seconds before the famous Fault emerged like a djinn from a bottle, swallowing platform crews, the pier, some beach-front buildings, gambling boats, and part of the on-shore monitoring section even as they aborted the project. All matter—living or inert—was gulped up by that hungry, uncontrollable Fault, raging and howling like a million souls in torment, vivid against the unnaturally tranquil ocean and a still, southern sky.
From then on, the process was irreversible. It seemed the fabric of reality shredded and warped, growing almost senile in its whimsicalities.

Michael Moorcock reads of another world where “Color Spots” are a source of free, seemingly infinite energy that can be harnessed and used for any electronic device but little else. The engineers drilled for more until they tore into “ultra-reality” or the Universe’s Source Matter for only seconds before the Fault emerged and swallowed up the crew and portions of Louisiana. All matter, living or inert, got eaten by the Fault and the process seems irreversible, the fabric of reality now shredded and warped.

Jack Karaquazian and Colinda Dovero: Jugador feats

Amongst the few able to survive and thrive in such uncertain conditions were the so-called jugadors— also known as mukhamirim or, more familiarly, chocarreros—forming the famous Gambler Guilds, whose adepts played in every way for the very highest stakes, who counted it their sacred duty to take risks and did so as a matter of honor and habit, staking their lives and reputations casually.
They were called jugadors according to the patois of the day, which had developed mostly from Carib, French, Spanish, African and English sources. They knew how to calculate odds and make decisions in a world increasingly ruled by chance.

Jugadors are able to survive and thrive with Color Spots devouring reality. They’re adepts who play for the very highest stakes in every way. They know how to calculate odds and make decisions in a world increasingly ruled by chance.

The planet grew increasingly unstable, touched by a vast manifestation of Chaos revealed through the Biloxi Fault. Decaying energy produced sudden flurries of power blazing with an unhealthy intensity before they were tapped or disappeared. The effects of entropy were everywhere. Sometimes these effects were spectacular, miraculous and uncomfortably alien, the stuff of hectic nightmare or ecstatic vision. Few believed the Earth would ever be healed of her physical or her metaphysical wounds.
It became clear that soon the planet must perish and death consume all memory.

The planet’s becoming increasingly unstable, touched by a vast Chaos manifestation in the Biloxi Fault, decaying energy producing sudden power fluxes and entropy before they’re tapped or disappeared. It’s wounded Earth physically and metaphysically, slowly killing the planet.

Perhaps fearing this inevitable end, many placed increasing value on the moment, learning to relish every remaining second of life. Amongst these were Jack Karaquazian and Colinda Dovero who were considered by many to be the king and queen of their calling, both jugadors of the highest caliber, the admiration and envy of their peers, the moral exemplars of all aspirants. They were lovers and their story is told here.

Jack and Colinda, the king and queen of jugadors of the highest caliber, fear this inevitable end so they relish every remaining second of life.

Two pairs of lovers, famous gamblers all—Even when Chaos threatened to engulf the multiverse, when the entire quasi-infinite was in upheaval, they staked their mortal lives and their immortal souls against all the forces of Singularity, that deadly alternative, refusing the trap of simplification and reduction.

Along with Rose and Sam, they are threatened by Chaos engulfing the multiverse with the entire QUASI-INFINITE in upheaval, staking their mortal lives and immortal souls against all the Singularity forces.

The very nature of our dreams is changing. We have deconstructed the universe and are refusing to rebuild it. This is our madness and our glory. Now we can again begin the true course of our exploration, without preconceptions or agendas.

A hint to what is going on in Jack’s world, having deconstructed the universe and refusing to rebuild it, causing the very nature of their dreams to change.

They had met for the second time in the Terminal Café on the stablest edge of the Biloxi Fault. The café's sharply defined walls constantly jumped and mirrored, expanding space, contracting it, slowing time, frantically dancing in and out of a thousand mirror matrixes; its neon sign (last heat on the beach), usually lavender and cerise, drawing power directly from the howling chaos a few feet away, between the white sand and the blue ocean, where all the unlikely geometries of the multiverse, all the terrible wild colors, that maelstrom of uninterpretable choices, were displayed in a smooth, perfect circle which the paraengineers had sliced through the core of all-time and all-space, its rim edged by a rainbow ribbon of vanilla-scented crystal. Usually, the Terminal Café occupied roughly the area of space filled by the old pier, which itself had been absorbed by the vortex during the early moments of an experiment intended to bore into the very marrow of ultra-reality and extract all the energy the planet needed.

The effects of the Fault cause the café’s dimensions, including space and time, to twist and turn as the paraengineers slice into the core of all-spacetime.

The operation had been aborted twenty-two seconds after it began. Since then, adventurers of many persuasions and motives had made the sidestep through the oddly colored flames of the Fault into that inferno of a billion perishing space-time continua, drawn down into a maw which sucked to nothingness the substance of whole races and civilizations, whole planetary systems, whole histories, while Earth and sun bobbed in some awkward and perhaps temporary semi-parasitical relationship between the feeding and the food; their position in this indecipherable matrix being generally considered a fluke. (Or perhaps the planet was the actual medium of this destruction, as untouched by it as the knife which cuts the throat of the Easter lamb.)

The Fault devoured not just the engineers but billions of universes, races, civilizations, planetary systems and timelines while Earth and the sun enter into a strange orbiting pattern.

Even the least fanciful of theorists agreed that they might have accelerated or at least were witnesses to a universal destruction. They believed the engineers had drilled through unguessable dimensions, damaging something which had until now regulated the rate of entropy to which human senses had, over millions of years, evolved. With that control damaged and the rate accelerating to infinity, their perceptions were no longer adequate to the psychic environment.

The most rational theorists agreed that they might’ve accelerated or at least became witnesses to universal destruction, thinking the engineers had drilled through unguessable dimensions, damaging something which had until now regulated the rate of entropy to which human senses had, over millions of years, evolved and with that control damaged and the rate ACCELERATING TO INFINITY, their perceptions were no longer useful to the psychic environment.

The multiverse raced perhaps towards the creation of a new sequence of realities, perhaps towards some cold and singular conformity; perhaps towards unbridled chaos, the end of all consciousness. This last was what drew certain people to the edge of the Fault, their fascination taking them step by relentless step to the brink, there to be consumed.

The multiverse’s racing towards the creation of a new sequence of realities, perhaps towards singular conformity, perhaps towards unbridled chaos, the end of all consciousness which fascinates certain people and gets them eaten.

On a dance floor swept by peculiar silhouettes and shifts of light, Boudreaux Ramsadeen, who had brought his café here by rail from Meridian, encouraged the zee-band to play on while he guided his tiny partners in the Cajun steps. These professional dancers travelled from all over Arcadia to join him. Their hands on their swaying hips, their delicate feet performing figures as subtly intricate as the Terminal's own dimensions, they danced to some other tune than the band's.
Boudreaux's neanderthal brows were drawn together in an expression of seraphic concentration as, keeping all his great bulk on his poised left foot, describing graceful steps with his right, he moved his partners with remarkable tenderness and delicacy.

The café’s dancers are able to dance in tandem with the Terminal’s shifting dimensions.

(Jack Karaquazian deals seven hands of poker, fingering the sensors of his kayplay with deliberate slowness. Only here, on the whole planet, is there a reservoir of energy deep enough to run every machine, synthetic reasoner, or cybe in the world, but not transmittable beyond the Terminal's peculiar boundaries. Only those with an incurable addiction to the past's electronic luxuries come here, and they are all gamblers of some description. Weird light saturates the table; the light of Hell. He is waiting for his passion, his muse.)
Colinda Dovero and Jack Karaquazian had met again across the blue, flat sheen of a mentasense and linked into the wildest, riskiest game of "Slick Image'' anyone had ever witnessed, let alone joined.
When they came out of it, Dovero was eight guineas up out of a betting range which had made psychic bids most seasoned players never cared to imagine. It had caused Boudreaux Ramsadeen to rouse himself from his mood of ugly tolerance and insist thereafter on a stakes ceiling that would protect the metaphysical integrity of his establishment. Some of the spectators had developed peculiar psychopathic obsessions, while others had merely become subject to chronic vomiting. Dovero and Karaquazian had, however, gone into spacelessness together and did not properly emerge for nine variations, while the walls expanded and turned at odd angles and the colors saturated and amplified all subtleties of sensation. There is no keener experience, they say, than the act of love during a matrix shift at the Terminal Café.
“That buzz? It's self-knowledge,” she told the Egyptian, holding him tight as they floated in the calm between one bizarre reality and another.

Jack and Colinda are playing a game with the café being the only reservoir of energy deep enough to run all tech though not transmittable beyond the café which has metaphysical integrity. Jack and Colinda have gone into spacelessness together and emerge for 9 variations while the café keeps shifting. Colinda says that buzz is self-knowledge as she holds him tight, floating in the void between one bizarre reality and another.

Karaquazian found her again a year later on the Princesse du Natchez. He recognized, through her veil, her honey-colored almond eyes. She was, she said, now ready for him. They turned their stateroom into marvelous joint quarters. Her reason for parting had been a matter of private business. That business, she warned him, was not entirely resolved but he was grateful for even a hint of a future. The old Confederate autonomies were lucky if their matrixes were only threadbare. They were collapsing. There were constant minor reality meltdowns now and yet there was nothing to be done but continue as if continuation were possible. Soon the Mississippi might become one of the few geographical constants. "When we start to go," he said, "I want to be on the river."
"Maybe chaos is already our natural condition," she had teased. She was always terrifyingly playful in the face of annihilation, whereas he found it difficult even to confront the idea. She still had a considerable amount of hope in reserve.

Confederate autonomies are lucky if their matrices are only threadbare but they’re collapsing, constant minor reality meltdown now and yet there’s nothing to be done but continue if it’s possible. Colinda jokes that maybe chaos is already their natural condition which Jack finds hard to confront the looming annihilation.

The mind which had concentrated on gambling and its attendant skills, upon self-defense and physical fitness, upon self-control, now devoted itself almost wholly to her. He was obsessed with her thoughts, her motives, her background, her story, the effect which her reality had upon his own. He was no longer the self-possessed individual he had been before he met her; and, when they had made love again that first night, he had been ready to fall in with any scheme which kept them together. Eventually, after the New Auschwitz incident, he had made some attempt to rescue his old notion of himself, but when she revealed her business had to do with a potential color strike valuable beyond any modern hopes, he had immediately agreed to go with her to help establish the claim. In return, she promised him a percentage of the proceeds. He committed himself to her in spite of his not quite believing anything she told him. She had been working the boats for some while now, raising money to fund the expedition, ready to call it quits as soon as her luck turned bad. Since Memphis, her luck had run steadily down. This could also be why she had been so happy to seek an ally in him. The appearance of the cool boys had alarmed her; as if that evening had been the first time she had suffered any form of accusation. Besides, she told him, with the money he had they could now easily meet the top price for the land, which was only swamp anyway. She would pay the fees and expenses. There would be no trouble raising funds once the strike was claimed.
At Chickasaw, they had left the boat and set off up the Trace together. She had laughed as she looked back at the levee and the Princesse outlined against the cold sky. "I have made an enemy, I think, of that captain.” He was touched by what he perceived as her wish to reassure him of her constancy. But in Carthage, they had been drawn into a flat game, which had developed around a random hot-spot no bigger than a penny, and played until the spot faded. When the debts were paid, they were down to a couple of guineas between them and had gambled their emergency batteries. At this point, superstition overwhelmed them and each had seen sudden bad luck in the other.

Jack’s mind had concentrated on gambling and its skills like self-defense, physical fitness and self control but was now devoted almost wholly to Colinda. He lost his individuality to her and tried to get it back but the duo found a potential color strike valuable beyond any modern hopes and placed with her to earn a claim on that Color Spot which was developed around a random hot-spot no bigger than a penny and played until the spot faded.

Recently, the semi-mutable nature of the matrix meant that such questions had become increasingly common. Jack Karaquazian had countless memories of beginning this journey to join her and progressing so far (usually no closer than Vicksburg) before his recollections became uncertain, and the images isolated, giving no clue to any particular context. Now, however, he felt as if he were being carried by some wise momentum allowing his unconscious to steer a path through the million psychic turnings and cul-de-sacs this environment provided. It seemed to him that his obsession with the woman, his insane association of her with his luck, his Muse, was actually supplying the force needed to propel him back to the reality he longed to find. She was his goal, but she was also his reason.

The matrix’s nature is semi-mutable with Jack suffering countless memories of beginning his journey to join her and progressing so far, usually no closer than Vicksburg, before his recollections became uncertain and the images isolated, giving no clue to any context. He now feels as if he’s carried by some wise momentum allowing his unconscious to steer a path through the million psychic turnings and cul-de-sacs the environment provided. Due to Colinda, he is strengthened massively and his luck increased.

She foresaw a world rapidly passing from contention to warfare; from warfare to brute struggle, from that to insensate matter, and from that to nothingness. “This is the reality offered as our future,” she said. They determined they would, if only through their mutual love, resist such a future.
They had grown comfortable with one another, and when they camped at night they would remind themselves of their story, piecing it back into some sort of whole, restoring to themselves the extraordinary intensity of their long relationship. By this means, and the warmth of their sexuality, they raised a rough barrier against encroaching chaos.

Colinda foresees a world rapidly passing from peace to warfare to brutal struggle to insensate matter to nothingness. They can resist that reality’s future through mutual love which raises a rough barrier against encroaching chaos.

Eventually, he took the Etoile down to Baton Rouge and from there rode the omnus towards the coast, by way of McComb and Wiggins. It was easy to find Biloxi. The sky was a fury of purple and black for thirty miles around, but above the Fault was a patch of perfect pale blue, there since the destruction began. Even as continua collided and became merely elemental, you could always find the Terminal Café, flickering in and out of a thousand subtly altering realities, pulsing, expanding, contracting, pushing unlikely angles through the afterimages of its own shadows, making unique each outline of each ordinary piece of furniture and equipment, and yet never fully affected by that furious vortex above which the solar system bobbed, as it were, like a cork at the center of the maelstrom. They were not entirely invulnerable to the effects of chaos, that pit of non-consciousness. There were the hot-spots, the time-shifts, the perceptual problems, the energy drains, the odd geographies. Heavy snow had fallen over the Delta one winter, a general cooling, a coruscation, while the following summer, most agreed, was perfectly normal. And yet there remained always that sense of borrowed time. She had seen the winter as an omen for the future. “We have no right to survive this catastrophe,” she had said. “Yet we must try, surely.” He had recognized a faith as strong as his own.

The Fault is warping Biloxi’s surroundings with universes colliding and becoming merely elemental with the Café flickering in and out of a thousand subtly altering realities, pulsing, expanding, contracting, pushing unlikely angles through the afterimages of its own shadows. Jack & Colinda aren’t entirely invulnerable to the effects of chaos, a non-consciousness pit. They see hot-spots, time shifts, perceptual problems, energy drains and odd geographies. Colinda sees the winter as an omen for the future, thinking they have no right to survive the disaster but they must try.

She spoke one night of the Nation of Angels and of worlds ruled by all that was best and wisest, Law and Chaos balanced and harmonious. “You must learn to find harmony, Jack,” she said.
“I believe I have it.” He had responded seriously, without a hint of irony. “I believe I have conquered what is dishonorable or base within me.”
“It is not conquest I mean,” she said. “There is a jackal in you, ma joli. That jackal is a symbol of all that you believe, the noblest of your instincts, and it is your greatest aid to survival. Don’t listen to the jackal, darling. You must listen only to your heart...”
He had heard the singing rhythms of her words, almost swooning in the seductive music of them, the thrilling delight of the sound alone. The meaning came vaguely to him, but he guessed it to be some reciprocated sentiment that would be modified by morning light.
“One day, Jack, you will have to leave the beast behind.”

Jack has a beast in himself that he sometimes succumbs to, needing to find harmony in himself.

Boudreaux Ramsadeen brought in a new band, electrok addicts from somewhere in Tennessee where they had found a hot-spot and brained in until it went dry. They had been famous in those half-remembered years before the Fault, and they played with extraordinary vigor and pleasure, so that Boudreaux's strange, limping dance took on increasingly complex figures and his partners, thrilled at the brute’s exquisite grace and gentleness, threw their bodies into rapturous invention, stepping in and out of the zig-zagging after-images, sometimes dancing with twin selves, their heads flung back and the colors of Hell reflected in their duplicated eyes. And Boudreaux cried with the joy of it, while Jack Karaquazian, on the raised game floor, where the window looked directly out into the Fault, took no notice. Here, at this favorite flat game, his fingers playing a ten-dimensional pseudo-universe like an old familiar deck, the Egyptian still presented his back to that voracious Fault. Its colors swirling in a kind of glee, it swallowed galaxies while Mr. Karaquazian gave himself to old habits. But he was never unconscious.
Mr. Karaquazian remained in the limbo of the Terminal Café. Up in Memphis, he heard, bloody rivalries and broken treaties would inevitably end in the Confederacy’s absolute collapse, unless some sort of alliance was made with the reluctant Free States. Either way, wars must begin. Colinda Dovero's vision of the future had been clearer than most of the oracles.
Mr. Karaquazian had left Egypt because of civil war. Now he refused to move on or even discuss the situation. He kept his back to the Fault because he had come to believe it was the antithesis of God, a manifestation of the Old Hunter. Yet, unlike most of his fellow gamblers, he still hoped for some chance of reconciliation with his Deity. His faith had grown more painful but was not diminished by his constant outrage at his own obscene arrogance, which had led him to ruin innocent men. Yet something of that arrogance remained, and he believed he would not find any reconciliation until he had rid himself of it. He knew of no way to confront and redeem his action. To seek out the Bergers, to offer them his remorse, would merely compound his crime, shift the moral burden and, what was more, further insult them. He remembered the mild astonishment in Ox's eyes. At last he understood the man's expression as Ox sought to defend himself against one whom he guessed must be a psychopath-blood looking for a coup.
Sam Oakenhurst wondered, in the words of a new song he had heard, if they were not “killing time for eternity.” Maybe, one by one, they would get bored enough with the game and stroll casually down into the mouth of Hell, to suffer whatever punishment, pleasure or annihilation was their fate. But Mr. Karaquazian became impatient with this, and Sam apologized. “I'm growing sentimental, I guess.”
Mr. Oakenhurst and Brother Ignatius had borrowed two of his systems for the big Texas game. They had acted out of good will, attempting to reinvolve him in the things which had once pleased him. Mr. Oakenhurst had told of an illegal acoustic school in New Orleans. Only a few people still had those old cruel skills. “Why don't you meet me down there, Jack, when I get back from Texas?”

Ramsadeen brought in a new band where they found hot-spot and brained in until it went dry. Their dance also becomes increasingly complex as they step in and out of the zig-zagging afterimages, sometimes dancing with twin selves. Jack keeps playing his game, his fingers playing a 10D pseudo-universe like an old familiar deck with his back to the Fault as it swallows galaxies. Colinda also has a vision of the future clearer than most oracles. Jack keeps his back to the Fault because he thinks it a manifestation of Old Hunter, God’s antithesis. Unlike most other Jugadors, Jack still hopes for some chance of reconciliation with God but he thinks he won’t find any reconciling until he’s rid himself of it, reflecting on if he can just give remorse to the Bergers. Sam thinks if they were killing time for eternity with the others bored enough with the game to casually stroll into Hell to die. Sam and Ignatius borrow two of his systems for the big Texas game and ask Jack come down there.

Mr. Karaquazian did not always win, but he was one of a select number. Los jugadors, the master gamblers, tended out of custom to keep company together when not engaged with the tables, and according to their preference, enjoy a miraculous kind of sexual congress in which their skills and experience were delightfully engaged. There was much to be said, he had decided, for such customs.
The culture suited him, though he had a distaste for whites which was hard to overcome. Many of these Americans treated their whites almost as friends. It seemed to him a dishonest relationship, perversely sentimental at best. But it was not his business to judge his hosts and he was glad that the majority rarely judged him. He had a talent for adaptability, on certain levels. All he required were the fundamental mathematics of the game, then he could enjoy playing. In his distant way, Jack Karaquazian relished profoundly all life's experiences.

Jack hasn’t always won but he was one of a select number. Jugadors, master gamblers, tended out of custom to keep company together when not engaged with the tables. As Jack adapts to American culture, all he requires are the fundamental mathematics of the game then he could enjoy playing which gets him to relish profoundly all life’s experiences.

That was when the color-greedy power barons had been talked into a crank experiment, designed to bore into the very soul of the universe, the deepest core of inexhaustible energy, and live forever free on the proceeds of their profits. With a great deal of swagger and smart authoritative language, the engineers set up equipment to put their slick theory into practice.
And with alarming speed they had created the Biloxi Fault which, when it did not seem to be doing harm to this particular loop in the great web of time and space, drew tourists of every kind until Boudreaux Ramsadeen saw a business opportunity and, having imagination only for music and catering, went up the line to Meridian and bought the Terminal Café and Hotel, bringing it back in three parts on the monstrous flatbeds designed to move boats and homes across America. The massive gauges of the trains, the vast power of her steamers, enabled him to obey such whims. He thought the title of the place would bring him luck. It brought him luck, and music, and the legendary gamblers. After a while the power ran out everywhere, except in Biloxi. Some subtle change had occurred which altered the nature of electricity and made power sources difficult to find and unfamiliar in appearance.
It would have seemed that the adepts, mostly deprived of their complex electronics, would cease to play their games. But the adepts, flexible of mind, bit by bit discovered and invented unimaginable substitutes for their electronics that conjured the same rich variety of invention, the same spiritual, intellectual mathematical and emotional levels of play, with the use of touch and minute variations of sound to create communicable codes. It was an astonishing act of disciplined imagination on their part. Their skills and their brains adapted within a matter of years, evolving in ways which, any scientist would insist, must take millennia.

The power barons bore into the universe’s soul to harvest Colors, the deepest core of inexhaustible energy which created the Fault. When it didn’t seem to bring harm to that loop in the web of spacetime, it drew tourists of every kind until Ramsy saw a business venture and bought the Terminal. The power eventually ran out everywhere except in Biloxi, some subtle change that occurred which altered the nature of electricity and made power sources difficult to find. The adepts, flexible of mind, bit by it discovered and invented new metaphysically powered devices.

Faced with such profound changes in the nature of things, Jack Karaquazian had had no choice but to continue acting upon his habitual assumptions. He played his hands and proceeded with his games as he had done since a youth amongst the great teachers of Alexandria and Marrakech. There, they had never doubted that God was a God of love and justice, of equity and logic; yet they taught him how to give himself up to Chaos, to the laws of chance, to play those complex electronic games in which whole universes, species and nations were created, sometimes down to the most ordinary individual, and then manipulated in a game which sometimes took decades of subjective time, yet only a few minutes of the real time used by the mukhamirim, the jugadors, the master gamblers of the Holy Order of Akmaten, who stood against and together with all the other great gambling guilds. These were games of such complexity and subtle creativity, using the most exquisitely delicate electronics (or more recently pseudo-electronics) to create realities whose responsibilities and mathematics sometimes terrified even the most experienced of gamblers. It was not for nothing that they debated at the schools and in their gathering places the moral assumptions and burdens of those who followed their calling. Were they, themselves, no more than the creation of some other intelligence’s momentary whim?

Jack had no choice but to continue playing his hands and proceeding with his games. He never doubted that God was a God of love, justice, equity and logic but he was taught how to give himself up to Chaos, to the laws of chance, to play the complex electronic games in which whole universes, species and nations were created, sometimes down to the most ordinary individual and then manipulated in a game which sometimes takes decades of subjective time yet only a few minutes of the real time used by the Jugadors. Those games were of such complexity and subtle creativity that using the most complicated electronics to create realities who’s responsibilities and mathematics sometimes terrified even the most experienced gamblers. The Jugadors wonder to if they were no more than the creation of some other intelligence’s momentary whim.

Sometimes Jack Karaquazian would walk away from a game and go to an abandoned cabin about a mile inland, on one of the old bayous. Sitting on the porch and enjoying the peace of the Mississippi evening he might consider how the Egyptians had conquered nature so thoroughly that in the end they had poisoned the very source of their existence, the Nile. Jack Karaquazian would give himself up to the music of the birds, the rhythms of the grasshoppers, the insects and reptiles which man’s hand might never now eradicate.
The adepts frequently discussed amongst themselves whether the reality they created in their games was any different from the reality they experienced. Were they themselves mere counters in some game played amongst the angels? Or had they also created the angels?
They made worlds, universes, and then set events in motion which depended upon the actions of billions of pseudo-individuals.
Did those individuals possess souls? Some thought so. Mr. Karaquazian did not. He created histories which were challenged by rival histories from the other players. The winner was the adept whose reality withstood all assaults upon it, every test, random or calculated, the other gamblers could marshal against them.
But was there a place where their games continued to be played out beyond their control, beyond their very imagining? A place of Chaos? Mr. Karaquazian’s metaphysics and math were more practical and applied directly to his trade. He had no use for such unprovable speculation.

Jack wonders how the Egyptians had conquered nature so much that in the end, they poisoned the very source of their existence. The adepts wonder if the reality they made in their games was any different from the reality they experienced, if they are the mere counters in some game played amongst angels or if they had also created angels. They made worlds, universes and then set events in motion which depended upon the actions of billions of pseudo-individuals which may posses souls though Jack thinks they don’t. Jack’s created histories which were challenged by rival histories from other players, the winner being the one who’s reality withstood all assaults upon it, every test, random or calculated, the other gamblers able to marshal against them. Jack wonders if there was a place where their games continued to be played out beyond their control or imagining, a place of chaos. Jack’s metaphysics and math were more practical and applied directly to his trade so he doesn’t speculate much

After playing a few more hands on the edge of eternity, Mr. Karaquazian joined Mr. Oakenhurst in New Orleans. Brother Ignatius was gone, taken out in some freak pi-jump on the way home, his horse with him. Mr. Karaquazian discovered the machinoix to be players more interested in remorseful nostalgia and the pain than the game itself. It had been ugly money, but easy, and their fellow players, far from resenting losses, grew steadily more friendly, courting the jugadors' company between games, offering to display their most intimate scarifications.
Jack Karaquazian had wondered, chiefly because of the terror he sensed resonating between them, if the machinoix might allow him a means of salvation, if only through some petty martyrdom. He had nothing but a dim notion of conventional theologies, but the machinoix spoke often of journeying into the shadowlands, by which he eventually realized they meant an afterlife. It was one of their fundamental beliefs. Swearing he was not addicted, Sam Oakenhurst was able, amiably, to accept their strangeness and continue to win their guineas, but Mr. Karaquazian became nervous, not finding the dangers in any way stimulating.
When his luck had turned, Mr. Karaquazian had been secretly relieved. He had remained in the city only to honor his commitment to his partner. He felt it might be time to try the Trace again. He felt she might be calling him.

After playing a few more hands on eternity’s edge, Jack joins Sam in New Orleans, discovering that the Machinoix are players more interested in remorseful nostalgia and the pain than the game itself. Jack wonders, mainly due to the terror he sensed between them, if the Machinoix might allow him a means of salvation, speaking often of journeying into the shadowlands by which he realized they meant an afterlife. Sam swears he’s not addicted but Jack’s nervous of the dangers ahead. When his luck turned, Jack had been relieved, remaining in the city to honor his promise to Colinda, feeling it may be time to try the Trace again and that she may be calling him.

She had continued speaking, probably to herself, as she stood on the balcony of the hotel in Gatlinburg and watched the aftershocks of some passing skirmish billow over the horizon: “Those folk, those Anglo-Saxons, had no special comfort in dying. Not for them the zealotry of the Viking or the Moor. They paraded their iron and their horses and they made compacts with those they conquered or who threatened them. They offered a return to a Roman Golden Age, a notion of universal justice. And they gradually prevailed until chaos was driven into darkness and ancient memory. Even the Normans could not reverse what the Anglo-Saxons achieved. But with that achievement, Jack, also vanished a certain wild vivacity. What the Christians came to call pagan.'” She had sighed and kissed his hands, looking away at the flickering ginger moon. "Do you long for those times, Jack? That pagan dream?”
Mr. Karaquazian thought it astonishing that anyone had managed to create a kind of order out of ungovernable chaos. And that, though he would never say so, was his reason for believing in God and also, because logic would have it, the Old Hunter. "Total consciousness must, I suppose, suggest total anti-consciousness—and all that lies between.”
She told him then of her own belief. If the Fault were manifest Evil, then somewhere there must be an equivalent manifestation of Good. She loved life with a positive relish, which he enjoyed vicariously and which in turn restored to him sensibilities long since atrophied.

Colinda speaks of civilizations offering a return to a Roman Golden Age, a notion of universal justice and they gradually prevailed until chaos was driven into darkness and ancient memory. There was a lot of struggle to achieve it as they fell into a wild vivacity that Christians called pagan. Jack thought it amazing that anyone created any order from ungovernable chaos and that was why he believed in God and Old Hunter. Total consciousness suggests an anti-consciousness and all that lies between but Colinda says that if the Fault is manifest Evil then somewhere there must be an equivalent manifestation of Good.

When he left the steamboat at Greenville, Mr. Karaquazian bought himself a sturdy riding horse and made his way steadily up the Trace, determined to admire and relish the beauty of it, as if for the first time. Once again, many of the trees had already dropped their leaves. Through their skeletons, a faint pink-gold wash in the pearly sky showed the position of the sun. Against this cold, soft light, the details of the trees were emphasized, giving each twig a character of its own. Jack Karaquazian kept his mind on these wonders and pleasures, moving day by day towards McClellan and the silver cypress swamp, the gold Stains. In the sharp, new air he felt a strength that he had not known, even before his act of infamy. Perhaps it was a hint of redemption. Of his several previous attempts to return, he had no clear recollections; but this time, though he anticipated forgetfulness, as it were, he was more confident of his momentum. In his proud heart, his sinner's heart, he saw Colinda Dovero as the means of his salvation. She alone would give him a choice which might redeem him in his eyes, if not in God's. She was still his luck. She would be back at her Stains, he thought, maybe working her claim, a rich machine-baron herself by now and unsettled by his arrival; but once united, he knew they could be parted only by an act of uncalled-for courage, perhaps something like a martyrdom. He felt she was offering him, at last, a destiny.

Jack feels stronger as he travels in the sharp, thinking a hint of redemption is near and Colinda is the key to redeeming him in his eyes and maybe even God’s. She’s his luck, courage and offering of destiny.

Mr. Karaquazian rode up on the red-gold Trace, between the tall, dense trees of the Mississippi woods, crossing the Broken and New rivers, following the joyfully foaming Pearl for a while until he was in Chocktaw country, where he paid his toll in piles noires to an unsmiling Indian who had not seen, he said, a good horse in a long time. He spoke of an outrage, an automobile which had come by a few days ago, driven by a woman with auburn hair. He pointed. The deep tire tracks were still visible. Mr. Karaquazian began to follow them, guessing that Colinda Dovero had left them for him. At what enormous cost? It seemed she must already be tapping the Stains. Such power would be worth almost anything when war eventually came. He could feel the disintegration in the air. Soon these people would be mirroring the metaphysical destruction by falling upon and devouring their fellows. Yet, through their self-betrayal, he thought, Colinda Dovero might survive and even prosper, at least for a while.

Colinda goes to siphon some Stain energy which is causing disintegration in the air. Soon those people would be mirroring the metaphysical destruction by falling up on and devouring their fellows yet through their self-betrayal, Colinda might survive and even prosper for awhile.

The swamp fog obscured all detail. There was the sharp sound of the water as he paddled the pirogue; the rustle of a wing, a muffled rush, a faint shadow moving amongst the trunks. Jack Karaquazian began to wonder if he were not in limbo, moving from one matrix to another. Would those outlines remain the outlines of trees and vines? Would they crystallize, perhaps, or become massive cliffs of basalt and obsidian? There was sometimes a clue in the nature of the echoes. He whistled a snatch of “Grand Mamou.” The old dance tune helped his spirits. He believed he must still be in the same reality.

Jack wonders if he’s in limbo, moving from one matrix to another, wondering how his surroundings will change. He sometimes hears a clue in the nature of echoes and thinks he must still be in the same reality.

“Human love, Jack, is our only weapon against chaos. And yet, consistently, we reject its responsibilities in favor of some more abstract and therefore less effective notion.”

Colinda tells Jack that their only weapon is against chaos but they reject its responsibilities constantly in favor of some more abstract and less effective idea.

When at last the sun began to wash across the west and the mist was touched with the subtle colors of the tea-rose, warming and dissipating to reveal the tawny browns and dark greens it had been hiding, he grew more certain that this time, inevitably, he and Colinda Dovero must reunite. He was half prepared to see the baroque brass and diamonds of the legendary Prosers, milking the Stains for his sweetheart’s security, but only herons disturbed the covering of leaves upon the water; only ducks and Perpetua geese shouted and bickered into the cold air, the rapid flutter of their wings bearing eerie resemblance to a mechanish engine. The cypress swamp was avoided by men, was genuinely timeless, perhaps the only place on earth completely unaffected by the Biloxi error.
Why would such changelessness be feared?
Or had fundamental change already occurred? Something too complex and delicate for the human brain to comprehend, just as it could not really accept the experience of more than one matrix. Jack Karaquazian, contented by the swamp’s familiarity, did not wish to challenge its character. Instead, he drew further strength from it so that when, close to twilight, he saw the apparently ramshackle cabin, its blackened logs and planks two stories high, riveted together by old salt and grit cans that still advertised the virtues of their ancient brands, and perched low in the fork of two great silvery cypress branches overhanging the water and the smallest of the Stains, he knew at once that she had never truly left her claim; that in some way she had always been here, waiting for him.

As Jack travels, he feels he and Colinda must inevitably reunite and milks the Stains for her security. The swamp is avoided by men, possessing a timeless quality and the only place on Earth completely unaffected by the Fault. Jack wonders why such stasis is feared or if fundamental change already occurred, something too complex and delicate for the human mind to comprehend, just as it could not really accept the existence of more than one matrix. Jack doesn’t challenge its character but draws strength from it which causes the cain to rivet together. Jack knows that Colinda can’t leave her Stain claim and waits for him.

For a few seconds, Jack Karaquazian allowed himself the anguish of regret and self-accusation, then he threw back his cloak, cupped his hands around his mouth, and with his white breath pouring into the air, called out:
“Colinda!”
And from within her fortress, her nest, she replied:
“Jack.”
She was leaning out over the veranda of woven branches, her almond eyes the color of honey, bright with tears and hope; an understanding that this time, perhaps for the first time, he had actually made it back to her. He was no longer a ghost. When she spoke to him, however, her language was incomprehensible; seemingly a cacophony, without melody or sense. Terrible yelps and groans burst out of her perfect lips. He could scarcely bear to listen. Is this, he wondered, how we first perceive the language of angels?
The creosoted timbers lay in odd marriage to the pale branches which cradled them. Flitting with urgent joy, from veranda to branch and from branch to makeshift ladder, she was a tawny spirit.
“Jack, my pauvre hobo!” It was as if she could only remember the language through snatches of song, as a child does. “Ma pauvre pierrot.” She smiled in delight.

Jack calls out to Colinda and travels over to her but she speaks to him in a language that’s incomprehensible that he can barely be able to listen. Colinda also calls him “my poor Pierrot”.

He stepped from the pirogue to the landing. They embraced, scarlet engulfing dark gold. It was the resolution he had so often prayed for; but without redemption. For now it was even clearer to him that the mistake he had made at The Breed Papoose had never been an honest one. He also knew that she need never discover this; and what was left of the hypocrite in him called to him to forget the past as irredeemable. And when she sensed his tension, a hesitation, she asked in halting speech if he had brought bad news, if he no longer loved her, if he faltered. She had waited for him a long time, she said, relinquishing all she had gained so that she might be united with him, to take him with her, to show him what she had discovered in the Stain.

Jack has seemingly reached resolution he had so often prayed for but without redemption. The mistake he made at The Breed Papose had never been an honest one and Colinda must never discover that. What was left of the hypocrite in him called to him to forget the past as irredeemable. Colinda senses tension in Jack and wonders if he’s got bad news, no longer loved her or faltered. She waited for him a long time, relinquishing all she had gained so that she might be united with him, to take him with her and to show him what she had discovered in the Stain.

She drew him up to her cabin. It looked as if it had been here for centuries. It seemed in places to have grown into or from the living tree. Inside it was full of magpie luxury—plush and brass and gold-plated candelabra, mirrors and crystals and flowing muralos. There was a little power from the Stains, she said, but not much. She had brought everything in the car long ago. She took him on to the veranda and, through the semi-darkness, pointed out the burgundy carcass of an antique Oldsmobile.
“I thought...” But he was unable either to express the emotion he felt or to comprehend the sickening temporal shifts which had almost separated them forever. It was as if dream and reality had at last resolved, but at the wrong moment. “Some men took you to Aberdeen.”
“They were kind.” Her speech was still thick.
“So I understand.”
“But mistaken. I had returned to find you. I went into the Stain while you were gone. When I tried to seek you out, I had forgotten how to speak or wear clothes. I got back here easily. It's never hard for me.”
“Very hard for me.” He embraced her again, kissed her.
“This is what I longed for.” She studied his dark green eyes, his smooth brown skin, the contours of his face, his disciplined body. “Waiting in this place has not been easy, with the world so close. But I came back for you, Jack. I believe the Stain is not a sign of color but a kind of counter-effect to the Fault. It leads into a cosmos of wonderful stability. Not stasis, they say, but with a slower rate of entropy. What they once called a lower chaos factor, when I studied physics. I met a woman whom I think we would call ‘the Rose’ in our language. She is half-human, halfflower, like all her race. And she was my mentor as she could be yours. And we could have children, Jack. It’s an extraordinary adventure. So many ways of learning to see and so much time for it. Time for consideration, time to create justice. Here, Jack, all the time is going. You know that.” She sensed some unexpected resistance in him. She touched his cheek. “Jack, we are on the edge of chaos here. We must eventually be consumed by what we created. But we also created a way out. What you always talked about. What you yearned for. You know.”

In the cabin, there’s a little power from the Stains but not much, showing off her car. Jack is unable to either express the emotion he felt or to comprehend the sickening temporal shifts which had almost separated them forever, as if dream and reality had at last resolved but at the wrong moment. The Stain causes amnesia, even mundane tasks like speaking or wearing clothes but Colinda got back there easily though Jack found it very hard. Waiting for Colinda hadn’t been easy either with the world so close but she came back for Jack and believes the Stain’s not a sign of color but a kind of counter to the Fault’s effects. It leads into a cosmos of wonderful stability, not stasis, but with a slower entropy rate, what was once called a lower chaos factor in physics. Colinda mentions Rose who was her mentor. Colinda says that they have all the time in the world as they’re on the edge of chaos and must eventually be consumed by what they created but they’ve also created a way out which is what Jack always talked about and learned for.

“Yes, I know.” Perhaps she was really describing Heaven. He made an awkward gesture. “Through there?” He indicated, in the gathering darkness, the pale wash of the nearest Stain.
“The big one only.” She became enthusiastic, her uncertainties fading before the vividness of her remembered experience. “We have responsibilities. We have duties there. But they are performed naturally, clearly from self-interest. There's understanding and charity there, Jack. The logic is what you used to talk about. What you thought you had dreamed. Where chance no longer rules unchecked. It's a heavenly place, Jack. The Rose will accept us both. She’ll guide us. We can go there now, if you like. You must want to go, mon cheri, mon cheri." But now, as she looked at him, at the way he stood, at the way he stared, unblinking, down into the swamp, she hesitated. She took his hand and gripped it. “You want to go. It isn't boring, Jack. It's as real as here. But they have a future, a precedent. We have neither.”
“I would like to find such a place.” He checked the spasm in his chest and was apologetic. “But I might not be ready, ma fancy.”
She held tight to his gambler’s hand, wondering if she had misjudged its strength. “You would rather spend your last days at a table in the Terminal Café, waiting for the inevitable moment of oblivion?”
“I would rather journey with you,” he said, “to Paradise or anywhere you wished, Colinda. But Paradise will accept you, ma honey. Perhaps I have not yet earned my place there.”
She preferred to believe he joked with her. “We will leave it until the morning." She stroked his blue-black hair, believing him too tired to think. “There is no such thing as earning. It’s always luck, Jack. It was luck we found the Stains. It’s luck that brought us together. Brought us our love. Our love brought us back together. It is a long, valuable life they offer us, mon papillon. Full of hope and peace. Take your chance, Jack. As you always did.”
He shook his head. “But some of us, my love, have earning natures. I made a foolish play. I am ashamed.”
He could not tell her. He wanted the night with her. He wanted a memory. And her own passion for him conquered her curiosity, her trepidation, yet there was a desperate quality to her lovemaking which neither she nor he had ever wished to sense again. Addressing this, she was optimistic: “This will all go once we enter the Stain. Doesn't it seem like heaven, Jack?”
“Near enough,” he admitted. A part of him, a bitter part of him, wished that he had never made this journey, that he had never left the game behind; for the game, even at its most dangerous, was better than this scarcely bearable pain. “Oh, my heart!”

Jack thinks she’s describing Heaven but wonders if she means through the growing darkness in the pale wash of the nearest Stain and she is. The duo have duties there but they are performed naturally from self-interest with understanding and charity, the logic being what Jack used to talk about where chance no longer rules unchecked. The Rose will accept them both so they can go there now but Jack isn’t ready since he doesn’t think he’s earned his place in Paradise and stays behind.

For the rest of the night he savored every second of his torment, and yet in the morning he knew that he was not by this means to gain release from his pride. It seemed that his self-esteem, his stem wall against the truth, crumbled in unison with the world’s collapse; he saw for himself nothing but an eternity of anguished regret.
“Come.” She moved towards sadness as she led him down through the branches and the timbers to his own pirogue. She refused to believe she had waited only for this.
He let her row them out into the pastel brightness of the lagoon until they floated above the big gold Stain, peering through that purity of color as if they might actually glimpse the paradise she had described.
“Your clothes will go away.” She was as gentle as a Louisiana April. “You needn’t worry about that.”
She slipped over the side and, with a peculiar lifting motion, moved under the membrane to hang against the density of the gold, smiling up to him to demonstrate that there was nothing to fear, as beautiful as she could ever be, as perfect as the color. And then she had re-emerged in the shallow water, amongst the lilies and the weeds and the sodden leaves. “Come, Jack. You must not hurt me further, sweetheart. We will go now. But if you stay I shall not return.” Horrified by what she understood as his cowardice, she fell back against the Stain, staring up at the grey-silver branches of the big trees, watching the morning sun touch the rising mist, refusing to look at Jack Karaquazian while he wept for his failures, for his inability to seize this moment, for all his shame, his unforgotten dreams; at his unguessable loss.
She spoke from the water. “It wasn't anything that happened to me there that turned me crazy. It was the journey here did that. It's sane down there, Jack.”
“No place for a gambler, then,” he said, and laughed suddenly. “What is this compensatory Heaven? What proof is there that it is real? The only reason for its existence appears to be a moral one!”
“It’s a balance,” she said. “Nature offers balances.”
“That was always a human illusion. Look at Biloxi. There’s the reality. I’m not ready.”
“This isn’t worthy of you, Jack.” She was frightened now, perhaps doubting everything.
“I’m not your Jack,” he told her. “Not any longer. I can’t come yet. You go on, ma cherie. I’ll join you if I can. I’ll follow you. But not yet.”
She put her fingers on the edge of the boat. She spoke with soft urgency. “It's hard for me, Jack. I love you. You're growing old here.” She reached up her arms, the silver water falling upon his clothes, as if to drag him with her. She gripped his long fingers. It was his hands, she had said, that had first attracted her. “You’re growing old here, Jack.”
“Not old enough.” He pulled away. He began to cough. He lost control of the spasm. Suddenly drops of his blood mingled with the water, fell upon the Stain. She cupped some in her hand and then, as if carrying a treasure, she slipped back into the color, folding herself down until she had merged with it entirely.
By the time he had recovered himself, there was only a voice, an unintelligible shriek, a rapidly fading bellow, as if she had made one last plea for him to follow.
“And not man enough either, I guess.” He had watched the rest of his blood until it mingled invisibly with the water.
“Mon ange.”

Jack feels his esteem collapse just as the world is, seeing for himself nothing but an eternity of anguished regret. She still tries to get him to join her yet he still hesitates due to cowardice. Jack denies its existence since it seems to be of a moral one but it’s a balance which nature offers. Jack says that’s illusory as Biloxi is reality and he’s not ready. Colinda finally agrees that it’s not worthy of him and Jack says he’ll follow her but not now as she finally leaves.

More than once he returned to the big Stain and sat in the pirogue, looking down, trying to find some excuse, some rationale which would allow him this chance of paradise. But he could not. All he had left to him was a partial truth. He felt that if he lost that, he lost all hope of grace. Eventually he abandoned the cabin and the color and made his way up the Trace to Nashville, where he played an endless succession of reckless games until at last, as fighting broke out in the streets between rival guilds of musician-assassins, he managed to get on a military train to Memphis before the worst of the devastation. At the Van Beek Hotel in Memphis, he bathed and smoked a cigar and, through familiar luxuries, sought to evade the memories of the color swamp. He took the Etoile down to Natchez, well ahead of the holocaust, and then there was nowhere to go but the Terminal Café, where he could sit and watch Boudreaux Ramsadeen perform his idiosyncratic measures on the dance floor, his women partners flocking like delicate birds about a graceful bull. As their little feet stepped in and around the uncertain outlines of an infinite number of walls, floors, ceilings and roofs, expertly holding their metaphysical balance even as they grinned and whooped to the remorseless melodies of the fiddles, accordion and tambourines, Jack Karaquazian would come to sense that only when he lost interest in his own damaged self-esteem would he begin to know hope of release.

Even as Jack returns to that Stain, he wants his chance at paradise but he can’t because all that’s left to him is a partial truth and feels if he loses that, he loses all hope of grace. He practices a ton of games on his way back to Terminal and when he arrives, he watches Ramsy and his company’s dancing. Their little feet step in and around the uncertain outlines of an infinite number of walls, floors, ceilings and roofs, expertly holding their metaphysical balance even as they grinned and whooped to the remorseless melodies of the instruments.

Then, unexpectedly, like a visitation, Ox Berger, a prosthesis better than the original on his arm, sought Mr. Karaquazian out at the main table and stood looking at him across the flat board, its dimensions roiling, shimmering and cross-flashing within the depths of its singular machinery, and said, with calm respect, “I believe you owe me a game, sir.'’
Jack Karaquazian looked as if a coughing fit would take control of him, but he straightened up, his eyes and muscles sharply delineated against a paling skin, and said with courtesy, almost with warmth, “I believe I do, sir.”
They agreed on a boyhood favorite: “Desdemona’s Luck.” The object was to arrive inevitably at a sequence of events in which, through the recreation of history from the age of the Prophet, with particular emphasis on Venetian society at the appropriate time, Desdemona is inevitably and inadvertently responsible for the death of Othello and the reformation and conversion to Islam of Iago. A game with a fundamentally simple result, the subtleties of its moves and the complexities of its sub-sets were famous. The object must be achieved elegantly and surprisingly, offering no clue to rival players as to the means. Novices trained on the short forms and learned to translate a relatively small number of human emotions and ambitions into the logical language of their choice. The requisite societies were created, together with individuals and the relevant sub-plots, then translated into symbolic form, to be retranslated at the last moments of the game. These forms had to be understood and countered with rival mathematics to block attempts at producing the endgame and to produce one’s own. One thoughtless simplification of the mathematics, and the game was lost.

Jack glances at Ox, playing at the main table with its dimensions roiling, shimmering and cross-flashing with the depths of its singular machinery, who tells Jack that he owes Ox a game. Jack coughs from illness but he straightens up and agrees to play Desdemona’s Luck. The goal’ stopped arrive inevitably at a sequence of events in which, through the recreation of history from the age of the Prophet with particular emphasis on Venetian society at the appropriate time, Desdemona is inevitably and inadvertently responsible for Othello’s death and the reformation and conversion to Islam of Iago. It’s a game with a simple result, the subtleties of its movies and complexes of its subset being famous. The requisite societies were created, together with individuals and the relevant sub-plots, then translated into symbolic form, to be retranslated at the last moments of the game. Those forms had to be understood and countered with rival mathematics to block attempts at producing the endgame and to produce one’s own. One thoughtless simplification of the math and the game’s lost

Ox Berger opened with a classic Mandelbrot gambit.
For the following days they played the long forms, sign for sign, commitment to commitment, formula for formula; the great classic flat-game schemes, the logic and counter-logic of a ten-dimensional matrix, rivalrous metaphysics, a quasi-infinity held in a meter-long box in which they dabbled minds and fingers and ordered the fate of millions, claimed responsibility for the creation, the maintenance, and the sacrifice of whole semi-real races and civilizations, not to mention individuals, some of whom formed cryptic dependencies on an actuality they would never directly enjoy. And Ox Berger played with grace, with irony and skill which, lacking the experience and recklessness of Jack Karaquazian’s style, could not in the end win, but showed the mettle of the player.

Ox opens with a classic MANDELBROT gambit. For the following days, they play the long forms, sign for sign, commitment to commitment, formula for formula, the great classic flat-game schemes, the logic and counter-logic of a 10D matrix, rivalrous metaphysics, a QUASI-INFINITY held in a meter-long box in which they dabbled minds and fingers and ordered the fate of millions, claimed responsibility for the creation, maintenance and sacrifice of whole semi-real races and civilizations, not to mention individuals, some of whom formed cryptic dependencies on an actuality they would never directly enjoy and Ox played with grace, iron and skill which, lacking the experience and recklessness of Jack’s style, could not in the end win but showed the player’s mettle.

As he wove his famous “Faust” web, which only Colinda had ever been able to identify and counter, Jack Karaquazian developed a dawning respect for the big farmer who had chosen never to exploit a talent as great as the gamblers own. And in sharing this with his opponent, Ox Berger achieved a profound act of forgiveness, for he released Mr. Karaquazian from his burden of self-disgust and let him imagine, instead, the actual character of the man he had wronged and so understand the true nature of his sin. Jack Karaquazian was able to confront and repent, in dignified humility, his lie for what it had truly been.
When the game was over (by mutual concession) the two men stood together on the edge of the Fault, watching the riotous death of universes, and Mr. Karaquazian wondered now if all he lacked was courage, if perhaps the only way back to her was by way of the chaos which seduced him with its mighty and elaborate violence. But then, as he stared into that university of dissolution, he knew that in losing his pride he had not, after all, lost his soul, and just as he knew that pride would never earn him the right to paradise, so, he judged, there was no road to Heaven by way of Hell. And he thanked Ox Berger for his game and his charity. Now he planned, when he was ready, to make a final try at the Trace, though he could not be sure that his will alone, without hers, would be sufficient to get him through a second time. Even should he succeed, he would have to find a way through the Stain without her guidance. Mr. Karaquazian shook hands with his opponent. By providing this peculiar intimacy, this significant respect, Ox Berger had done Mr. Karaquazian the favor not only of forgiving him, but of helping him to forgive himself.

Jack weaves his famous “Faust” web which only Colinda had ever been able to identify and counter and develops a dawning respect for Ox who had chosen never to exploit a talent as great as the gambler’s own. Sharing that with Jack, Ox achieved an act of forgiveness for he released Jack from his burden of self-disgust and let him imagine the actual character of the man he wronged and so understand the true nature of his sin which helps Jack repent. When the game ends, the two men stand on the Fault’s edge, watching the death of universes and Jack wonders now if all he lacked was courage, if maybe the only back to her was by way of the chaos which seduced him with its mighty and elaborate violence. He stares into that dissolution, knowing that in losing his pride he hadn’t lost his soul and that pride would never earn him the right to paradise so he judged there was no road to Heaven by way of Hell. Jack thanks Ox for his game and his charity and now he planned, when he was ready, to make a final try at the Trace, though he couldn’t be sure that his will alone, without hers, would be sufficient to get him through a second time. Even should he succeed, he would have to find a way through the Stain without her guidance. By way of the game, Ox had done Jack a favor not only of forgiving him but of helping him to forgive himself.

The gambler wished the map of the Stain were his to pass on, but he knew that it had to be sought for and only then would the lucky ones find it. As for Ox Berger, he had satisfied his own conscience and required nothing else of Jack Karaquazian. “When you take your journey, sir, I hope you find the strength to sustain yourself."
“Thanks to you, sir,” says Jack Karaquazian.
The olive intensity of his features framed by the threatening madness of the Biloxi Fault, its vast walls of seething color rising and falling, the Egyptian plays with anyone, black, white, red or yellow, who wants his kind of game. And the wilder he plays, the more he wins. Clever as a jackal, he lets his slender hands, his woman’s hands, weave and flow within the ten dimensions of his favorite flat game, and he is always happy to raise the psychic stakes. Yet there is no despair in him.
Only his familiar agony remains, the old pain of frustrated love, sharper than ever, for now he understands how he failed Colinda Dovero and how he wounded her. And he knows that she will never again seek him out at the Terminal Café.
“You're looking better, Jack." Sam Oakenhurst has recovered from the machinoix’s torments. “Your old self."
Jack Karaquazian deals seven hands of poker. In his skin is the reflection of a million dying cultures given up to the pit long before their time; in his green eyes is a new kind of courtesy. Coolly amiable in his silk and linen, his raven hair straight to his shoulders, his back firmly set against the howling triumph of Satan, he is content in the speculation that, for a few of his fellow souls at least, there may be some chance of paradise.
“I’m feeling it, Sam,” he says.

Jack wishes the Stain’s map were his to pass on but he knew that it had to be sought for and only then would the lucky ones find it. Ox is just satisfied his own conscience and required nothing else of Jack, hoping he find the strength to sustain himself. Against the Fault, Jack plays with anyone who wants his kind of game and the wilder he plays, the more he wins. Clever as a jackal, he lets his slender hands weave and flow with the ten dimensions of his favorite flat game and he’s always happy to raise the psychic stakes. While playing, he reflects on himself and Colinda, knowing that she’ll never seek him out again at the Café. Sam returns to compliment Jack who deals seven hands of poker, his skin reflecting a million dying cultures given up to the pit long before their time as he keeps his back turned to Satan’s howling triumph, thinking of how he may get his chance at paradise.

Chaos Engineers Feats

In common with most of the others who explore the Second Ether, CAPTAIN WILHELMINA ROBERTA BEGG and the crew of the Now The Clouds Have Meaning are searching for Ko-O-Ko, the legendary Lost Universe, said to be the single naturally habitable location of its kind in the whole of the bizarre space-time continuum, itself the sole level of the multiverse so far discovered which is not wholly inimical to humankind. “Humes” have divided the multiverse into a number of planes or branches—or perhaps facets of a near-infinite prism—calling our own division the First Ether and those with which we most frequently intersect the Second Ether, Third Ether and so on. Thus far we have found only the Second Ether responsive to our logic and therefore navigable (though legends abound of captains like AYESHA VON ABDUL, who found a means of sailing through the Third and Nineteenth facets to discover Paradise and determine that it should never be corrupted by the crazed sinonauts who roam the burst fractals and twisted reality folds of the Initial Circuits, forever bathed in a spectrum of unimaginable and unreproducible light). Alone, Captain Billy-Bob Begg has tested the million roads, one by one, and imprinted herself with a map of the multiverse only she will ever be able to read. She is the greatest of the so-called Chaos Engineers who, using the principles of self-similarity, pilot their peculiar craft up and down the scales. They call this process “folding,” a kind of blossoming movement which enables their ships to progress in a series of “folds” in which they “lock scale” with a number of proscribed multiversal levels. “Actually,” as PROFESSOR POP, Captain Billy-Bob's deputy, explains, “we are dissipating and concentrating mass in ratio to size and so on—we can go up’ scale or ‘down’ scale. And if we ‘up’ scale for two hundred and five calibrations or ‘folds,’ we reach, if we’re lucky, the wonder of the Second Ether.”

Begg and her crew are searching for Ko-O-Ko, the Legendary Lost Universe, said to be the single naturally habitable location of its kind in the whole of the bizarre spacetime continuum, itself the sole level of the multiverse so far dicovered which is not wholly inimical to man. Humes have divided the multiverse into a number of planes or branches, perhaps facets of a NEAR INFINITE prism, calling their own division the First Ether and those with which they most frequently intersect the Second Ether, Third Ether and so on. Thus far they’ve found only the Second Ether responsive to their logic and therefore navigable though apparently some have found a means of sailing through the Third and Nineteenth facets to discover Paradise and determine that it should never be corrupted by the crazed sinosauts who roam the burst fractals and twisted reality folds of the Initial Circuits, forever bathed in a spectrum of unimaginable and unreproducible light. Begg has tested the million roads, one by one, and imprinted herself with a map of the multiverse only she’ll ever be able to read. She’s the greatest of the Chaos Engineers wo, using the principles of self-similarity, pilot their peculiar craft up and down the scales. They call that process “folding,” a kind of blosoming movement which enables their ships to progress in a series of folds in which they lock scale with a number of proscribed multiverse levels. Pop says that they’re dissipating and concentrating mass in ratio to size and so on, they can go up scale or down scale and if they up scale for 205 calibrations or “folds,” they’ll reach the Second Ether’s wonder if they’re lucky.

Opposed to the CHAOS ENGINEERS is the dominant culture known as the singularity which is bent on “taming” the Second Ether and conquering Ko-O-Ko, the Lost Universe. The Singularity has discovered a method of Hard Warping which allows its ships to “drop” through the multifaceted planes of the multiverse and emerge, if they are lucky, in the Second Ether. It is believed by some that the power of the Singularity to put its stamp on Chaos is so considerable that the Second Ether in some odd way scales herself to its laws. Rather than adapting, as do other travellers, to the sometimes whimsical conditions of Chaos, the Singularity imposes its own reality. The only power great enough to challenge the natural order of Creation, the Singularity is, in the eyes of most intelligences, the personification of pure Evil, an instrument of the ORIGINAL INSECT, while OLD REG, first Voice of the Singularity, is Satan incarnate. As both groups of humes continue to search for Ko-O-Ko, the Lost Universe, this great clash of philosophies is fought largely within the relative stillness of the Second Ether, that quasi-infinity of pearly rainbows, millennia of light years long, and curtains of violent, jewellish color rising like sudden walls ahead or behind.

The enemies of the Chaos Engineers’ are the Singularity, who’s bent on “taming” the Second Ether and conquering Ko-O-Ko. The Singularity has discovered a method of “Hard Warping,” allowing ships to “drop” through the multifaceted planes of the multiverse and emerge in the Second Ether if they’re lucky. Some think that the Singularity’s power to impose its reality on Chaos is so strong that the Second Ether scales itself to its laws in some odd way. It’s the only power great enough to challenge the natural order of Creation, a personification of pure evil, an instrument of the Original Insect and Old Reg, first Voice of the Singularity, is Satan incarnate. Both groups of humes keep searching for Ko-O-Ko, the Lost Universe, a great clash of philosophies fought largely within the relative stillness of the Second Ether, that QUASI-INFINITY of strange universes.

The slogan of the wild-eyed Chaos Engineers, who cruise the Second Ether for adventure, curiosity and massive profit, is “Ride With The Tide,” while the Voice of their opponents bellows forever that “The Singularity Must Hold: One Refuses To Fold.” So clever are these mad creatures, arrogant enough to defy the fundamental logic of the multiverse, that they have built themselves a kind of false universe in which to dwell. Enclosed within a vast, stabilized crystal of carbon woven to infinite strength and able to resist the combined power of the multiverse, the Singularity is not merely defiant, it is determined to triumph. To it, Chaos is anathema, threatening the ultimate, destruction of all humes. Each individual unit of the Singularity sees it as its duty to aid in the conquest of Chaos. Yet, equally, the multiverse— chaotic and swift to adapt to any threat—shifts, multiplies and modifies so rapidly that the status quo can never entirely be broken, though sometimes the balance might tilt first to the Singularity, next to Chaos, so radically that it might seem that one had conquered at last, yet it is never so. The two philosophies will war for eternity or else be reconciled. Reconciliation is ever the hope of the Chaos Engineers but the idea is utterly loathsome to all units of the Singularity.

The Singularity built a false universe to dwell and arrogantly defy the multiverse’s fundamental logic. Their world’s enclosed within a vast, stabilized crystal of carbon woven to infinite strength and able to resist the combined power of the multiverse. The multiverse in turn is chaotic and swift to adapt to any threat as it shifts, multiplies and modifies so rapidly that the status quo can never entirely be broken, though sometimes the balance might tilt first to Law, next to Chaos, so radically that it might seem that one had conquered at last, yet it never lasts. The two philosophies will war for eternity or else be reconciled which is the hope of the Chaos Engineers but the idea is utterly loathsome to all units of the Singularity.

While the bleak metaphysics of the Singularity, never better represented than in the person of her bravest Ether-traveller CAPTAIN HORACE QUELCH and his ship The Linear Bee, permits only Victory, Chaos, rich with choice and tolerance, accepts and respects all philosophies, perceiving codependent variety to represent the “true” nature of the multiverse. The Chaos Engineers—that great family of freebooters, normally only connected through their communications systems—have noted a step-up in the Singularity's impositions—while areas of the Second Ether are being colonized. The search for Ko-O-Ko, the Lost Universe, has become more intense. During their mutual adventuring in the infamous Field of Saffron, Captain Billy-Bob learns, via Captain Quelch, that the Singularity has begun to fall away from our gravity—ripping horribly through the layers of the multiverse, pulled either by some other force or by its own unnatural weight, they cannot tell. The fact is, as Captain Quelch admits, it has become crucial for the Singularity to colonize and dominate the Second Ether. During an enforced sojourn upon Earth, core world of the Singularity, young MANDY BEGG learns that Captain Quelch and his supporters are fighting a new tendency amongst their own kind—for the Lure of Isolation is very strong amongst their doubters, while the ethic of the pure Singularity is Victory or Noble Death! Captain Quelch still represents the dominant faction which demands the total conquest of the Second Ether. Against these powerful centralists, Captain Billy-Bob Begg and her crew of crazed solipsippers, high on super-distilled carbons and a craving for curious experience, swear loyalty to the Great Mood, whom they worship, and pledge themselves to the freeing of the Second Ether from these “unnatural and perhaps cancerous intrusions."

Captain Quelch represents the Singularity’s leak metaphysics and purports to represent the true nature of the multiverse despite being a Singularity agent. The Chaos Engineers are also able to notice portions of the Second Ether being colonized by their foes. In their adventuring in the Field of Saffron, Captain Begg learned that the Singularity had begun to fall away from their gravity, ripping horribly through the multiverse’s layers, pulled either by some other force or by its own unnatural weight, they can’t tell. Quelch says it’s become crucial for the Singularity to colonize and dominate the Second Ether

Escaping at last from the quasi-universe the Singularity calls The Statement of Truth, Captain Begg and her “buckobusters” are unable to stop the process as their ship, Now The Clouds Have Meaning, goes into rogue fold—scaling up towards infinity and a kind of death—though to these brave souls that is no more than a welcome reunion with the Great Mood itself.

Captain Begg has escaped from the Singularity’s quasi-universe and she and her crew are unable to stop the process as their ship goes into rogue fold, scaling up towards infinity (as in the multiverse is expanding towards infinity but isn’t actually infinite) and a kind of death, though to those brave souls that’s no more than a welcome reunion at the Great Mood itself.

Meanwhile the I Don’t Want To Go To Chelsea and the Plum Blossom Local, captained by RAIDER MILES of the Gulf Star and MY CHIN TOLLY respectively, have emerged safely into home scale above the main Martian scaling station which had held entry until twilight, when Mars is a little more hospitable to Chaos Engineers not used to the stomach-turning bleakness of raw singularity, only to find, contrary to all agreements, that The Statement of Truth quasi-universe has engulfed the First Ether and has ordered their capture. In attempting to back-fold without coordinates, the Plum Blossom Local irredeemably dissipates while the I Don’t Want To Go To Chelsea escapes with the evil news that the Chaos Engineers have lost a Chief Attractor. The struggle has ceased to be wholly metaphysical!

Raider Miles’ ship has emerged safely into home scale above the main Martian scaling station which had held entry until twilight when Mars is a little more hospitable to Chaos Engineers not used to the stomach-turning bleakness of raw Singularity, only to find that the quasi-universe has engulfed the First Ether and has ordered their capture. In attempting to back-fold without coordinates, their ship irredeemably dissipates while the ship escapes with news that the Chaos Engineers have lost a Chief Attractor, the struggle ceasing to be wholly metaphysical.

As universes, scale upon scale, formed and reformed, dissolved and redissolved behind them at a rate suggesting they must ride this fractal up to infinity before they could ever hope to be reunited entirely with the Great Mood, the famous Chaos Engineers gathered around their revered Main Type.
“Fargone,” said Captain Billy-Bob, a tear or two in her distant eye, "it's a flat tire, I think, sweethearts.”
But they were swift to deny it. "You were always a lucky captain until now, dear Main Type,” said Pegarm Pete with an awkward slap to her shoulder (all obsidian carapace, these days), "and you’re still lucky, we’d opine!” He had long since ceased to question the intensity of his love for the captain.
“Fast agreement!” The other Engineers rushed to confirm.
“This is how we learn if the music goes round and round or, if not, where it comes out!” Corporal Organ raised her granitesque head in a massive gesture of joy, her wide, wide eyes steady on the front screens and the great shimmering black and yellow globe appearing just at the moment it disappeared, at the next scale, behind them.
But "Oh,” despaired Captain Billy-Bob, "this looks unending. My instruments! Have you spoken to them recently?” There was no cheering her. She insisted she had failed them.

Universes, scale upon scale, form and reform, dissolve and redissolve behind them at a rate hinting they must ride the fractal up to infinity (note again that the multiverse expands towards infinity) before they could ever hope to be reunited entirely with the Great Mood, the famous Chaos Engineers gathered around their revered Main Type but they hit a snag and can’t quite reach it right now.

Captain Quelch had yet to experience the exhilaration he had expected to accompany his old enemy’s defeat. Yet defeated she surely was. And with the greatest of the Chaos Captains blown to infinity, there would be no stopping the Singularity’s holy expansion into the Second Ether. If, like Lucifer, he was prepared to defy the Definitive Logic of the Universe, he expected the securities of Lucifer—a knowledge that the Singularity was IN CONTROL forever. Now the others must think twice before pursuing their perverse adventures and celebrations.

Captain Quelch has seemingly beaten Begg and with her blown to infinity, there’d be no stopping the Singularity’s expansion into the Second Ether if, like Lucifer, he was prepared to defy the universe’s definitive logic and expected the securities of Lucifer, a knowledge that the Singularity was in control forever.

Each Unit is lost in their own-ness, always a noted paradox of the Singularity, which It, of course, furiously denies. Paradox is an obscenity which cannot be permitted to any part of Its philosophy.
She sighs aggressively at the sweating metal of their walls, the in-bulging plates, the refolded rivets threatening to burst into the control room, the greenish steams and vivid gases. And everything moaning and squealing in protest at this unnatural means of progress through the multiverse, drowning the boombooms of Afrikaner Toms dreadful disco-sound as the pale disciplinarian boogies in the comforting shadows of the big oven. He at any rate is relishing some sort of victory.

Each Unit’s lost in their ownness, always a noted paradox of the Singularity, which it furiously denies. Paradox’s an obscenity which can’t be permitted to any part of Its philosophy. Everything moans and squeals in protest at the unnatural means of progress through the multiverse.

"They have lost their main fractal and are off-scale. They claim this is under control but Old Reg knows it means the destruction of their whole quasiuniverse and the First Ether with it. Perhaps,” added Little Rupoldo into the dolly's mouth, "the Second Ether, also. I heard this from the First Voice Itself, Old Reg.”
He was at last communicating with Wire Ears of the Pulsing Blood, in a crisis of her own involving Kaprikorn Schultz, the half-hume, Banker to the Homeboy Tong, who had attached himself freehand to their outer folds and made it impossible to drive anywhere but down-scale. Even at the dolly Little Rupoldo could hear some of the mathematical obscenities yelled by the half-hume through the ship's marrow, not to mention the other stuff. Little Rupoldo felt bile rise in his throat.
“I are half-skimling, half-hume—comb my spikes. Lick my tips. Taste my flumes . . . Eff farping parentheses zed equals zed farping squared and squeezed like a wopper!”
Everyone had heard how Kaprikorn Schultz, the half-hume, had singlehandedly climbed half a thousand scale fields and countless textures to spread his brilliant blue wings against the hazy serenity of the Second Ether. He disdained all protection and lived entirely upon his own twisted wits, using skimling techniques to hitch rides through the scale fields. Or so he claimed. For no hume had ever set eyes on a skimling.
“SOS the Chaos Engineers! SOS the Chaos Engineers!” The cry went out across the Ether as Wire Ears sought help for herself and Little Rupoldo.
“We're heading out to where the ether’s silvery white, lit by the light of countless galaxies, the farping very hub of the multiverse and the best and most dangerous, believe me juicy pals, gateway directly into the Second Ether. I know! I am Kaprikorn Schultz, Banker to the Homeboy Tong! There is no more respectable voice in the multiverse! Didn’t you ever wonder what mainlining was really all about, pretty bodies, pretty bodies? Oh, we’ll tittle together in that fold-away-from-fold! I am it and I am more than it.”
“SOS THE CHAOS ENGINEERS!”
“What's to do, Cap’n?” demands the ever-cheerful Sto-Loon. "More grub for the hands, is it, or must we be lean for what’s a-comin’?” He smells a storm as fast as any other old Second Ether hand and he squares up reluctantly, for he believes he’s too old to weather another like the last one. "Hell’s glaciers, there’s a slim chance yet for the Balance to correct herself, but I can't seem to get back on to the crew. Are they frozen already?”
Captain Otherly says this was nowt to a Yorkshireman when he was a boy, in the days when Buggery Otherly ran things like a kakatron. But is he rattled? Maybe, thinks the youngest hand, Monkeygirl, who hopes she will soon settle down. It is her duty to keep the gardens at peace. She had done so for gone fifteen years and the Pulsing Blood had always responded well to her harmonies, but with the onset of Kaprikorn Schultz, the gardens were showing signs of restlessness and it would take little to send these vibrations throughout every fold of the great, old-fashioned Bloomer as she made her stately way up the scales.
Captain Otherly readily admits he let his ship fall towards a mirage attractor, the most feared phenomenon in the multiverse, and that only this put them in the power of the legendary Banker (whose greatest strength lay in his pseudo-reality weaving). Yet he was damned if he wasn’t going to try to get out of the trap in spite of the filth pouring everywhere into the ship from Schultz's barkbox.
“Try them with some more Mozart and if that doesn’t work give ’em the last of your Messiaen,” he tells Monkeygirl. “It's all we can do now.” And he throws himself deep into his brass legs, a brave smile on his big face as the massive prosthenics hiss into union with his flesh.
“Captain Otherly’s ready to give that half-hume bastard a run for his money!”

They’ve lost their main fractal and are off-scale, claiming it under control but Oldreg knows it means the destruction of their whole quasi-universe and the First Ether with it, maybe the Second Ether too, Little Rupoldo having heard that from Oldreg and talking to Wire Ears in combat with Kaprikorn Schultz who’s attached himself freehand to their outer folds and made it impossible to drive anywhere but downscale. Everyone heard how Kaprikorn Schultz singlehandedly climbed half a thousand scale fields and countless textures to spread his brilliant blue wings against the hazy serenity of the Second Ether. He rejects all protection and lives entirely on his own twisted wits, using skimling techniques to hitch rides through the scale fields or so he says. They’re heading out to where the ether’s silvery white, lit by the light of countless galaxies, the multiverse’s hub and enter the Second Ether’s gateway directly, all claimed by Kaprikorn Schultz to be the most respectable voice in the multiverse and they’ll tittle together in that fold-away-from-fold to experience mainlining. Sto-Loon notes there’s a slim chance yet for the Balance to correct itself but he can't seem to get back on to the crew, thinking them frozen now. Captain Otherly struggles with Kaprikorn Schultz’s scheme to sink them and lets his sip fall towards a mirage attractor, the multiverse’s most feared phenomenon, and that only this put them in the power of Kaprikorn Schultz who’s greatest strength lay in his pseudo-reality weaving but they prepare a scheme to escape him via music.

BardicheAssault · Jun 2, 2021

BLOOD: A SOUTHERN FANTASY, PT. 2

Rose Von Bek and Sam Oakenhurst: Jugador feats

Mr. Oakenhurst picks up his bags. All around him the outlines and shadows of the Terminal Cafe shift and caper while Boudreaux Ramsadeen practices a graceful figure with Fathima Panosh, the tiny dancer currently favored by the Terminal's regulars who come to hear real old-fashioned zee and witness the purity of the high games. Only at Biloxi, where the Fault yells and ululates, can enough color be tapped to push new limits. And for those who lose too much, there is always the Fault itself, restless and demanding, greedy for energy and offering, perhaps, an ultimate wisdom.
“On your way, Sam?” Jack Karaquazian sits back from his game. His fellow players know him as Al-Q'areen. Many are shades, men and women ready to risk everything to win nothing but the company of their peers. They have the dedicated, ascetic appearance of a strict order. The Egyptian smiles, a kindly jackal.
“On my way.” Mr. Oakenhurst sets his broad-brimmed pale Panama, dusts at his fine cord travelling coat, his buckskin riding boots, his blue cotton shirt and breeches. “So long.”
“Nobody knows what’s going on up there now,” says Boudreaux Ramsadeen from the dance floor, his brutish face clouded with concern. “They say it’s nothing but vapor up in the Frees. Turned all to steam, mon ami. You be better off staying here.”
Mr. Oakenhurst lifts a hand to show appreciation. “Estrella errante, vieux pard. You know how it is.”
But Boudreaux Ramsadeen will never know how that is. He brought his cafe on the train from Meridian to take advantage of the tourist trade. Now he and the Terminal are married to the Fault until the end of time.
(We are all echoes of some lost original, she would tell him. But we are not diminished by this knowledge. Rather, we are strengthened by it.)

At Biloxi, where the Fault yells and ululates, can enough color be tapped to push new limits and for those who lose too much, there’s always the Fault itself, restless and demanding, greedy for energy and maybe offering an ultimate wisdom. Sam’s leaving which Ramsy warns against but Ramsy’ll never know how it is since he and his cafe are married to the Fault until time ends. They’re all echoes of some original, “she” would tell him but they’re not diminished by that knowledge and instead are strengthened by it.

When Mr. Sam Oakenhurst took off for the Free States he had it in mind to heal the memories and still the cravings of his last six seasons at the mercy of New Orleans’ infamous machinoix, whose final act of trust was to introduce him to the long, complex mutilation rituals they believed to be the guarantee of continuing existence in the afterlife.
Ending his stopover at the Terminal Cafe, where Jack Karaquazian still wagered the highest psychic stakes from what had become known as the Dead King’s Chair, framed by the whirling patterns of Chaos ceaselessly forming and reforming, Mr. Oakenhurst was at last able to ask his old friend how things went for him.
“Not so bad now, Sam, pretty good.”
“You're looking better, Jack. Your old self.”
“I’m feeling it, Sam.” The Egyptian’s fingers moved abstractly around the dormant dimensions of a waiting flat game. The other players were unhappy with this interruption but unwilling to risk Mr. Karaquazian’s displeasure. He toyed with the dealing plates, himself anxious to begin the next hand. And his eyes looked upon so many simultaneous memories.

Jack’s waging his highest psychic stakes from the Dead King’s Chair, framed by Chaos’ whirling patterns ceaselessly forming and reforming. His fingers move abstractly around the dormant dimensions of a waiting flat game. The other players are unhappy with Sam’s interruption but don’t wanna anger Jack while he toys with the dealing plates, himself anxious to begin the next hand.

Before he walked to the door, Sam Oakenhurst said: “Come up there with me, Jack. They got some famous spots in Texas and New Mexico. They're finding color every day in California. Don’t you want to visit San Diego while she's still burning? They say you can walk in and out of those flames and feel no heat at all. There’s people living in the city, completely unhurt. That’s something to see, Jack.”
Mr. Karaquazian wished his friend luck in the West but reckoned he had a game or two left to play at the Terminal. In answer to Sam Oakenhurst's glare of honest surprise, he recalled the old intimacy of their friendship and said, in words only Mr. Oakenhurst heard, "I can’t go yet.” He was not ready to speak of his reasons but if his friend were to ride by again at a later time he promised he would tell what happened after they had parted in the Quarter, when the Egyptian had gone upriver on the Memphis boat.

Sam tries to convince Jack to go with him since they’ve got famous spots in Texas and New Mexico and finding color every day in California and other interesting things but Jack can’t go yet, not ready to speak of his reasons.

(Have you heard of the conspiracy of the Just? she would ask. Once the likes of us become aware of this conspiracy, we are part of it. There’s no choice in the matter. We are, after all, what we are. And you and I, Sam, are of the Just. You don’t have to like it.)

Rose tells Sam about the Just’s conspiracy and once they’ve become aware of it, they’re apart of it with no choice in the matter.

They were chiefly magazines detailing the escapades of various unfamiliar heroes and heroines— The Merchant Venturer, Pearl Peru—Captain Billy- Bob Begg’s Famous Chaos Engineers—Karl Kapital— Professor Pop—Fearless Frank Force—Bullybop— Corporal Pork—violently colored attempts to reproduce the interactive video melodramas some addicts still enjoyed at the Terminal Cafe. All the characters seemed engaged in perpetual war between Plurality and Singularity for the domination of a territory (possibly philosophical) called the Second Ether. These unlikely events were represented as fact. The gambler, finding their enigmatic vocabularies and queer storylines too cryptic, replaced them in the dispenser, blew out his lamp and slept, dreaming a familiar dream.

Sam reads about the Chaos Engineers who are fictional to him and thinks all their adventures aren’t real though they of course are.

Precious Mary was not impatient to leave. She had discovered an interest in the vegetable garden and, with another woman called Bellpai's, was planting in the assumption there would be some kind of new season. The garden lay behind the house, where it was most sheltered. Mary complained about the lack of sunlight, the clouds of dust which swam forever out of the north. “It seems like it’s the same clouds keep coming around,” she said. “Like everything’s on repeat.”
“Hope not,” said Sam Oakenhurst, thinking of New Orleans and licking salty lips. As a child he had played his favorite records until the phonograph's machinery had started to show the strain. Gradually the voices grew sluggish and the music became a mixture of whines and groans until finally the records brought only depression, a sense of loss, a distorted memory of harmony and resolution. He sometimes thought the whole world was running down in a series of ever-widening, steadily dissipating circles. “I cannot believe that one thing cancels out another," he admitted to Precious Mary.
"It's like a roof." She looked at the sky. “Like a cave. We could be underground, Sam. Lying on the innards of the world.”
Across the surface of measureless grey, past the end of their jetty, a couple of spots of color floated. The spots moved as if with purpose but both Mr. Oakenhurst and Precious Mary knew they drifted more or less at random around the perimeter of the lake, carrying with them an assortment of organic flotsam. Bones, feathers, twigs, tiny corpses, made a lattice through which gleamed the dull gold and silver of the color, blank round eyes staring out from a void. The color seemed like a magnet to certain vegetable and animal matter. Other material it repulsed violently, not always predictably.

Mary says that the same clouds keep coming around, like everything’s on repeat which Sam hopes it’s not. Sam tries to remember but the records bring him depression, a sense of loss and a distorted memory of harmony and resolution, thinking the whole world was running down in a series of ever-widening, steadily dissipating circles. Mary thinks it’s like a roof or a cave and they could be underground, lying on the world’s innards. Past the end of their jetty, across the surface of measureless grey, floats a couple of colors spots that move as if with purpose but both Sam and Mary knew they drifted more or less at random around the lake’s perimeter, carrying with them an assortment of organic flotsam. The color has a lattice through which gleams a dull gold and silver, blank round eyes staring out from a void, seeming like a magnet to certain vegetable and animal matter, other material repulsing violently but not always predictably

"I reckon Jack Karaquazian struck color up on the Trace," mused Sam Oakenhurst. “But something happened that didn’t suit him. What the hell is that, Mary?” He pointed out over the lake. Through the twilight a slow bulky shape was emerging. At first the jugador thought it might be the tapering head of a large whale. Then as it came near he realized it was not a living creature at all but a ramshackle vessel, shadowing the shore, a great broad raft about ninety by ninety, on which was built a floating shanty-town, a melange of dull-colored shacks, tents, barrels and lean-tos. In the middle of this makeshift fortress stood a substantial wooden keep with a flat roof where other tents and packing-case houses had been erected so that the whole had the appearance of an untidy ziggurat made of animal hides, old tapestries, painted canvases, upholstery and miscellaneous pieces of broken furniture.
Observing what distinguished this floating junk- pile, Precious Mary said: “Ain’t that queer, Sam. No metal, not much plastic ...”
“And there's why.” Sam showed her the dull gleam of color spilling up from under the raft's edges. “She's moving on a big spot. She’s built to cover it. You saw it. That kind of color won't take anything much that’s non-organic. It's kind of like antielectricity. They haven't figured any real way of conducting the stuff. It can't be refined or mined. It moves all the time so it's never claimed. I guess those types have found the only use there is for it. Ahoy!”

Sam thinks Jack struck color on the Trace but something happened that didn’t suit him. A slow bulky shape emerges from the lake which Sam thinks might be the tapering head of a large whale but then he notices as it comes near that it’s not a living beast but a ramshackle vessel that’s about 90x90 which has a small society on it. Sam notices that the boat’s moving on a big spot, built to cover it but that kind of color won’t take anything much that’s non-organic like anti-electricity. They haven’t figured out any real way of conducting the stuff that can’t be refined or mined, moving all the time so it’s never claimed.

Mr. Oakenhurst did not doubt the enmascarado’s courage or ferocity, the man's murderous determination, but could not fathom Paul Minct's objectives. Perhaps Mr. Minct had actually convinced himself that he could survive the Fault, and others with him. It was not a belief Sam Oakenhurst wished to put to the test. Yet, for all his evident insanity, the man continued to terrify Sam Oakenhurst who wondered if Paul Minct already had his measure, as he did not have Paul Minct’s. A game would answer most of his questions. He was no Jack Karaquazian or Colinda Dovero, but he had held his own with the rest.

Sam isn’t quite on Sam or Colinda’s level but he’s quite skilled in his own right though he wonders what Paul Minct is up to, trying to enter the Fault.

“I tasted a thousand scales to reach this place.” Mrs. von Bek had been joined at her table by Sister Honesty Marvell, Mrs. O’Dowd and Rodrigo Heat, but she kept a seat beside her empty and this she now offered to Mr. Oakenhurst who bowed, brushed back his tails and wished her good morning as he sat down beside her. He wondered why she seemed familiar. At close quarters the greenish blush of her hands, the pink-gold of her cheeks, had a quality which made all other flesh seem unnatural. He had never before felt such strong emotion in the presence of beauty.
In amused recognition of his admiration, she smiled. Clearly, she was also curious about him. “You are of the jugadiste persuasion, Mr. Oakenhurst?”
“I make a small living from my good fortune, ma’am.” Had he ever felt as he did now, at the center of a concert while the music achieved some ecstatic moment? Was he looking on the true face of his lady, his luck? Where would she take him? Home?
He realized to his alarm that he was on the verge of weeping.
“Well, Mr. Oakenhurst,” Mrs. von Bek continued, “you would know a flat game, I hope, if one turned up for you. And 'Granny's Claw'? Is that still played in these parts?"
“Not to my knowledge, ma’am.”
I need an ally, she said in an urgent signal, which marked her as his peer. Paul Minct is my mortal enemy and will destroy me if he recognizes me. Will you help?
He returned her signal. At your service, Mrs. von Bek.
No sworn jugador could have refused her. Their mutual code demanded instant compliance. Only in extreme need did one of his kind thus address a peer. But he would have helped her anyway. He was entirely infatuated with her. He began to wonder what other allies, and of what caliber, he might find here. Did fear or some profound sense of loyalty bind Rodrigo Heat to Paul Minct? Carly O’Dowd, given to sudden swings of affection, would be unreliable at best. Roy Ornate was clearly Paul Minct’s man. Sister Honesty Marvell might side with them, if only out of an habitual need to destroy potential rivals. Meanwhile, Mr. Oakenhurst would have to follow Mrs. von Bek’s lead until she told him to do otherwise.
Her fingers dropped from the grey-green pearls and coral at her throat while his own hands lost interest in his links. Their secret exchange was for a moment at an end.
It had been seven years—twenty-eight seasons by current reckoning—since Mr. Oakenhurst had been in a similar situation and that had been the start of his friendship with Jack Karaquazian. On this oc- casion, however, the intellectual thrill, the thrill of the big risk, was coupled with an overwhelming desire for the Rose, given extra edge by his own anxious guess that perhaps she was a little attracted to him. Even the chemistry with Serdia, his wife, had not been so strong. The sensation attacked his mind as well as his flesh while the cool part of him, the trained jugador, was taking account of this wonderful return of feelings he had thought lost forever. He considered new odds.
“Do you think it will be long before we reach the Frees, Mr. Ornate?" She looked up as the skipper returned with a tray on which stood an oak cafetiere and some delicate rosewood cups. “Here you go, ma’am, here you go. I fixed it myself. You can't trust these blankeys to fix good coffee.” The man was blushing like a rat on a hot-spot, oblivious of the open derision on Rodrigo Heat's old-fashioned head.
Mr. Oakenhurst relaxed his body and settled into his chair. Paul Minct would make his entrance at any moment.
“Shall we play?”

Rose says she’s “tasted” a thousand scales to reach Minct’s boat and sees that Sam is of the Jugadiste persuasion. She offers a flat game, wondering if Granny’s Claw is still played where they’re at though Sam says maybe not. She signals to him that he needs an ally for Paul’s her mortal enemy and will destroy her if he recognizes her and asks for his help which he agrees. Sam tries to find allies on the boat but he can’t find one. Sam reflects on his meeting with Jack and feels intense attraction and loyalty to Rose with Paul challenging Sam to a game.

Chaos Engineers feats

After successfully “Rhyming the Balance” and at the same time restoring the Singularity to its former power (but no more) CAPTAIN BILLY-BOB and her buckobusters in their ship, Now The Clouds Have Meaning, set course into the Second Ether again, for the Mountains of Palest Blue and Deepest White, where they believe the swipling swarm must pass.
In common with most others who explore the Second Ether, Captain Billy-Bob and her crew are searching for Ko-O-Ko, the Lost Universe. In that section of the Second Ether known as Blue and White Mountain Country, where the ships of all four exploring races drift against vast semi-stable masses of curling, frozen lava which float like icebergs, half in and half out of the continua, they await the coming of the swipling swarm. The swipling is a kind of bird capable of flying between the various spheres or planes of the multiverse and said to migrate between the Nineteenth Ether and Ko-O-Ko, the Lost Universe. It is the intention of the various ships waiting “at anchor” in the Blue and White Mountain Field to track the swipling swarm back to Ko-O-Ko.

After successfully Rhyming the Balance but also restoring the Singularity to its former power, Begg and her crew set course into the Second Ether again for the Mountains of Palest Blue and Deepest White, where they believe the Swipling Swarm must pass. Like most others who explore the Second Ether, Begg and her crew are searching for Ko-O-Ko and in that section of the Second Ether where the ships of all four exploring races drift against vast semi-stable masses of curling, frozen lava which float like icebergs, half in and half out of the universes, they await the Swipling Swarm’s arrival. The Swipling’s a bird able to fly between the multiverse’s various Spheres or Planes and said to migrate between the 19th Ether and Ko-O-Ko. It’s the intention of the various ships waiting at anchor in the Mountain Field to track the Swipling Swarm back to Ko-O-Ko

There are two rival types of HUMES: THE CHAOS ENGINEERS who delight in all forms of experience and are hugely tolerant of all other logics—and the followers of THE SINGULARITY, which rules the large part of the humes' home continuum and still dreams of imposing full linearity upon what it perceives as the “unformed” Chaos of the far greater part of the multiverse.
Two other rivals, as indistinguishable to humes as humes are to them: the skiplings and the skimlings have (or assume) corporeal forms which are not entirely stable. The two races both claim to be descendants of the many different peoples who inhabit their home spheres across a band of continua still inaccessible to hume ships of either persuasion. The humes know little of the skiplings or skimlings while those people seem to have an intimate knowledge of all things hume.
All seek to find the legendary Lost Universe, Ko-O-Ko.

The rival Humes, Chaos Engineers, who delight in al forms of experience and hugely tolerant of all other logics, and Singularity, which rule the large part of the Humes’ home reality and still dreams of imposing full linearity upon what it perceives as the “unformed” Chaos of the multiverse’s far greater part. Two other rivals, Skiplings and Skimlings have, or assume, corporeal forms which aren’t entirely stable. The two races both claim to be descendants of the many different peoples who inhabit their home Spheres across a band of realities still inaccessible to Hume ships of either alignment. All of them seek to find Ko-O-Ko.

One of the ships lying uneasily in stasis in the Blue and White Mountain Country is Billy-Bob Begg’s famous old rival, CAPTAIN HORACE QUELCH, commanding The Linear Bee, together with a scratch fleet including The Straight Arrow, The Definite Article, The Absolute Truth and The Only Way.
They plan to claim Ko-O-Ko, the Lost Universe, in the name of the Singularity. The other hume ships are all of the Chaos persuasion, a loose confederation of merchant-adventurers, including Ruby Dances, I Don't Want To Go To Chelsea, My Memories and The Blue Gardenia.
Many events have led to this moment: many adventures amongst the participants, frequently involving the Singularity’s implacable hatred of the Chaos Engineers.

One of the ships lying in stasis in the Mountain Country is Quelch’s ship, together with a “scratch fleet.” They plan to claim Ko-O-Ko in the name of the Singularity. The other Hume ships are all of the Chaos persuasion, a loose confederation of merchant-adventurers. Many events had led to that moment, many adventures amongst the participants, frequently involving the Singularity’s implacable hatred of the Chaos Engineers.

Every afternoon in the Blue and White Mountain Field, Captain Billy-Bob and her ship are forced to leave for a few relative hours—in pursuit of her famous "hopping legs,” stolen by scraplings for their brass, and once to aid Captain Quelch when The Linear Bee was holed by a slipling between continua. The sliplings are the so-called "Corsairs of the Second Ether” (though others call them carrion rats), preying on all continua-travellers at their weakest transitions. Although related to skiplings and skimlings, the sliplings are hated by both. It is on this matter that the First Beast, of the Skimlings, ra, has called a conference attended by the Skipling First Beast, ro-ro, by Captain Quelch and Captain Billy- Bob Begg, elected main types for their respective camps. Now read on . . .

Every afternoon in the Mountain Field, Begg and her ship are forced to leave for a few relative hours, in pursuit of her famous “hopping legs,” stolen by Scraplings for their brass, and once to aid Quelch when his ship was holed by a Slipling between realities. The Sliplings are the so-called “Corsairs of the Second Ether,” preying on all reality-travelers at their weakest transitions. Despite being related to Skiplings and Skimlings, the Sliplings are hated by both. It’s on that matter that the First Beast of the Skimlings, Ra, has called a conference attended by the Skipling First Beast, Ro-Ro, by Quelch and Begg, elected main types for their respective camps

“There is no war between skiplings and skimlings—we simply refuse to communicate. Yet both races shun sliplings, for they are unnatural and immoral carrion. These so-called Corsairs are no better than a cancer which should be treated or eradicated. It is your duty, Captain Begg, to support us in the policy.”
So spoke Sterling the Skipling, Second Beast of The Power in Contemplation, with all authority, for he was equal to the extraordinarily beautiful Chief Engine. He illustrated his words with broad movements of his fiery arms. “We travel—” swing, undulation, “sometimes we go with you—” fold, unfold, “sometimes with the heavy ones. We fall with them, Captain Quelch, ho, ho! And this is very thrilling for us and also dangerous.” What might have been mammalian eyes moved behind the lattice of insectoid prisms—two sets of eyes at least, perhaps more (Captain Quelch had heard a claim for seven or eight layers of specialized eyes and five graduated sets of independently articulated teeth). “Nar! To your equations—Nar! Nar! Nar! We are humes. We are humes, too. We are everything.”
“What are you NOT?” demanded the sneering, unconvinced Quelch.
“We are not God.”
“They are ANGELS!” says Romantic Minnie. “Warring angels. War in Heaven!” She pointed to the R. “Look. It's proof.” But her theory is disliked. Corporal Organ takes her aside.
“It is your duty not to warn the living but to comfort the dead and the soon-to-be-dead. You have no function to alarm, no need. Yours is a gentler destiny, if sadder.”
Suddenly they looked back at the aft screens and the black and yellow sphere, once the hiding place of The Linear Bee, but for now Quelch's whereabouts were known to them.
Or were they?

There’s no war between Skiplings and Skimlings, they just won’t talk yet both races shun Sliplings for being unnatural and immoral carrion and asks that Begg exterminate them. Sterling says that Skiplings travel, swing, undulate, fold and unfold with them or with the heavy ones. They fall with Quelch now and that’s very thrilling for them but also dangerous. Quelch wonders what they are but Romantic Minnie says they’re angels warring in Heaven, pointing to the R, thinking that proof though her theory’s disliked. In that stretch of time, Quelch’s whereabouts become known.

“Slit my beak!” Kaprikom Schultz, Banker to the Homeboy Tong, made a fist of his right wing. “Slime my quills! Farping Z equals z2 plus farping c. You await your diamond allies, but your Carbon Chief is far, Captain Q, wherever you slip. I cough up your Great Idea, skimpling possers, dirty tips. Skimplings are too discreet about their origins. I could lead the world there.”
“Foolish hume, with your filthy bone! Tis no skimpling you address, but a slipling weed. Ach! Insidious creeper. Stamp on it!” His reluctant ally, Big Ball, the skimpling renegade, backs away. He has no defenses against sliplings of any size. Kaprikorn Schultz often asks him why one so sickly chose the buckoniring trade, which was nothing, after all, if not strenuous. But all Big Ball would allow was that it was a family calling.
Kaprikorn Schultz does not need to remind him of the fate of his sister merchant-adventuress. He had last made out the deep shadows, black and white, of The Scarab’s Son, embedded in hard space while the rest of the insect legs and carapace waved in the bitter freedom of the Second Ether. Hers had not been a scale-fault but a problem of misleading pseudo-attractors. Nonetheless, he had thrown up as the significant mathematics clarified on his screen. Those mathematics had, he had known even then, been none other than Kaprikorn Schultz's, for only Schultz lacked all conscience and was a well-known wrecker, an illusionist capable of creating pseudoattractors almost indistinguishable from the real thing. Yet there was always the slight possibility that Schultz was blameless. The Scarab’s Son would not, after all, be the first victim to a mirage-attractor.
The strains of Duke Ellington and Jimi Hendrix drifted up from the old gardens and filled Big Ball with comfortable nostalgia, for which he was grateful.
He was convinced that, by throwing in with Kaprikorn Schultz, he had shorted his scale rather badly.

Kaprikorn Schultz says that they await their diamond allies but Carbon Chief is from Quelch wherever they slip and offers to lead the world there though Big Ball, the Skimling, rebuffs him but had no defenses against Sliplings of any size. Schultz knows of Big Ball’s sister merchant-adventuress’ fate and made out the deep shadows of a ship embedded in hard space while the rest of the insect legs and carapace waved in the bitter freedom of the Second Ether. Hers hadn’t been a scale-fault but a problem of misleading pseudo-attractors. Big Ball throws up as he’s overwhelmed and sees “significant” maths on his screen which had been none other than Schultz’s own for only Schultz lacked all conscience and was a well-known wrecker, an illusionist capable of creating pseudo-attractors almost indistinguishable from the real thing yet there was always the slight possibility that Schultz was blameless. The ship wouldn’t eb the first victim to a mirage-attractor after all. Big Ball feels good seeing the strains of Duke Ellington and Jimi Hendrix drifting up from the old gardens and was convinced that, by throwing in with Schultz, he had shorted his scale rather badly.

Bibby-Boo Begg sprawls before the R as she attunes herself to the voice. "Here,” she trills now, "is the tale according to my understanding and my art, of the Turbulence Bucko-Roos and their raidings in the Second Ether, before the multiverse was tame and music was indistinguishable from matter, in the grand past when forever faded to aft and the easy future forever loomed for’ard, all a single golden moment, a scale apart.”
Dungo the Murderer is poised at the pod, unbeknownst to Bibby-Boo, who has had no education in the classics. Is this innocence? Or ignorance? In the confusion, nobody has thought to educate her. Who is morally to blame for what happens next?

Begg sprawls before the R as she attunes herself to the voice. Here’s the tale according to her understanding and art of the Turbulence Bucko-Roos and their railings in the Second Ether before the multiverse was tame and music was indistinguishable from matter, in the grand past when forever faded to aft and the easy future forever loomed forward, all a single moment, a scale apart which shocks Dungo.

BardicheAssault · Jun 2, 2021

BLOOD: A SOUTHERN FANTASY, PT. 3

“I take it you are considering some unusually high stakes, Mr. Minct.” Her voice had grown warmer, more musical, like a well-practiced instrument. She was all of a piece, thought Sam Oakenhurst admiringly, a perfect disguise. There was, however, no evidence that Paul Minct had been deceived by either of them.
The weeks play had left the Rose and Sam Oakenhurst uncertain lovers, but it was of no interest to Paul Minct how they celebrated their alliance. He appeared to be under the impression that a more reckless Rose von Bek had persuaded Mr. Oakenhurst to let her join him.
"Here's my say in the matter," declared Sam Oakenhurst, to open the bidding. “Your luck and mine, Paul Minct. Even shares. Try it once? Double our luck or double our damnation, eh?"
Sam Oakenhurst knew Mr. Minct viewed treachery as a legitimate instrument of policy and that nothing he offered would guarantee Mr. Minct’s consistency. But he was hoping to appeal to Paul Minct’s gambler’s soul, to whet his appetite for melodrama and catch him, if possible, in a twist or two before the main game began. At present it was the only strategy he could pursue without much chance of detection.
"You'll stake your life on this, Mr. Oakenhurst?”
“If you’ll give us some idea of the odds and the winnings, sir.”
“Good odds, limitless reward. My word on it. And your word, Mr. Oakenhurst. How do you value it?”
"I value my word above my life, sir. In these troubled times a jugador has nothing but honor. I will need to know a little more before I stake my honor. So I’ll fold for the moment. Save to say this, sir—you play an honest game and so will I.”
“And you, Mrs. von Bek?” Paul Minct made an old-fashioned bow. “Do you also offer an honest game?”
“I have played no other up to now, Mr. Minct. I’ll throw in all I have, if the prize suits me. We can triple our luck, if you like. We all have some idea of the size of the stakes, I think. But not the size of the bonanza. Whatever it shall be, I'll put in my full third and take out my full third—or any fraction decided by any future numbers.”
“You can’t say fairer than that, ma'am. Very well, Mr. Oakenhurst. We have another pard.”
Sam Oakenhurst could not fathom her style, but he recognized that she was a peerless mukhamir. It was as if she had trained in the very heart of Africa. She was his superior in everything but low cunning, that instinctive talent for self-preservation which had proven so useful to him and which had resulted in his becoming kin to the machinoix, rather than their prey. He had never underestimated this useful flaw in his character. But now it could only serve his honor and help him keep his word to the Rose. He had no other choice.
She had played Paul Minct well so far. Mr. Minct’s weakness was that he had less respect for a woman than he had for a man. Yet the enmascarado was in no doubt about her worth to their enterprise, so long as, in his view, Mr. Oakenhurst kept her under control.
“I have always preferred the company of ladies,” said Paul Minct. “It will be a pleasure to work with you, my dear.”
"I like the feel of the game,” she said. As yet she had given Sam Oakenhurst no clue as to the nature of her quarrel with Mr. Minct or why the masked man did not recognize her. (Or did not choose to recognize her. He was the master of any fivedimensional bluff on the screen and a few more of his own invention.)
“We shall form a family as strong as our faith in our own strengths,” said Paul Minct. For once his eyes looked away from them, as if ashamed. “We are peers. We need no others. The three of us will take our sacrifice to the Fault and reap the measureless harvests!”
“You anticipated my sentiments, Mr. Minct,” said the Rose, almost sweet, and Sam Oakenhurst thought he caught a swiftly controlled flicker of emotion in Paul Minct s bleak eyes.

Rose notices Paul is considering some unusually high stakes as they play for weeks on end, leaving her and Sam uncertain lovers but Paul doesn’t care, thinking Sam got her to join. Sam and Paul play with strategies deployed on both sides with Paul asking if he’ll stake his life on the game but only if he’ll give them some idea of the odds and winnings. Paul says it’ll be good odds, limitless reward and their word which Sam values above his life but he’ll need to know a little more before he stakes his honor so he’ll fold for a moment save to say that if Paul plays an honest game then he will too. Paul asks if Rose offers an honest game and she’s played no other up to now and will throw in all she has if the prize suits her. They all have some idea of the stakes’ size but not the bonanza’s size. Whatever it shall be, he’ll put in his full third and take it out or any fraction decided by any future numbers which Paul agrees to. Sam can’t fathom her style but recognized she was a peerless Jugador, as if she trained in Africa like he. She was his superior in everything but low cunning, that instinctive talent for self-preservation which had proven so useful to him. She’s played Paul well so far, knowing his weakness that he had less respect for a woman than a man yet Paul was in no doubt about her worth to their enterprise so long as Sam kept her under control. Sam is yet to be informed of her beef with Paul or why he doesn’t seem to recognize her since he wa the master of any 5D bluff on the screen and a few more of his own invention. Paul says the three of them will take their sacrifice to the Fault and reap the measureless harvests which Rose says he anticipated.

The rules are set and Paul promises to tell them more after they’ve reached the Frees and are off the raft so the trio settle down to an easy companionship, playing a hand or two of old flat and a simulated folded paper version of a game which could only be modified with difficulty and which they eventually abandoned by mutual consent, having failed to discover mutually communicable sounds.

Sam Oakenhurst suggested a game of “Mad John Parker,” but Honesty Marvell favored “Doc Granite,” so in the end they made it a tambourine game and shouted like kiddikins over it. That night the Rose told Sam Oakenhurst that they might have to kill Paul Minct.
At your service, he signalled, but bile came up in his throat.
(We are not fragments of the whole, the Rose would insist, but versions of the whole. Mr. Oakenhurst had told her of the last time he had stood in a ploughed field, full of bright pools of winter rain, on a fine, pale blue evening, with the great orange sun bleeding down into the horizon, and watched a big dog fox, brush high as he picked his way amongst the furrows, circling the meadow where he was hidden by the lattice of the hedge, sniffing the wind for the geese who had begun to honk with anxious inquiry. All of it disappeared, Mr. Oakenhurst said, in the Hattiesburg Roar. “I had thought that, at least, must endure. Now, even our memories are becoming suspect.”)
He had no qualms about killing the man, if he proved actively dangerous to them, but he was not at all sure he could play this. He had given his word to something for which he might not possess the necessary bottom. By now he was as nervous of losing her approval as he was terrified by Paul Mincts displeasure. The irony of this amused and sustained him.
“Ma romance," she sang, “nouvelle romance. Ma romancier, muy necromancier. Joli boys all dansez. Joli boys all dansez—But they shall not have muy couleur.”

Sam suggests a game of Mad John Parker but Marv favors Doc Granite so in the end they made it a tambourine game and shouted over it. That night, Roes tells Sam that they might have to kill Paul which Sam agrees but feels sick. Rose reminds him that they’re not fragments of the whole but versions of the whole. Sam tries to remember something but all of it disappears in the Hattiesburg Roar, having thought that must endure but now even their memories are becoming suspect. Sam has no qualms about killing Paul if he’s dangerous to them but he wasn’t sue at all if he could play that. He’d given his word to something for which he might not possess the necessary bottom. By now, he was as nervous of losing he approval as he was terrified by Paul’s displeasure.

The three left The Whole Hog when she ran aground on a mudbank near Poker Flats but not before Sister Honesty Marvell had butchered Roy Ornate in a quarrel over the nature of things. Paul Minct had finished her with a glass spike whereupon the swamp people, some devolved survivalists, had tried to crawl aboard, to be repulsed and mostly blown apart by the violent anti-gravity reaction of the color to their metal. They were extinguished by the power of their ornaments. Carly O'Dowd was dead, too, from a poison she had picked up somewhere, and there was reasonable fear of a whitey uprising until Rodrigo Heat put himself in charge.
Almost as soon as they were ashore they came upon a scattering of the swamp people's weapons, flung this far into the reed beds by the color. Sam Oakenhurst had never held an original Olivetti PP6 before and he treasured the instrument in his hands, to the Rose's open amusement.
Take up one of these weapons for yourself, ma am.' Paul Minct became proprietorial, motioning with his wicked fingers. "It will almost certainly prove useful to you.” He bent and his arms, encased in hide, again emerged from their velvet wrappings to examine the scattered hardware. "I have made this journey before. Many times, this journey. Yes. This time we will go on.” He straightened, turning the glittering weapon in her direction and, gasping at sudden pain, examined his pricked wrist. He watched the wand that had wounded him disappearing back into her cloak at the same moment as she apologized.
“She is sometimes hasty in my defense.”
“Swift Thorn,” he said.
The wind was ugly in their ears. A grey whine from the north.
"You would not prefer to pack this OK9?” continued Paul Minct. "Some kind of back-up?” He dangled the thing by its flared snout, as if tempting a whitey gal to a piece of pie. But she had stirred a memory in him and he turned away, looking out to where the saplings shivered. To Sam Oakenhurst she flashed a fresh play, then she gathered her gravitas so that when, also controlled, Mr. Minct turned back, she seemed proudly insouciant of any slight.
Again Sam Oakenhurst recognized a game beyond his usual experience.
"She is all I shall need,” said the Rose, almost distantly, while Paul Minct retreated, having apologized with equal formality. He took the OK9 for himself and also hid a Ryman’s 32/80 ("a beastly, primitive weapon”) in his pack.
They were walking up a well-marked old road which followed the edge of the lake. The road had mn between Shreveport and Houston once. They could follow it, Paul Minct assured them, as far as San Augustine. “I have heard or read of a weapon called Swift Thorn,” he added as he lengthened his gait to lead them south. “The subject of some epic.”
“Not the subject,” she said. Oh, he is easily clever enough to kill me, Sam. He tricked me into a show.
He doesn’t know that he succeeded. He will not dare risk a move on you until he’s sure of me. Sam Oakenhurst fell in beside her.
I must take risks, Sam. He must not escape me. I am pledged to his destmction.
“Hey, hola! Les bon temps rolla! Ai, ha! The good times pass! Pauvre pierrot, muy coeur, mon beau soleil,” sang out Paul Minct up ahead. “What a day, pards! What a day!”
A tremor moved the ground and the reed beds rippled.
Around them suddenly boiled the cloudy landscapes, the powerful mirages, of the Free States, all in a condition of minor agitation, as if not fully in focus. Crazy tendrils erupted into a bewildering kaleidoscope, each fragment a fresh version of its surroundings and of the people inhabiting them. A thousand images of themselves, in a variety of roles and identities, poured away down fresh cracks in the fabric of their histories.
Sam Oakenhurst found this a depressing illusion.
“They refused to search for the center and hold to it against all attacks and temptations. There must be sacrifices. Lines drawn. And faith. You're familiar with The Pilgrim’s Progress, Mr. Oakenhurst, you being a preacher’s son? There’s a book, eh? But if only life were so simple. We must press on, holding together, through this valley of desolation, to our just reward. We must know complete trust. And what a reward, my dears!”
Orange and yellow pillars pissed like egg yolk into the sky and splashed upon a gory firmament.
“Here we are,” sang Paul Minct. “This is it!” He paused before the yelling pillars and threw back his head as if to drink them up: his crude cartographic visor flickered and flashed and made new reflections. “We are about to pass into the Free States. This is the malleable world indeed! This, or one like it, must bend to our will. Do you not think?”
The Rose was unimpressed. Not as malleable as some, she told Sam Oakenhurst. She moved with an extra grace as if until now her blood had hardly quickened. She had the alertness of an animal in its natural element. Sam Oakenhurst thought they were walking into the suburbs of Hell and he told her that while he remained at her service he was also entirely in her hands. This experience was too unfamiliar. He had thought the stories only legends.
“Here is what all matter should aspire to,” Paul Minct continued. “Here is true tolerance. Everything is free.”
“Tolerance without mercy,” murmured Sam Oakenhurst, willing to reveal this fear if only to disguise his other, more profound, anxieties.
“We shall find further allies here!” Paul Minct appeared to have forgotten his earlier pledge as he led them between the columns. “I will guide you.”
But it was soon left for the Rose to lead them, with miraculous confidence, through the vivid shadows, through volatile matter and corrupted time. Perspective, gravity and the seasons were all unstable and Sam Oakenhurst felt he must throw up as Paul Minct, with angry gestures of refusal, had done after they had walked the Bridge of Rubies for uncountable hours. Mr. Minct, expecting to be the most experienced of them, clearly resented the Rose's easy pathfinding. Generally he managed to hide his feelings. It was as if, with the sureness of one who knew such waters well, she steered their boat through the wildest rapids.
Agitated scratchings came from within Paul Minct's mask and swaddlings. Occasionally the enmascarado uttered a little, shrill bubbling sound which added to Sam Oakenhurst's own fearful nausea. For a while it seemed they passed between fields of stars, crossing by silver spans of moonbeams, but the Rose told them it was the abandoned forecourt of The Divided Arabia which at one time had been the largest shopping mall in the Western Hemisphere. What they witnessed was what it had become.
"That stuff scares the devil out of me,” Sam Oakenhurst admitted as they emerged from a forest of bright metallic greenery into a wide relief of desert dominated by the brazen stability of a tiny sun.
“Now, my dears, this is more like Texas,” said Paul Minct.

The trio leave the boat when Rose ran on a mudbank near Poker Flats but not before Marv had butchered Roy in quarrel over the nature of things. Paul had finished her with a glass spike which had been blown apart by the violent anti-gravity reaction of their metal’s color. Carly dies too from a poison she’d picked up somewhere and there was reasonable fear of a whitey uprising until Rodrigo put himself in charge. Almost as soon as they were sore, they come upon a scattering of the swamp kin’s weapons, flung that far into the reed beds by the color. Paul gives Sam a weapon as they investigate and go on their journey but Paul gets injured by Rose’s weapon, Swift Thorn. Paul asks if Sam wouldn’t prefer to pack the OK9 as some kind of back-up. Rose stirred a memory in Paul and flashes a fresh play at Sam while Paul’s back is turned. Sam again recognizes a game beyond his usual experience. Shift Thorn be all Rose needs while Paul retreats, taking the OK9 for himself and also hiding another weapon in his pack while they walk an old road, remarking he’d heard or read of Swift Thorn, the subject of some epic. Rose thinks he’s succeeded, not daring a move on Sam until he’s sure of Rose so she must take risks and not let him escape. A tremor moves the ground and the reed beds ripple and around them suddenly boils the cloudy landscapes, powerful mirages, of the Free States, all in a condition of minor agitation, as if not fully in focus. Crazy tendrils erupted into a bewildering kaleidoscope, each fragment a fresh version of its surroundings and of the people inhabiting them. A thousand images of themselves, in a variety of roles and identities, pouring away down fresh cracks in the fabric of their histories, Sam finding that depressing. Paul recites some poetry and reminds them of the reward as reality seems to break down as they pass into the Free States, a malleable world that can bend to their will according to Paul thought Rose doesn’t agree as they walk towards the Fault. Paul thinks that’s what all matter should aspire to as it’ true tolerance and everything’s free but it’s tolerance without mercy though Paul agrees to guide them to find further allies there but it was soon left for one to lead them through volatile matter and corrupted time. Perspective, gravity and the seasons were all unstable and Sam comes close to vomiting as they crossed the Bridge of Rubies for uncountable hours. Rose leads them which annoys Paul, moving between fields of stars, crossing the Moonbeam Roads, but Rose tells them it was the abandoned forecourt of The Divided Arabia which at one time had been the largest shopping mall in the Western Hemisphere which scares Sam as he watches a forest of bright metallic greenery into a wide relief of desert dominated by the brazen stability of a tiny sun with Paul thinking that’s more like Texas.

Paul Minct insisted they visit the shows and understand the nature of these dramas. "Real or fictional, black or white, they represent a breed of our own kind that has successfully escaped the logic of the Fault, discovering new universes beyond our own. There, my dear friends, Chaos and Singularity perpetually war, are perpetually in balance. And sometimes one is no longer certain which is which. Philosophies become blurred and intermingled out there in the Second Ether. This was how I first learned that it was possible to move from one version of our universe to another and survive. We never die, my dear friends. We are, however, perpetually translated."
What does he mean? asked Sam Oakenhurst.
He understands something of our condition, she told him, but not much of it. He is like those old South American conquistadori. All he can see of this secret is the power and wealth it will bring him. He is prepared to risk his life and soul for that.
Sam Oakenhurst grew fascinated with the legends portrayed on the stages. He talked about Pearl Peru, Corporal Pork, Little Rupoldo, Kaprikorn Schultz and others as if they were personally known to him. When the time came to leave Poker Flats, he bought several books of scenarios. As soon as they were back on the trail he studied them slowly, from morning to night, hoping to find clues to the versions of reality perceived both by Paul Minct and, in particular, Mrs. von Bek. Perhaps the Fault was not the mouth of Hell, after all? Perhaps it was a gateway to Paradise?

Paul insisted they visit the shows and understand the dramas’ nature for real or fictional, black or white, they represent a breed of their own kind that has successfully escaped the Fault’s logic, discovering new universes beyond their own. There, Chaos and Singularity perpetually war, are perpetually in balance and sometimes one’s no longer certain which is which. Philosophies become blurred and intermingled out there in the Second Ether. That was how he first learned that it was possible to move from one version of their universe to another and survive. They never die but perpetually translated which baffles Sam. Paul understands something of their condition but not much of it like a Conquistador. All he can see of the secret is the power and wealth it will bring him, prepared to risk his life and soul for that. Sam grew fascinated with the legends portrayed on the stages, talking about the Chaos Engineers and others as if they were perpetually known to him which gets him to buy books about this conflict. As soon as they were back on the trail, he studied the books slowly 24/7, hoping to find clues to the versions of reality perceived by others Paul and Rose. Perhaps the Fault wasn’t Hell’s mouth but a gateway to Paradise.

Walking beside the Rose, he recounted the tale of Oxford under the Squad warlords. The alien renegades, furious at Oxfords resistance to their philosophies, informed the citizens that unless they immediately fell to levelling their entire settlement, colleges, chapels and all, they (the Squads) would eat their first born and bugger their old folk. “And Oxford, Rose, went the way of St. Petersburg and Washington, but not Cheltenham, which is still standing but which has lost its first born. And her old people rarely, these days, walk abroad.” The Squads had come in their black deltoid aircraft. Thousands. “They told us they represented the Singularity and we were now their subject race. If we refused to serve them, they punished us until we accepted their mastery. They have conquered, they boast, half the known multiverse, and are destined to conquer the rest. Fearless Frank Force is their greatest ace. But nobody knows or understands the loyalties of the Merchant Venturer, Pearl Pern, whom he loves to distraction. His love is not returned. Pearl’s passion is for Bullybop alone. And Bullybop is a thorn in the side of the Singularity. Nobody is sure of her secret identity. Honor demands that Frank Force issue no challenge to his rival, yet Bullybop is marked by the Singularity as an outlaw. Here now is the moral conundrum we must solve before we can proceed along a further branch. There is a road, after all, Rose. There are many roads. And crossroads. I can sense them. We can choose some which exist or we can create our own. But there's a formula, I know, and I must learn it.”

The trio walk on some more, Paul recounting that they were told they represented the Singularity and they were now their subject race. If they refused to serve them, they punished them until they accepted their mastery. They’ve conquered half the known multiverse and are destined to conquer the rest or so they say. Frank Force’s their greatest ace but nobody knows or understands the loyalties of Pearl Peru whom he loves to distract but his love’s unrequited who instead loves Bullybop, a thorn in the side of the Singularity. There’s some major love triangle issues and there’s now a moral conundrum they must solve before they can proceed along a further branch in a road among many roads and crossroads that he can sense. They can choose some which exist or they can create their own but there’s a formula he knows and he must learn it.

“This mania came over one of my men the first time we ever passed through Poker Flats." Paul Minct was cheerfully dismissive of the Rose's fears. “They either recover or they don't. In the end we had to shoot Peter Agoubi, poor chap. Lead on, Mrs. von Bek. I'll take care of Mr. Oakenhurst."
“It will pass,” she said. “He will regain control of himself soon, I am sure." For my sake, Sam, if not your own!
This demand brought him, within a reasonable period, back to his senses, but his lasting emotion was of loss, as if he had been close to the secret logic of the multiverse and able, like her, to navigate a purposeful course through those quasi-realities. He could not make himself throw away his scenarios. He buried them deep at the bottom of his knapsack.
“It's unflattering to have a V character for a rival." She pretended amusement. They had found some good beds in a ghost town about a hundred kays from San Augustine. She indulged her weariness, her poor temper. “What is the actuality of this Pearl Peru? She sailed by accident through the Cloud of Saffron and that made her a heroine?"
In any circumstances Sam Oakenhurst would have decided that it was impolitic to show admiration for a character with whom the Rose seemed to be on intimate terms and whom she disliked. Such experiences were not, he told himself, helping his sense of identity. Once he caught himself yearning for the familiarity of the machinoix shutterbox.
Those people were real, he knew. But what he had experienced as myth, she had experienced as history. He vowed that he must never lose her. He was prepared to change most of his life for her. His curiosity about her was as great as his love. Now, he thought, they are impossible to separate. Our shoots are interwound. Our luck is the same. We are of the Just. . . He had a moment's understanding that he had given up his own madness in favor of hers. What had he accepted?
You are sworn to this, she reminded him. From now you must accept only what / determine as the truth. You will survive no other way. Any independent decision of yours could result in my death. You know this, Sam. You have dealt the hands. Now you must play my game, or we are both dead.
This is new to me, he said.
Play it anyway.

Mania comes over one of Paul’s man as they pass through Poker Flats for the first time, Paul stating they either recover or don’t. Rose thinks Sam will recover soon for their sake which he does but he feels only loss as if he’d been close to the multiverse’s secret logic and able to navigate a purposeful course through those quasi-realities like Rose. She says it’s unflattering to have a V character for a rival and asks about Pearl Peru’s actuality. Sam notices that Rose doesn’t much like a character he admires which threatens his sense of self. He thinks those characters real but what he experienced was myth but she felt history. Sam feels an inseparable connectivity to Rose, their luck now the same and becoming one of the Just. It’s then that Rose tells Sam that he follows her for any independent act he makes could result in her death, so he’s dealt the hands and now must play her game despite it being new to him.

The Rose begged him to rally. “It seems Mr. Minct does intend to sail into the Fault. Yet why would he insist on your finding us a meat boat?” (Paul Minct had commissioned Sam Oakenhurst to approach the machinoix.) “Does he want us alive when he goes in?” Both agreed that Paul Minct had needed more partners only after Swift Thorn had stirred some memory. “How does he plan to kill us?” Sam wondered. “Perhaps he will not kill me until he has made sure of you, Rose. And you are necessary to him, I think. He knows you can help him.”
“But you, too, are necessary if he is to get the meat boat. You heard him insist. It must only be a meat boat. Has anyone ever volunteered to sail on such a boat?”
“It is forbidden,” said Sam Oakenhurst. “He knows it is.”
“Then he demands of you a complex betrayal. Is this how he would weaken us?" The Rose began to brush her exquisite hair. “Who would you betray?”
“Not you,” he said. “Not myself. Nothing I value.”
“Betray the machinoix and surely you betray yourself. You have explained all this to me. And in betraying yourself you must betray me. How will you resolve this? It is a problem worthy of Fearless Frank Force.”
She seemed to be mocking him.
“A moral conundrum,” she added.
There was a knock on their cabin door. A kiddikin bringing Mr. Minct’s compliments and looking forward to the pleasure of their company in a game of “Anvils and Pins.”
“I have earned your sarcasm, I know,” Sam Oakenhurst said. "But I am still willing to learn from you. What will you teach me, Rose?”
"You will learn that it is, space and time, always a question of scale.” She touched his lips. “Meanwhile you must continue to risk your life. And you are sworn to serve me, are you not?”
“On my honor,” he insisted.
"You must draw upon your archetype.” The Rose took his hand. Tonight her skin resembled fine, delicately shaded petals softly layered upon her sturdy frame. “I have lost my home and must destroy the man who robbed me of it. We are only barely related as species, you and I, but it is Time and Scale which separate us, Sam. In the ether we embrace metamorphosis. You and I, Sam, understand the dominant law of the multiverse. We are ruled by multiplying chance. But we need not be controlled by it. I knew Paul Minct in another guise. Now, I think, he clearly remembers me. He can always recall a weapon, that one, if not a woman. This pair, these shadows, are an afterthought. His interest in the Fault could be secondary now. First he must deal with us, for we threaten his existence. Perhaps he is afraid to let us reach the Fault with him, lest he be cheated of whatever it is he has schemed for? Believe me, Sam, Paul Minct will be giving us his full attention for the next few days. These others, they are scarcely real, merely ‘1st and 2nd Murderers.’”

Paul seems to want to sail into the Fault yet he asked Sam find a meat boat, Rose pondering if he wants them alive when they go in. Both agree that Paul needed more partners only after her sword had stirred some memory with Sam asking how he plans to kill them, thinking he might not kill am until he’s made sure of Rose as she’s necessary to him but so is Sam if he’s to get the meat boat. Rose wonders if his little betrayal scheme is how he’ll weaken them and wonders who he’ll betray but Sam promises he won’t betray Rose or anything he values but Rose adds that if he betrays the machinoix, he betrays himself and asks how he’s gonna resolve the moral conundrum. Paul starts another game and Sam’s still willing to learn form Rose and she tells him that he’ll learn that space & time is always a question of scale while he must continue to risk his life for her. Rose tells am that he must draw upon his archetype. She lost her home and must kill the man who destroyed it. They’re barely related as species but it is Time and Scale which separate her and Sam. In the ether, they embrace metamorphosis. They understand the multiverse’s dominant law, being ruled by multiplying chance but they need not be controlled by it. She knew Paul in another guise and now, she thinks he remembers her, always able to recall a weapon if not a woman. His interest in the Fault could be secondary now for he must first deal with him as they threaten his existence. Perhaps he’s afraid to let them reach the Fault with him lest he be cheated of whatever it is he’s schemed for.

“We have agreed a common principle, my dears.” Paul Minct seemed a little sanctimonious. “And must stick to the rules we form here tonight. Or we shall be lost.”
"Do we need to be reminded of that?" Sam Oakenhurst was irritable as he studied the bowl, finding some strands on the screen he could use. He wove a showy, challenging gambit. Planets and their histories formed and died.
“We are a team, Mr. Oakenhurst." Paul Minct seemed pleased by this offhand display. “We can afford no weak links. No, as it were, anti-socialism." Sam Oakenhurst guessed the fat man had found a tune which he must now rehearse for a while. Mr. Minct searched under his veil and plucked at his hideous jowls.
Unusually alert, Sam Oakenhurst studied Paul Minct's companions and detected a tremor of victorious malice in Major Moyra’s face. The Rose's warning was confirmed. Certain of his allies, Paul Minct was celebrating a premature triumph.
It will be on board the meat boat. That has always featured in his scenario, I think. I don’t know why, save that he follows a personal aesthetic. Her shoulders set as if to disguise anxiety, Mrs. von Bek gave her own attention to the bowls and began a detailed weaving, a story of a planet and its doom, a wonderful miniature. Sam Oakenhurst understood that now she, too, had issued a challenge to Paul Minct. These were the gentle beginnings, the courteous preliminaries of the game.
Upon Mr. Minct’s irrational insistence they began the first stage of their simulation, producing a reasonable version of the Biloxi Fault and some sort of boat in which to brave these self-created dangers. “Now we sail into Mustard Splash!" declared Paul Minct, their captain. “These murky walls will part, thus!” A magician, he revealed the blinding azure of a vast color field. “We shall follow a river—thus—’’ A hazier network of silver streams which, with his characteristic crudity, he turned into one wide road: “This line will respond to the meat boat's unique geometry. And now we must do our best, dear friends, and make the most of our creative imaginations, for our quest lies even beyond the fields of color—to find eternal life, limitless wealth! There one shall come into one’s true power at last!”

Paul sets the rules that they must stick to or they’ll be lost though Sam gets annoyed by that reminder as he looks in the bowel, finding some strands on the screen he could use, weaving a showy, challenging gambit as planets and their histories formed and died. Paul insists they’re a team so they can afford no weak links or anti-socialism. As the game starts, Sam senses a tremor of victorious malice in Moyra’s face, the Rose validated as Paul was celebrating a premature win. They get on the meat boat but Rose is anxious, giving her own attention to the bowls and beginning a detailed weaving, a story of a planet and its doom, a wonderful miniature. Sam understood that now she issued a challenge to Paul too as a preliminary to the game. Paul begins the first stage of their simulation, creating a reasonable version of the Fault and some sort of a boat in which to brave those self-created dangers. We see then that Paul is now the captain leading the boat into the Fault, now saying the line will respond to the meat boat’s unique geometry and now they must do their bests and make the most of their creative imaginations for their quest lies even beyond the fields of color to find eternal life, limitless wealth and there shall one come into their true power at last.

Later, in their cabin, Sam Oakenhurst and the Rose agreed that the exercise had been a complicated sham, a violent and exhausting process with no other purpose, as far as they could tell, than to display Paul Minct’s artistic skills. “That was not the Fault,” she said. “Merely a surface impression and a bad projection. It was an arcadium, no more. Almost an insult. I wonder why? To convince us? To confuse us? To terrify us? He knows in his heart what truly lies beyond the Fault.”
They were lying together on the wide bed, the light from the swamp-cone turning her brown skin into semi-stable green and giving her face a deep flush. “He still needs our good will, Sam. He had expected your challenge no more than had I.”
It had hardly been a challenge. Mr. Oakenhurst, hyped on the sensations of his reunion, had merely wished to show that he no longer feared Paul Minct. He had risked their lives on a vulgar display and now admitted it.
She began to laugh with quiet spontaneity. “I have a feeling he did not care to notice, anyway. He was preparing his talents for his demo. Let that hand ride for a while, Sam, and we’ll see what happens.”
He marveled at her beauty, the peerless texture of her skin, her natural, sweet scent, the ever-changing colors of her flesh, and he knew that his feeling for her was stronger than his bond with the machinoix. Stronger than with his own species.
“We are defenseless if he decides to kill us before the meat boat leaves,” he said. “I’m pretty scared, Rose.”
“The best way to get out of trouble is to take a risk based on your judgment. You know that, Sam.” Her touch was a petal on his thigh. “Take another risk. An informed one, this time. Make a change. What can you ever lose? Not me, Sam.”
She began to notice the tiny, symmetrical marks on his stomach, like stylized tears of blood.
He refused to tell her what they were.

Later in the cabin, Sam and Rose agree that the exercise was a complex sham, a violent and exhausting process with no other point, as far as they can tell, than to display Paul Minct’s artistic skills. That wasn’t the Fault but a surface level impression and a bad projection. She wonders why he did that, maybe to convince, confuse or terrify them. Paul knows what really lies beyond the Fault. Despite that, he still needs their good will, not expecting their challenge though it hardly was one. Am only wished to how he’s no longer afraid of Paul, risking their lives in vulgar display but Paul didn’t care to notice, preparing his talents for his demo. They’re defenseless if he decides to kill them before the meat boat leaves which scares Sam. The best way out is to take a risk based on his judgment so Rose tells Sam to take another risk, an informed one and make a change since he can’t lose her but she notices some strange markings on his stomach.

“Paul Minct must have some understanding of this. Does he think he can force them to divert the boat and sail into the Fault?” The Rose shook her head.
“Whether or not he plans to enter the Fault, he is without doubt planning to trap us. He cannot see how we can escape and is happy to take his time. Yet why should he go to such lengths to kill you, Rose?”
“What did he do to you that you must punish him?” Sam Oakenhurst asked.
“He educated me to betray myself and thus to betray my people.” She spoke softly, economically, as if she could not trust her voice for long. “The story I gave at Brown’s was true.”
“And these other stories? Are they true? What we saw at Poker Flats?”
“Myths,” she said. “True enough. They describe the truth.”
“And what does Paul Minct describe?”
“Only lies, Sam.”
With hideous dignity the whitey bowed and left the cabin.

Rose thinks Paul intends to force the Machinoix to divert the boat and sail into the Fault but whether or not he plans to enter the Fault, he’s planning to trap them. He can’t see how they can escape so he’s happy to take his time yet he’s going to such lengths to kill Rose. Sam asks what he did to her that she must kill him and she alludes to the story she gave at Brown’s but those other stories at Poker rFlats were myths that were true enough to describe the truth while Paul’s just lying.

“We were called the daughters of the Garden, the daughters of the Just,” she told him. "We reproduced ourselves by the occasional effort of will. We understood the principles of self-similarity. I suppose you would call it an instinct. There is no particular miracle in being, as we were, part flora, part mammal. Such syntheses are common to the worlds I usually inhabit. Paul Minct made me cross so many scales and forget so many lives to reach him. The stories are always a little different. But this time, I think, we shall achieve some kind of resolution.”
"Surely, we are something more than mere echoes .. . ?” Yet even as he said this Sam Oakenhurst felt oppression lifting from him and a rare peace replacing it. In combination with what the machinoix had given him, he found still more strength. He had reached a kind of equilibrium. At that moment nothing was puzzling. But was this merely an illusion of control? What she had told him should have dismayed him. Had her madness completely absorbed him?
“Our science was the science of equity,” she continued. “We were the natural enemies of all tyrannies, no matter how well disguised. Our world occupied a universe of flowers: blossoms and leaves were woven between blooms the size of planets. Paul Minct allied himself with a devolved race whom we knew as the Bab Bab and these he ultimately unleashed upon our world. Just before he committed that crime he was my lover and I taught him all our secrets.”
“And your sisters.”
“Our whole universe was raped. I am the last of it.”
Until then Sam Oakenhurst had been unable to imagine a burden greater than his own.

Rose explains they were called The Garden’s daughters, The Just’s daughters, reproducing themselves by will. They understood the principles of self-similarity, supposing one would call it an instinct. There’s no particular miracle in being, as they were, part flora, part mammal. Such syntheses are common to the worlds Rose usually inhabits. Paul made her cross so many scales and forget so many lives to reach him, the stories always a little different but that time, they shall resolve some resolution she believes. Sam thinks they’re something more than mere echoes yet even as he said that, Sam felt oppression lifting from him and a rare peace replacing it. In combination with what the Machinoix had given him, he found more strength still, reaching a kind of equilibrium. At that moment, nothing was puzzling but he asks if that’s just an illusion of control. What she’d told him should’ve dismayed him and wonders if her insanity completely absorbed him. Their science was that of equity, natural enemies of all tyrannies, no matter how well disguised. Their world occupied a universe of flowers, blossoms and leaves woven between blooms the size of planets. Paul allied himself with a devolved race whom they knew as the Bab Bab and those he ultimately unleashed upon their world. Just before he committed that crime, he was Rose’s lover and she taught him all their secrets. Due to all that, Rose’s whole universe was destroyed and she’s the last of it.

“We are playing charades, do you see!” Paul Minct's mask glittered with a kind of merriment. “Major Moyra is in the part of Little Fanny Fun, while Manly Mark Male is played by our own dashing Jasmine Shah! But who shall play the rival? Who shall play Handsome Harry Ho-Ho? You know this one, Mr. Oakenhurst, I'm sure.”
“Those tales no longer fascinate me, Mr. Minct.” Sam Oakenhurst stood just within the cabin door. The three would-be murderers had pushed away furniture and draperies and made a stage of a broad, ebony table, its legs carved with a catalogue of machinoix delights. It was on this that the two performed, while their superior applauded from an asymmetrical couch he had made comfortable with the sanctuary's afterlife cushions.
“This is disrespectful to your hosts.”
“Oh, Mr. Oakenhurst, we shall not be going back to New Orleans! We're on our way to the Fault to find the Holy Grail, remember?” Major Moyra bawled in open contempt and unhitched her gaudy skirts.
The Rose stepped up, anxious to end this: “Crude entertainment for a mind such as yours, Paul Minct. Or is this merely a leitmotif?”
“You are too judgmental, Mrs. von Bek.” Paul Minct turned his glaring mask this way and that as if he could barely see through the holes. “You must be more flexible. Only flexibility will enable you to survive the perils of the Fault. Come now, join our little time passer. Choose a character of your own. Pearl Peru? The Spammer Gain? Corporal Pork? Karl Kapital?”
“I have nothing further to take from this,” said Sam Oakenhurst. “And nothing to put in. Play on, pards, and don’t mind me.”
“Play for the hell of it, then!” Jasmine Shah sprawled her painted legs over the table. “Play. Play. What else is there to do, Mr. Oakenhurst?” Her yellow eyes were sluggish with guilty appetites. His anticipated death was making her salivate. “Taste something fresh.”
The killing ritual was beginning. And so they sat obediently until they were called and Mr. Oakenhurst was a somewhat wooden Harry Ho-Ho, while the Rose became Pearl Peru to the life, telling the first tale of The Spammer Gain and how her fishlings were stolen. Enough to distract Paul Minct a little and make him clap his pale hands together. “You are a natural actress, Mrs. von Bek. You missed your vocation.”
“I think not,” she said.
“There, pards, we've proved ourselves easy sports,” announced Sam Oakenhurst, “but now we must come to business. We are here to discuss the part of our plan where we take over the meat boat. Are the whiteys bribed, yet?” Mr. Oakenhurst again found himself speaking from impulse. His tone was sufficient to let the enmascarado know that Sam Oakenhurst was making a call.
“Not yet,” said Paul Minct easily. “There’s time enough, Mr. Oakenhurst. Let us relax.”
“We no longer accept you as our director.” The Rose swung down from the table as Paul Minct, gloating in a supposed small victory, displayed his surprise. But he recovered quickly.
“Here's a better game than I anticipated.” Mr. Minct calmed his two shadows with a casual hand. They were both thoroughly alarmed. Evidently they had not considered a play made at the opponents' convenience.
Caged light, fluttering in the woven flambeaux, cast the only movement on Mr. Minct now. His body was as still as stone. As if he hoped to stop time.
“This is not like you, Mr. Oakenhurst.” The Rose was amused.
“Not like me at all.” He turned to address the enmascarado. “A surprise play, eh, Mr. Minct?”
Eyes moved like quick reptiles behind the mask. The curtain over the mouth rattled. “Just so, Mr. Oakenhurst.”
Sam Oakenhurst hardly knew what to do next. He felt a rush of elation. He was in control of his terrors.

Paul and his gang are playing charades with Moyra playing Little Fanny Fun, Manly Mark Male’s played by Jasmine Shah while Paul tries to get Sam to play Handsome Harry Ho-Ho but those tales no longer fascinate Sam. The trio get irritated at Sam and asks if they’re not going back to New Orleans since they’re on their way to the Fault to find the Holy Grail. Rose is anxious to end it, calling Paul out on his strange entertainment but Paul blows her off. He tells them they must be more flexible for that will enable them to survive the Fault’s perils. He asks they choose a character of their own like Pearl Peru, Spammer Gain, Corporal Pork or Karl Kapital. Sam’s got nothing further to take from that or put in so he asks they play on and not mind him but they insist Sam play too as he fears he may die at Shah’s hand. Sam ends up playing Harry Ho-Ho while Rose becomes Pearl Peru to the life, telling the first tale of The Spammer Gain and how her fishlings were stolen, enough to distract Paul a little. Sam compliments the parts but they came to discuss the part of their plan where they take over the meat boat and asks if the whiteys were bribed but not yet. Paul asks Sam wait and relax but the duo can no longer accept him as their director which surprises Paul, giving a better game than he anticipated. Paul starts acting weird as his body’s still as tone and hoping time has stopped which Rose notices with Paul noting he did a surprise play. The game is back on though Sam hardly knows what to do next but he feels exhilarated.

It had never been in Sam Oakenhurst’s nature to decide the first move. Paul Minct had relied on that knowledge while certain the Rose would not make a play before Mr. Oakenhurst. But now, equally unpredictably, Paul Minct produced the little OK9 he had once recommended to Mrs. von Bek and he took a step back to cover them both. “This is not my style, either, as you know. But I'm willing to change if you are. That's the basis of a relationship, as I tell my wife. No wands now, Mrs. von Bek. This beam is wide and I will resort to brute murder if I must. I have a vocation to fulfill. An oath.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the Rose in surprise. “This one has a conscience!”
“I had such hopes for your death, Mrs. von Bek. Mr. Oakenhurst would have appreciated what I made of you. We have a little time before we prepare the sacrifice. Not much, but we must use the best of what God sends us.” He signalled to Major Moyra and Jasmine Shah. Then suddenly he was still again, as if stabbed.
“That is the man,” said Sam Oakenhurst to the machinoix. “He is not my friend.” He watched incuriously as one oddly jointed jewelled hand closed over Paul Minct's wrist and squeezed the gun free while fingers felt through the beads deep into Minct's mouth and throat.
Rose von Bek looked away from Paul Minct and, with Swift Thorn, brought Major Moyra and Jasmine Shah merciful deaths. In the last moments the game had been unpleasantly easy as often happens in a spontaneous endmove. When the Rose looked back she saw that Paul Minct had been returned to his seat. He was not dead, but his cold eyes begged for her mercy. The rest of him had been expertly snapped here and there. He was little more than a heap of broken bones but he would live indefinitely.
Mr. Oakenhurst bowed low before his invisible kin.
The voice which came from the folds of drapery behind the table was musical but oddly diffident. “We shall put those two with the other meat.” There was a long pause, then: “The broken one is yours, if you wish.”
“Thank you,” said the Rose.
“No thankings, no,” said the machinoix. “Not need. I am the same. Same. You. You.”

It’s never been in Sam’s nature to make the first move but Paul relied on that info while certain Rose wouldn’t make a play before Sam yet equally unpredictably, Paul got the OK9 he once recommended to Rose and he took a step back to cover them both. That’s not his style either but he’s willing to change if they are. That’s the basis of a relationship as he told his wife so no wands now for the beam’s wide and he’ll resort to brutal murder if he must. He’s got an oath to fulfill which surprises Rose since he has a conscience it seems but Paul replies that he had such hopes for her death and Sam would’ve appreciated what he made of her. They have a little time before they prepare the sacrifice and they must use the best of what God sent. Moyra and Shah are signaled and he’s frozen again, as if stabbed. Sam tells the Machinoix that Paul’s the man as it restrains him by the neck and squeezes the gun free. Rose looks away from Paul and uses her sword to kill Moyra and Shah. In the game’s last moments, it had been disturbingly easy as often happened in a spontaneous endmove. Whe Rose looked back she saw that Paul had been returned to his seat, still alive but begging for her mercy. He’s little more than a heap of broken bones but he’d live indefinitely. The Machinoix says they shall put those two with the other meat while Paul is hers if she wishes.

Sam Oakenhurst stepped aside to let the whiteys drag the corpses off. “Nature resists linearity. Why didn't you understand that, Paul Minct? What was your plan? What did you intend to sacrifice and to whom?" Approaching the couch he reached to Paul Minct's head and touched it in a certain way, allowing the lips to move.
“The meat was for the Fault." His suffering made Paul Minct obedient now. "The Fault is a sentient creature. Five times I fed it. This sixth time was to bring me my reward, for I would be sacrificing the Rose, my mortal enemy, body and soul! And what rarer sacrifice? The Rose is both the last and the first of her kind. Then I should have been permitted to sail through the golden branches into the Great Cup and know my whole power!"
“You must tell me the truth," she said. “It will make me more merciful. How did you plan to take over the boat?”
“I placed no faith in bribes or whitey revolt. I simply made adjustments to the steering gear. That is why this boat is now on inevitable course for the Fault, under full sail. We shall keep our original bargain, ma’am. But you never did confront me, Sam. Not really."
Mr. Oakenhurst silenced Paul Minct’s mouth. The man’s bravery was more impressive than his judgment. “We are to be your sacrifices, still? I think not. Eh, Mrs. von Bek?"
The Rose frowned at him. “It is either the Fault or drown. Have you no curiosity, Sam?”
“There are innocent lives in this!”
“They will not die, Sam. That’s merely a conception of the Singularity. You have already discovered the benefits of mutability. The Fault will either translate us or reject us, but it will not kill us. And there’s every chance we’ll remain together. We must have the will for it and the courage to follow our instincts.”
“I must return to New Orleans,” said Mr. Oakenhurst. “There's a debt outstanding.” He looked with hatred into Paul Minct's agonized eyes.
Again, he began to doubt his judgment. What good had his decisions been now they were heading helplessly into the Biloxi Fault? He turned to ask her how much time she thought they had, when the whitey bos'un shuffled down the companionway and crossed to the door, kneeling with bowed head before Sam Oakenhurst and the Rose and not speaking until Mr. Oakenhurst gave permission.
“Respectfully, master, our meat boat is about to be a-swallered by the Biloxi Fault.”

Sam says that nature resists linearity which Paul refuses to get. Sam asks what his plan was, who he intended to sacrifice and to whom. The meat was die the Fault for its a sentient creature. Five times he fed it and the sixth time was to bring him a reward when he sacrificed Rose, his mortal enemy, body and soul. None rarer than her exist as she’s the last and first of her kind. That done, he should’ve been able to sail through the golden branches into the Great Cup and know his whole power. Rose asks how he’d plan to take over the boat and he placed no faith in bribes or whitey revolt. He simply made adjustments to the steering gear and that’s why the boat’s on an inevitable course for the Fault under full sail. Sam’s amused by this but Rose says it’s either the Fault or drown but Sam says there’s innocent lives involved though Rose says they won’t die. The Singularity conceived of that and Sam has already discovered mutability’s benefits. The Fault will either translate or reject them but it won’t kill them and there’s every chance they’ll remain together. They need only the will for it and the courage to follow their instincts. Sam cowardly says he must return to New Orleans for a debt he has. He doubts his judgment, asking what good his decisions have been now that they were heading helplessly into the Fault. He wants to know how much time she thought they had but they’re interrupted by a whitey telling them that their meat boat’s about to be eaten by the Fault.

“Remember!” she called, as she followed him up the narrow ladders towards the bridge. “It is only a matter of scale and experience. You are not a fraction of the whole. You are a version of the whole! Time will seem to eddy and stall. This is scale. Everything is sentient, but scale alters perception. The time of a tree is not your time.” It was as if she shouted to him all she had meant to teach him before this moment. “To the snail the foot which comes from nowhere and crushes him is as natural a disaster as a hurricane; it cannot be appealed to and is impossible to anticipate. The time of a star is not our time. Equity is the natural condition of the multiverse. There are things to fear in the color fields, but not the fields themselves! Remember, Sam, we are God in miniature!”

Rose asks that he remember for its only a matter of scale and experience. He’s not a fraction of the whole but a version of the whole. Time will seem to eddy and stall but that’s scale. Everything is sentient but scale alters perception. The time of a tree is not his time. To the snail the foot which comes from nowhere and crushed him is as natural a disaster as a hurricane. It can’t be appealed to and is impossible to anticipate. The time of a star’s not their time. Equity’s the natural condition of the multiverse. There are things to fear in the Color Fields but not the fields themselves for they are God in miniature.

Now he was on the top deck, heading for the bridge. The vast black sails bulged overhead as the freak wind took them more rapidly towards the Fault than ever Paul Minct had planned. The massive presence of the Biloxi Fault filled their horizon, all bruised colors and sharded light, yelping and gulping the ruins of star systems and galaxies as the meat boat sailed inexorably towards the lava-red glow of Ketchup Cove.
“I will remember all your lessons!" He took the wheel from the terrified whitey, but it would not respond to his straining movements. The boat dipped and rose on a sudden tide while the wind threatened to tear the sheets from her masts. “Help me," he said, as the whitey ran below. She came towards him. Then something soft had batted the meat boat into the middle of the bloody, blossoming field. Yet the vessel maintained her original momentum, travelling steadily under sail. They could see nothing but the surrounding scarlet. When they spoke their voices were unfamiliar and used new but coherent languages. Sam Oakenhurst felt his stomach peeling open, his entire flesh and bone skinless to the flame. He fell backwards.
He tried to look up beyond the sails and saw something moving against the scarlet. A huge owl. He shuddered.
Now the Rose had her hands upon the useless wheel. Mammalian only in broad outline, she appeared to curl her limbs and cast roots into the steering machinery, as if seeking the whereabouts of Paul Minct's tamperings. Her scent enraptured him. It was thicker than smoke. Something vicious and insistent threatened nearby and was dangerous, some version of Paul Minct. The Rose pulled mightily on the wheel and this time the meat boat responded, gliding into a sudden field of blue populated with the black silhouettes of mountains shifting constantly in perspective, and then descending into a maelstrom of purple and white, soaring into field upon field of the vast spectrum, turning and wheeling until Sam Oakenhurst had to take his eyes from her to lean over the side and throw up into an infinity of lemon yellow spheres and witness his own vomit becoming another universe in which uncountable souls would live, suffer and die until the end of time, while the sounds that he made would eventually be interpreted by them as evidence of a Guiding Principle.
The Rose was laughing. Sam Oakenhurst had never seen a creature so filled with joy, with the rage of risk and skill which marked the greatest jugadors. He had never known a creature so daring, so wise. And it seemed to him that some new strength bound him to her, through all the color-flooded fields of the multi verse. And then she began to sing.
The beauty of her song was almost unbearable. At once he started to weep and his tears were blinding quicksilver. It was as if she had summoned a wind and the wind was her voice calling to him.
“Look up, Sam! There, beyond the color fields! It’s the Grail, Sam. It's the great Grail itself!”
But when, his eyes now clear of tears, Sam Oakenhurst looked up all he saw was a lattice of light, like roots and branches, twisting around them on every side, a kind of nest made of curled gold and silver rays. And through this, with happy ease, the Rose steered the machinoix meat boat. Her hair was wild around her head, like flames; her limbs a haze of petals and brambles; and her song seemed to fill the multiverse.
The meat boat was a fat brazen lizard crawling over the surfaces of the vast fields, following the complex river systems which united them, replenished them, blending with new multi-hued mercury fractures running through a million dimensions and remaking themselves, fold upon fold, scale upon scale, until they merged again with the great main trunks, ancient beyond calculation, where (legend insisted) they would find the final scale and return, as was their destiny, to their original being: reunited with their archetype; no longer echoes. "And this shall be called the Time of Conference,” said the Rose, bringing the meat boat down into a clover field of white and green. "The Time of Reckoning. That, Sam, is the fate of the Just.”
He had managed to reach her and now sat at her feet with his arms around the stem of the wheel. He watched her as a new force took hold of the boat. A sudden stench came up from the holds, as if something had ruptured. She struggled with the wheel. He tried to help her. She sang to whatever elements would hear her but she was suddenly powerless. She shook her head and gestured for him to relax. There was nothing more they could do.
“We can't go any further now, Sam,” she said. "We're not ready, I guess.”
“Not yet. No, no, no. The offering first . . . “
Turning with sudden recollection they saw oddly shaped jewelled hands disappearing below. How long had the machinoix been with them?
“She must be close to death,” said Sam Oakenhurst.
“Can you help her?” asked the Rose.
It was only then that they saw the shapeless ruin of Paul Minct, its upturned mask a blazing battle- ground of brands, its eyes enlivened at last with the fires of hell.
He heard the sound of a tide as it retreated from the shore and he smelled the salt, the oily air of the coast. He opened his eyes. The boat was gone.
Eventually his vision adjusted. He understood what had happened. He lay on his side in the water, as if left there by a wave. A little above him, on the beach, the Rose was calling his name. "Sam! The Fault has taken the meat boat.”
“Maybe Paul Minct achieved his ambition?” Away in the distance were the tranquil skies which marked the Biloxi Fault. Mr. Oakenhurst turned onto his back. He began to get to his feet. He shuddered at the state of his clothing and was glad there were no witnesses to their coming ashore. The Rose appeared unaffected by their adventure. Taking his hand she waded briskly through the shallows and brought them up to the tufted dunes. A light wind blew the sand in rivulets through the grass.
“The meat boat was accepted and we were not. Whose sacrifice?” She pointed. “See! We have Biloxi that way. New Orleans the other! We shall go to the Terminal, Sam. I have a purpose there.”
“I cannot go there yet,” he told her. “I must go to New Orleans. Is it too much for me to leam? Too much that is novel and incomprehensible?”
“Ah, no, Sam. You already know it in your bones. Come on to Biloxi, mon brave. Later, maybe, you go to New Orleans, when I can come with you.” Standing there against the yellow dunes, her hair still wild, a red haze in the wind, human in form but radiating the quintessence of the rose, all its exquisite beauty, Mrs. von Bek made no indirect attempt to persuade him, either by gesture or word, and for that he loved her without reserve.
“You must go alone to Biloxi,” he said. “There is a price for our salvation and I return to New Orleans to pay it.”
“Oh, don't go, Sam.” Clearly she found this request almost distasteful, though she had to make it. “Are you sure there is nothing more to this than your own addiction?”
“On my honor, I swore to help you. On my honor, I must keep my bargain with those who helped me fulfill that pledge to you.”
She accepted this in silence, but it seemed to him that he had wounded her or that she disbelieved him.
He said more softly: “I will meet you at the Terminal. It is not my life I owe them, but my respect. I must acknowledge their sacrifice. Courageously they defied their most powerful taboos to do what I asked of them. And here we are, Rose. Alive, thanks to their courage.”
“And ours, Sam. I would return with you now, but I, too, am bound to a promise. If I lived after my business with Mr. Minct I said I would deliver a message to Mr. Jack Karaquazian at the Terminal Cafe. So I must make my way there and, yes, I will wait for you, Sam, at least until the boredom grows intolerable.” She smiled. “Then I will come and find you. Yes, I will meet you again, whenever our luck will have it so. Then, I hope, you will want to come with me, beyond the color fields, beyond the universe known as The Grail, to the wonders of the Second Ether, where plurality forever holds sway. There you will discover what it is to be jugadors and paramours! What it is to be alive! There's more than me in this for you, Sam.” Her lips released a sigh.
"Well,” he said. "I think you will not forget me, Rose. You know who I am.”
“By and large, Sam.” She turned away.
As he put the Rose, the ocean, and the dunes at his back and took the broken old road up towards Louisiana, her voice returned to him on the wind.
“Ma romance, nouvelle romance. Ma romancier, muy necromancier. Ma histoire, muy histoire nouvelle. Joli boys all dansez. Joli boys all dansez. Sing for me, ole, ole. But they shall not have muy vieux carre. Joli garpon sans merci. Pauvre pierrot, mon vieux, mon brave. Petit pierrot, mon sweet savage. Le monde est fou. El mundo c’est moi.”
There was to be a final miracle: it seemed to him that the distant yell of the Biloxi Fault took fresh harmonics from the Rose's song and amplified and modified it until for a while a vast unearthly orchestra played the old tune, told the old story of lies and truth, of betrayals and sacrifices, of quests and oaths, of love and loss and resolutions that are not always tragic. The old story, which is echoed by our own.

The freak winds blow the ship towards the Fault even more rapidly than Paul expected. The Fault’s massive presence filled their horizon, vomiting the ruins of star systems and galaxies as the meat boat sailed towards it. Sam promises to remember all her lessons, taking the wheel but it wouldn’t respond to his straining movements. The wind picks up, tearing the sheets from the boat’s masts. Sam asks for Rose’s help but then something soft bats the meat boat into the middle of the bloody, blossoming field yet the ship maintains her speed, traveling steadily under sail. They couldn’t see anything but nearby red, their voices changing and speaking new but coherent languages. Sam feels his stomach peeling open, his whole flesh and bone skinless to the flame as he falls back. As he gets back up, he sees a huge owl moving against the red. Rose puts her hands on the useless wheel, casting roots into steering machinery as if seeking the whereabouts of Paul’s tampering. Some vicious and insistent threatens them nearby, some version of Paul. Rose pulls mightily on the wheel and that time, the meat boat responds, gliding into a sudden blue field with black silhouettes of mountains shifting constantly in perspective and then descending into a maelstrom of purple and white, soaring into field upon field of the vast spectrum, turning and wheeling until Sam had to take his eyes form her to lean over the side and throw up into an infinity of lemon yellow spheres and witness his own vomit becoming another universes in which uncountable souls would live, suffer and die until the end of time while the sounds that he made would eventually be interpreted by them as evidence of a Guiding Principle. Rose laughs but Sam’s never seen a creature so filled with joy, with the rage of risk and skill which marked the greatest Jugadors, never knowing one so daring or wise and it seems to him that some new strength bound him to her through all the color-flooded fields of the multiverse and then she began to sing. She tells Sam to look up beyond the color fields at the Grail but when Sam looks up, all he sees is a light lattice like root and branches twisting around them on every side, a kind of nest made of curled gold and silver rays. Through that, Rose steers the Machinoix meat boat as she’s filled with energy and her song seems to fill the multiverse. The meat boat’s a fat brazen lizard crawling over the vast fields’ surfaces, following the complex river systems which united them, replenished them, blending with new multi-hued mercury fractures running through a million dimensions and remaking themselves, fold upon fold, scale upon scale, until they merged again with the great main trunks, ancient beyond calculation, where they would find the final scale and return to their original being as was their destiny, being reunited with their archetype, no longer echoes. Rose declare it the Time of Conference or Reckoning, the fate of the Just who gets tired out after she’s done singing her song but Sam reminds her of the offering. Sam notes that the boat’s close to death but Paul returns in a shapeless ruin but his boat’s eaten by the Fault. The duo wonder if Paul’s satisfied and why they weren’t accepted with Rose saying they should go to the Terminal. The two pat ways with Rose going on to meet Jack Karaquazian s she informs am about the universe known as the Grail and the Second Ether where plurality forever hold sway. It’s also said that the Fault amplified Rose’s song.

Having at last followed the swipling swarm through the unpredictable scales between planes and arrived at Ko-O-Ko, the Lost Universe, CAPTAIN BILLY-BOB BEGG and her famous CHAOS ENGINEERS are prevented from returning to the First or Second Ethers by the activities of AYESHA VON ABDUL, protectress of the Lost Universe, and her ruffianly slip- ling Corsair allies. Only seven other ships were successful in pursuing the swipling swarm all the way to Ko-O-Ko, including those of CAPTAIN QUELCH; of STERLING, Second Beast of the skipling folk; of ra, First Beast of the skimlings and of the parasiti- cally held renegade ship of big ball and his unwelcome ally KAPRIKORN SCHULTZ, Banker to the Homeboy Tong. Two other ships are known to have reached Ko-O-Ko, but are at present unaccounted for. Although Captain Billy-Bob has tried to warn Ayesha von Abdul that her army of sliplings means no good to the Lost Universe, the Protectress refuses to listen, even after she has declared her faith in the common Great Mood and found true love . . . There seems no saving her, but then Captain Quelch suggests a meeting between himself and Kaprikorn Schultz, with a view to taking control of the slipling horde and conquering Ko-O-Ko in the name of the Singularity. There is nothing for it, Captain Billy- Bob decides, but to attempt the dangerous maneuver known as the “scale-flip.”
Her crew of famous Chaos Engineers are unanimous. It will mean a wild dive through to the old Mars station and an attractor so familiar the ship might just flow to like and reorganize in natal space. It worked once before, in the tale of the Mandelbrot Sidestep, but everyone had known it was the purest luck, and it would be purest luck once again, should they survive. Captain Billy-Bob is about to give the order when suddenly, blotting the fore-screens, Captain Quelch’s The Linear Bee appears, casting a significant shadow into the equation. But can Captain Billy-Bob stop the progress in time?

Begg has finally followed the Swipling swarm through the scales between planes and arrived at Ko-O-Ko but she and her crew are prevented from returning to the First or Second Ethers by Ayesha, protectress of Ko-O-Ko, including those of Quelch, Sterling, Ra and Schultz. Two other ships are known to have reached Ko-O-Ko but are currently unaccounted for. Despite Begg trying to warn Ayesha that her Sliping army means no good to Ko-O-Ko, she refused to listen, even after she declared her faith in the Great Mood and found true love. Quelch suggests a meeting between himself and Schultz, the goal of taking control of the Slipling horde and conquering Ko-O-Ko in the name of the Singularity. Begg decides to attempt the dangerous move known as the “scale-flip.” It’ll mean a wild dive through to the old Mars station and an attractor so familiar the ship might just flow to like and reorganize in natal space. It worked once before, in the tale of the Mandelbrot Sidestep, but everyone had known it was the purest luck, and it would be purest luck again, should they survive. Begg’s about to give the order when suddenly, blotting the fore-screens, Quelch’s ship appears, casting a significant shadow into the equation but Begg may not be able to stop the progress in time.

Captain Billy-Bob Begg strides through the instrument conference carrying with her the shadows and dimensions of all her adventures. Some now argue she has skipling blood. Her outlines leap in and out of her surrounding aura—faces, shapes, colors, gestures, long forgotten. Her helmet boils with fractal dust normally left behind in any scale jump and she is contemptuous of disapproval (“They’ll never take me or my ship to Reality Dock!” she swears) as she bleeds her screen to her enemy's coordinates, so familiar she,makes no conscious computation. And there is the face of the Original Insect, whimsically superimposed upon the haggard, hatchet features of Captain Horace Quelch, still not entirely certain if he can afford to gloat just yet.
“Marm?”
“Horace!” burbs the revered Main Type of the Now The Clouds Have Meaning. “You’ll let us pass, I hope, for all our sakes.”
“Singularity is the only commonality I recognize, marm. I am never, I hope, ad utrumque paratus! I'll be obliged if ye’ll edge off this branchline and stick to ye'r own roads in future.”
“You’ve been tongue tickling with Kaprikom Schultz,” said Captain Billy-Bob with a dismissive eruption of a finger or two and her chief outline breaks into violent blue and yellow, then red and yellow, then pale green, alarming her enemy, who seems to shrink even from her image.
“There’s a string of sapphires I can do nothing about,” declares Quelch.
“Another trick of the Master Banker.” Pegarm Pete and Professor Pop crowd about their Main Type, while Jhong de Bhong plugs into his new chest and begins to spark urgently.
“Kaprikorn is the most respectable creature in the multiverse,” declares Captain Quelch with a gashy grin and his eyes blob red, through some genetic fluke, they would guess, rather than a blip of the screen’s 49.
“There’s twelve other patterns to this,” murmurs Professor Pop, passing his calculations to his Main Type. “He has considered eight. Those four are free. The one I have indicated gives us maximum roll, unfortunately.”
“A roll-and-fold maneuver, as I’d feared.” Captain Billy-Bob applauds their instruments and busies herself with the fussy metaphysics of the problem. “But have we any right to the luck we need?”
“We must pray,” says Pegarm Pete. “Faith, darling, and the confidence of the Just is all that can guide us now.” He refers to his Main Types secret Calling, for she is, indeed, one of the Just. It is her Faith, rather than her Luck, that these days her famous Engineers trust most.
"Very well,” she says suddenly, and bursts the crystal with a fierce, swift movement.
“You have blinded me!” roars her enemy.

Begg strides through instrument conference carrying with her the shadows and dimensions of all her adventures. Some now argue she has Skipling blood. Her outlines leap in and out of her surrounding aura and her helmet boils with fractal dust normally left behind in any scale jump and she insists they’ll never take her or her ship to Reality Dock as she bleeds her screen to her enemy’s coordinates, so familiar she makes no conscious computation and there’s the face of the Original Insect, whimsically superimposed upon the haggard, hatchet features of Quelch, still not entirely certain if he can afford to gloat just yet. Quelch’s ordered to let them pass for all their sakes but Singularity’s the only commonality he recognizes. He’s never at the ready but he’ll be obliged if they’ll edge off that branchline and stick to their own roads in the future. Begg rebuffs Quelch and her chief outline breaks into violent blue and yellow, then red and yellow, then pale green, alarming her enemy, who seems to shrink even from her image. There’s a string of sapphires Quelch can do nothing about but Schultz is immediately blamed while Pete and Pop crowd about their Main Type but Quelch declares Schultz the most respectable creature in the multiverse. Pop says there’s 12 other patterns to that and he’s considered eight while those four are free, the one he’s indicated gives them maximum roll. Begg fears a roll-and-fold move as she applauds her instruments and busies herself with the problem’s fussy metaphysics. She asks if they have any right to the luck they need. Pete tells them to pray for faith and the Just’s confidence is all that can guide them now, referring to his Main Type’s secret calling for she’s one of the Just. It’s her faith, rather than luck, that those days her Engineers trust most which she agrees to and blinds her enemy.

“Well pour rum on their rear-folds before you can peep claw-rat to a clam,’ ” boasts Kaprikom Schultz as he slips his stolen ship into a careless corkscrew guaranteed to bore into the heart of Ko-O-Ko and terrify the peaceful swiplings out of the all- protecting grid-nest. But he is still unaware of Dilly- Dee Begg, a stowaway, crawling even now through the nauseating gaps between the mighty walls of a Singularity Heavy Warper badly modified for folding and poorly maintained by Big Ball the renegade, who never planned to take her anywhere but into the Field of Indigo and make a living off the passing skimling trade. This is no retirement for an old creature, he complains, but by now he has been strapped into his brochette and glares moodily at the steel spike jutting upwards between his thickly scarred tentacles. "This is not pain, it is mere indignity.” He has noted the whispering presence of Dilly-Dee Begg and has not betrayed her. He returns to his B-screen and its repeated images of Big Ball devouring Kap- rikom Schultz of the Homeboy Tong. “Ah! Blood! Blood!”
But Kaprikorn Schultz turns suspicious glares on all his colleagues now, convinced that Captain Quelch has betrayed the original agreement. He is impatient with the sluggish controls and eventually explodes througbrthe hull, spreading his blue wings against the wide paleness of Ko-O-Ko, the Lost Universe, determined to discover and leech the Now The Clouds Have Meaning.
. . . While Dilly-Dee Begg wrestles with the ruined controls!

Schultz slips into a careless corkscrew certain to bore into the heart of Ko-O-Ko and terrify the peaceful Swiplings out of the all-protecting grid-nest but he’s still unaware of Dilly-Dee Begg, a stowaway, crawling through the nauseating gaps between the mighty walls of a Singularity Heavy Warper badly modified for folding and poorly maintained by Big Ball who never planned to take her anywhere but into the Field of Indigo and make a living off the passing Skimling trade. He’s been strapped into his brochette and remarks that’s not pain but indignity. He noted the whispering presence of Dilly-Dee Begg and hasn’t betrayed her, returning to his B-screen and its repeated images of Big Ball devouring Schultz of the Homeboy Tong but Schultz turns suspicious glares on all his colleagues now, convinced that Quelch has betrayed the original agreement. He’s impatient with the sluggish controls and eventually explodes through the hull, spreading his blue wings against the wide paleness of Ko-O-Ko determined to discover and leech the ship while Dilly-Dee Begg wrestles with the ruined controls.

At the heart of a field of cerise and yellow flame gradually crystallizing to form the familiar Home Dragon, suggesting they must be close to the Martian Scaling Station, Captain Billy-Bob Begg drew comfort from her crew. All the famous Chaos Engineers were cuddled to their revered Main Type, lending their Faith to hers in an eccentric act of prayer, since they could only, now, put their trust in the Great Mood. But more than one insect face had regarded them on their journey. More than one insect had shown them the horrors of singularity as if they were proud of themselves. The Now The Clouds Have Meaning was unfolding and unfolding at a leisurely rate, like a slow chrysanthemum, which was the sweet-smelling emblem of most Chaos Engineers and further improved their optimism, for they had expected more roll and less of this acceptable undulation in their fall through the scale-fields.
Little Rupoldo speaks of maps ablaze and fractal loops, desperately attempting to re-bond the garden housing and harmonize with the full ship, but Corporal Organ has almost lost hope.
"Sweet Rupoldo, sweet pudding. Plums for Rupoldo now! We will float now.”
“She bangs like a firetruck, hee, hee, hee!” The voice of Kaprikom Schultz, the half-hume, still follows them down the scale, powerful obscenities guaranteed to agitate their garden and butterfly them to the Great Mood knew where.
"I am too tired,” sighs Little Rupoldo, no more than a shadow in Corporal Organ's soothing arms.
"Loop upon loop, branches that are all cul-de-sacs. How can that be? Nature abhors a cul-de-sac. Is it Kaprikom Schultz or Captain Quelch? Is it the whole brute power of the Singularity? How can we succeed?”
"Hush, diddle, hush. Hush, darling little Rupoldo. There are no cul-de-sacs in Nature. Never fear. Never fear!”
"But the end is close for that one, I think,” murmurs Professor Pop in weary sympathy, unable to take any real attention from the up-screen. “There's Mars. I can hear her!”
“Tower to Now The Clouds Have Meaning. Tower to Now The Clouds Have Meaning. What is your present scale ? Repeat, what is your present scale ? We have searched all of the known Second Ether and found only ghosts and shadows. The famous old warhorse has screwed herself into Limbo and lies in a fold nobody can chart. Tower to Now The Clouds Have Meaning. We cannot locate you in the Plasma Vortex. Please give us your present scale!”
But Captain Billy-Bob Begg and her famous Chaos Engineers are unable to respond to the Scaling Station. It seems they must drift off-scale for all eternity.
"Oh, behold! Oh, fear!” Corporal Organ flings a hand towards the R. They all know that sinister shape. Kaprikom Schultz has reformed The Face of the Fly!

At the heart of a field of cerise and yellow flame gradually crystallizing to form the familiar Home Dragon, suggesting they must be close to the Martian Scaling Station, Begg draws comfort from her crew. All her crew were cuddled to their revered Main Type, lending their Faith to hers in a prayer, since they could only now put their trust in the Great Mood but more than one insect face had regarded them on their journey. More than one insect had shown them the horrors of singularity as if they were proud of themselves. The ship’s unfolding at a leisurely rate, like a slow chrysanthemum, which was the sweet-smelling emblem of most Engineers and further improved their optimism, for they expected more roll and less of this acceptable undulation in their fall through the scale-fields. Rupoldo speaks of maps ablaze and fractal loops, desperately trying to rebond the garden housing and harmonize with the full ship but Organ’s almost lost hope since they’ll float. Schultz still follows them down the scale, giving insults guaranteed to agitate their garden and butterfly them to parts unknown. Rupoldo’s too tired, no more than a shadow in Organ's soothing arms. He sees loop upon loop, branches that are all cul-de-sacs but that confuses him since nature abhors a cul-de-sac. He wonders if it’s Schultz or Quelch or the whole brute power of the Singularity. He wonders how they can succeed but Schultz hushes him. Pop says the end is close for that one, unable to take any real attention from the up-screen. They spot Mars, hearing the planet as they try to make a call, asking what their present scale is. They’ve searched all of the known Second Ether and found only ghosts and shadows. The famous old warhorse has screwed itself into Limbo and lies in a fold nobody can chart and they can’t locate them in the Plasma Vortex and asks for the present scale but Begg and her crew are unable to respond to the Scaling Station, seeming they must drift off-scale for all eternity. Organ flings a hand towards the R, noticing Schultz has reformed their ship.

BardicheAssault · Jun 3, 2021

BLOOD: A SOUTHERN FANTASY, PT. 4-1

The distant yell of the Biloxi Fault took fresh harmonics from the Rose’s song and amplified it until for a while a vast unearthly orchestra played the old tune, told the old story of lies and truth, of betrayals and sacrifices, of quests and oaths, of love and loss and resolutions that are not always tragic. The old story which is echoed by our own.
When her own old story was at last modified to fractured cacophony by the Biloxi Fault, the Rose struck out up the beach towards the Terminal Cafe whose lines shifted into focus against the lurid, uneasy funnel of the Fault.
[...]
The horrible maelstrom of the Fault framing them, a group of jugadors had their whole attention upon a flat game. The air surrounding them grew cloudy and garish as they played, their eyes staring deeply into the whole universes of their own creation.
Jack Karaquazian sits at his game, wagering the highest psychic stakes from a position conventionally known as the Dead King's Chair. His stoic back is against the whirling patterns of Chaos ceaselessly forming and reforming. His fellow gamblers know him as Al-Q'areen. There are shades amongst these players, men and women who by some chance have lost their own hold on life yet still wish to play at the tables—surrogates of the living gamblers, contributing their remaining experience and cunning to the game. They will do anything for even a hazy simulation of existence; the alternative is extinction. All these jugadors have the abstracted, dedicated ascetic appearance of a strict order. The Egyptian smiles on them, a kindly jackal.

The Fault’s distant yell took harmonics from Rose’s song and amped it for awhile until an odd orchestra played the old tune, told the old story of lies, truth, betrayals, sacrifices, quests, oaths, love, loss and resolutions that aren’t always tragic, an old story that echoed by our own. When her own old story was modified to a fractured cacophony by the Fault, Rose struck the beach towards the Cafe whose lines shifted into focus against the Fault. After entering the Cafe, Rose sees the Fault framing some jugadors with their attention upon a flat game. Their eyes are staring deeply into the whole universes of their own creation as they play. Jack’s sitting at his game, wagering the highest psychic stakes from a position known as the Dead King's Chair. His back’s against the whirling patterns of Chaos ceaselessly forming and reforming. There are shades amongst these players, men and women who by some chance have lost their own hold on life yet still wish to play at the tables. They’ll do anything for even a hazy simulation of existence for the alternative is extinction. All these jugadors have the abstracted, dedicated ascetic appearance of a strict order.

There was once a story told in Memphis, when Jack Karaquazian worked there, of an upriver captain on the Missouri out of Saint Jo; an octoroon woman who could read currents and waters better than any pilot; who was keenly courted by owners, white or black. She had lost her own stem-wheeler to a pirate attack while waiting for steam in the Nebraska Streak and had caught up with the thieves only after they had broken the boat's back in the white water channel. She was said to have killed the pirates to a man, using a rapier. He seemed to recall she had some kind of Dutch name, a familiar one.
Well, that’s her, thinks Jack Karaquazian as she stalks into the Terminal, a wary stranger.
[...]
No matter how impossible he has set his handicaps and how high he has raised the psychic stakes, he never loses.
He marvels at unsought inspiration. The unwanted power, the unlooked-for streak of luck, had made an unhappy madman of him. All he ever desired was what he lost out past McClellan where herons flew like grey angels through the black cypress branches and three gold stains lay on the pewter water like ingots of purest gold driven into the deep heart of reality. He wanted what pride and blind folly had lost him when he had failed to follow his heart.
Rose von Bek, used to most recognitions, is unsurprised by his greeting. The ghastly colors behind Jack Karaquazian change suddenly so that his pale skin and long black hair appear almost in negative, an image which fills the Rose with more than a hint of nostalgic terror. She speaks to her fellow adept with great courtesy, explaining that she has a message for him which she has memorized. It is unwise to carry written language between the First and Second Ethers.

Mrs. Dovero presents her compliments to Mr. Ka-
raquazian and respectfully invites him to make
his way into the Second Ether where we may he
reunited. This lady, Captain von Bek, will be his
guide. Signed with enduring love and with faith
in a mutual destiny—

COLINDA DOVERO

When Jack worked in Memphis, he met an upriver captain on the Missouri out of Saint Jo who could read currents and waters better than any pilot. She’d lost her own vessel to a pirate attack while waiting for steam in the Nebraska Streak and caught up with the pirates only after they broke the boat's back in the white water channel. It’s said she killed the pirates to a man, using a rapier and recalled she had some Dutch name, a familiar one. Jack recognizes Rose as she stalks into the Terminal. No matter how impossible he’s set his handicaps and how high he’s raised the psychic stakes, Jack never loses and marvels at unsought inspiration. The unwanted power, the unknown streak of luck, had made an unhappy madman of him. All he ever desired was what he lost out past McClellan where herons flew like grey angels through the black cypress branches and three gold stains lay on the pewter water like ingots of purest gold driven into the deep heart of reality. He wanted what pride and blind folly had lost him when he had failed to follow his heart. The ghastly colors behind Jack change suddenly so that his pale skin and long black hair appear almost in photo negative. She speaks to her fellow adept with great courtesy, explaining that she has a message for him which she has memorized. It is unwise to carry written language between the First and Second Ethers. Colinda invites Jack to enter the Second Ether where they may be reunited and Rose will be the guide.

The Rose is unused to the Terminal. Her attention wanders from Jack Karaquazian’s face to the agitated shadows, like doomed souls reaching aimlessly into the emerald green electrics of the tables.
Jack Karaquazian sat back from his game, his delicate Egyptian features giving him something of the appearance of a fox, in white lace and black velvet, ready for any human trick.
[...]
Jack Karaquazian stood up, slipping his lean arms into his black silk jacket, abandoning the shades with whom he had been playing “Old Funny's Chopper” out of an obscure sense of charity. The shades immediately fell into postures of near-stupor, no longer animated by his generous will.
The Rose remembers her own recent brush with two malignantly animated shades. She pities the half-creatures but she is never unhappy to see the last of them.
Jack Karaquazian stepped down from the Dead King’s Chair, his back still firmly presented to the pink and yellow horror which was the current manifestation of the Biloxi Fault, and which even the Rose preferred not to confront. He took her arm and led her up a ramp, sliding in a kind of reverse gravity helter-skelter to his room where the light poured like blood into a dark blue pool. He apologized for his careless shielding. "It gives me comfort, this illusion of being at the center of the maelstrom. I can pretend to face reality here.”
He saw that she disapproved of his cynicism. He apologized. He had become unused, he said, to well- bred company and had a feeling he was mad. He shook his head like a dog and collected himself. “You have seen Mrs. Dovero recently, ma’am?”
“Relatively recently. She awaits you. She believes you will want to join us.”
“I am at her service, ma’am, as well as yours. Where do we travel? How far? I must pack.”
“I fear there is no provision you can make against our particular journey, sir.” It is as if the Rose imitates his own formality.
Again he paused. “Oh, ma’am, you are not Old Death, are you, in a fresh disguise, come hunting for my soul?”
“I earnestly hope that I am not.” She smiles a quick reassurance. “Death, sir, is my enemy.”
Jack Karaquazian, rolling his booted feet in the rivulets of barley sugar which spilled upon his obsidian carpet, looked at her earnestly. “As he remains mine.”
“Shall we go?” suggests the Rose.
[...]
“Do we go up the Trace?” Mr. Karaquazian asked as they descended into the Terminal.
“Not to Natchez,” she tells him, “but to New Orleans. Were waiting on Sam. You're familiar with the Quarter?”
“I know where we shall be almost safe,” she says.
[...]
They leave for the stables where Jack Karaquazian always has two horses prepared.
Mounted, they returned to the blue and yellow beach, the garish Fault filling the sky to their left, capering and farting like an angry ape trying to take human shape; the air immediately above it is a serene pale blue but everywhere else are the bruised, sickening colors of ruptured reality.
“It’s been behaving like that for almost a season,” said Jack Karaquazian. “Death imitating life.”

Rose sees Jack’s face to the agitated shadows, like doomed souls reaching aimlessly into the emerald green electrics of the tables. Jack sat back from his game prepared for any human trick. Jack stands up and as he stops playing, the shades fade away and freeze. Rose remembers her own recent brush with two malignantly animated shades. Jack stepped down from the Dead King’s Chair, his back still firmly presented to the Fault’s current manifestation, and which even Rose preferred not to confront. He took her arm and led her up a ramp, sliding in a kind of reverse gravity helter-skelter to his room where the light poured like blood into a dark blue pool. He apologized for his careless shielding, giving him comfort, the illusion of being at the center of the maelstrom. He can pretend to face reality here. Jack asks if she’s seen Colinda recently and she has, awaiting Jack, believing he will want to join them. Jack’s at their service but he wants to know where they’ll go and how far but there’s no provisions he can make against their trip. Jack thinks she’s Old Death coming for his soul but she hopes she’s not since Death is her enemy and Jack’s. He asks if they go up the Trace as they descend into the Cafe but they’e going to New Orleans, waiting on Sam and suggests where they’ll be almost safe. The duo leave for the stables where Jack always has two horses prepared. Mounted, they returned to the Fault filling the sky to their left, capering and farting like an angry ape trying to take human shape, the air immediately above it a serene pale blue but everywhere else are the bruised, sickening colors of ruptured reality. Jack says it’s been behaving like that for almost a season as death imitates life.

Jack Karaquazian found the place oppressive, but it had two floors and could be defended. Upon a great obiché sideboard, carved in crude imitation of the machinoix style, he found piles of hand-colored magazines, dog-eared and dirty from a hundred usings, in which were recounted the tales of the Chaos Engineers and their perpetual war against the Singularity. Jack Karaquazian had only seen these recently. Travellers had been bringing them in to the Terminal. “But I had not realized they were so popular! These are real people are they? Originally?” He told her that the Terminal had been visited twice by what he had taken for a burned-out pilo who had announced herself as The Merchant Venturer, Pearl Peru. At both times he had retired to his quarters until she had gone. “Do you know this particular Pearl Peru? Does she model herself on a V- character?”
“Not exactly,” was the only answer the Rose would give him then. “These characters are followed everywhere now. In the South, both west and east of the river, and for all I know they're being read beyond St. Louis. Do you enjoy them, Jack?”
"Well,” said the Rose, “it is worth familiarizing yourself with such things. Especially if you would know the secrets and comforts of the Second Ether.”
“You have yet to say where this place lies,” he said. “Are we not going up to Natchez and following the Trace to McClellan?” To the gold Stains where he had last seen Colinda Dovero but, dishonored, was unable to follow her.
"I said nothing of McClellan.” She sighed a little. “We must find out first if Sam is still with us.”
“Then I suspect we must sweat it here for a while.” He slipped off his jacket and bending to his saddlebag removed a hammock which he proceeded to sling on the hooks provided above the shack s only door. She could sleep upstairs if she wished. He preferred to swing in the shadows with his Sony handy. Testing the hammock's security, he put the weapon between his teeth and climbed into the net.
The Rose told him she had her own manner of sleeping and folded herself near the stairs, invisible to the unknowing eye.
Before he admitted sleep he told her that he longed for a place where he might rest and know peace and which was not the grave.

Jack finds comics that depict the Chaos Engineers’ tales, not realizing they were so popular and apparently being real people. He tells Rose that the Cafe had been visited twice by Pearl Peru and asks if she knows of Peru but she doesn’t. Those characters are followed everywhere now. She asks if he enjoys them but he says it’s worth familiarizing with such things especially if they’d know the secrets and comforts of the Second Ether. Jack says she has yet to say where the place lies, wondering if they’re going up to Natchez and following the Trace to McClellan. The gold Stains where he’d last seen Colinda but was unable to follow her, dishonorably. She said nothing of McClellan and must find out first if Sam’s still with them. Jack and Rose go to relax with Jack putting his weapon in between his teeth.

Jack Karaquazian was beginning to lose patience. Now he spent much of his time down at Army Square with a few second-rate players, trying to ease his boredom in one-against-all hands of "Guppy's Surprise," the featured game of the old Providence Bar and Grill. Often he would not be back until morning, when the curfew ended. He had hoped, he said, never to see another of those drooling mechanish again. He refused to discuss how Sam Oakenhurst could be spending so much time with the metalloids' masters.
To keep her hand in, the Rose had set up a few old Brackett's jars from which she coaxed a fairly complex main play, complete with pseudo-consciousness for most of the elements, including a detailed triple-logic frame. With some Brackett's she could often get quintuple-logic, but for the moment she was satisfied.
She played against herself. The setting was the Biloxi Fault and a universe she called the Grail, which was situated in the Second Ether and where her adopted home now was.
She called her world Sylvania and it was not dissimilar in many respects to the one she now inhabited, though most of the dramatic instabilities were not manifested there. She had risked a great deal in leaving. Even now there was no certainty she would return with her two charges; the man she herself loved and the man loved by her friend.
By nature more patient than Jack Karaquazian, the Rose began at last to fear that Sam Oakenhurst was no longer alive and his latest machinoix bargain had been for more than his time and his flesh.
With slender fingers she teased up the Brackett's, turning their fluorescent gases into simu lacrae of whole universes, whole peoples, nearindividuals.
She considered the dangers of recreating her own past.

Jack gets impatient and plays a new game after having spent much of his time beating a few second-rate players. To keep her hand in, Rose set up a few old Brackett's jars from which she coaxed a fairly complex main play, complete with pseudo-consciousness for most of the elements, including a detailed triple-logic frame. With some jars, she could often get quintuple-logic but for the moment she was pleased. She played against herself, the setting as the Fault and a universe she called the Grail, which was in the Second Ether and where her adopted home now was. She called her world Sylvania and it was similar in many ways to the one she now inhabited, though most of the dramatic instabilities hadn’t manifested there. She risked a great deal in leaving for even now there was no certainty she would return with her two charges: Sam and Jack. Rose began to fear that Sam was no longer alive and his latest machinoix bargain had been for more than his time and flesh. With slender fingers she teased up the jars, turning their fluorescent gases into simulacrae of whole universes, whole peoples, near-individuals, considering the dangers of recreating her own past.

After the Providence incident, Jack Karaquazian stayed with the Rose, building up a complex variety of energized gases into worlds and intelligences to match her own but his whole being could not engage and he admitted he felt the lack of edge which comes from playing the real thing.
“One day it could be both simpler and more exciting for you, Jack,” the Rose assured him.
After almost a week of this a kiddikin tapped on their door with news of a visitor at the courtyard gate. His name, said the kiddikin, was Captain Quelch and—fingertips to tittering mouth—he was a white man!
Jack Karaquazian's instinct was to refuse an interview. It was unseemly for whites to demand such sudden courtesies. But if this was the same Quelch who had also left his card at the Terminal then he guessed he was ready to confront him. The presence of the Rose was a comfort.
“For some reason I am nervous of this proud whitey,” he admitted to the Rose.
The Rose seemed only amused. And so the lantern- jawed, hook-nosed Captain Quelch was admitted. His skin as white as an alligator's belly, he swaggered in with a most condescending air as if he were their master. His hands were silvery, multi-hued, like the scales of a dying fish, and he offered one to each of his hosts. He was used to power. His old grey and gold leathers were scarred and splashed from a thousand battles and his face was lined with the evidence of a million betrayals, but his pallid blue, bloodshot eyes were humorous, as if he took relish from this situation, anticipating some of the uncertainty Jack Karaquazian must feel when confronted by such an apparition as himself, stepped over from the Second Ether and still giving off traces of spectral dust, large as life, saluting and chewing on a cold cheroot: the image of his V original. Or was he the original?
“Well, my dears—quid hoc sibi vult, eh? Good evening to you. I'm Quelch of The Linear Bee. It's not often I put in to New Orleans. Always hated the place and got out as soon as I could. You people like red tape too much for my taste.” He kissed the Rose's hand and winked.
For all its Latin quotation and hearty equity, its louche charm, Jack Karaquazian found the man's manner disagreeably insolent. “Good evening, Captain Quelch. And where would you be from? And on what business here?”
Captain Quelch laughed. “You know as well as I that I am from Old Reg, Chief Clerk of the Singularity, Secretary to the Central Ethic; Guardian of the Great Desk, Will of the Original Insect. You know that, sir! I tore apart whole scales to come here. You must have seen the wounds I made. The powerful shall devour the weak! I am the levelling scythe of the Second Ether! I will not waste my time on your children's strategies. What business, sir! Indeed! As deadly as your own, sir, believe me.”
“Mr. Karaquazian knows almost nothing, as yet, of our Second Ether,” softly said the Rose.
At this, Captain Quelch relaxed, unbuttoned his uniform tunic, took off his cap and sat himself down in an easy chair on the other side of the Brackett's. “Is that a flagon of Ackroyd's I see yonder?”
The Rose did not seem at all dismayed. She poured the strange white man a drink. He smiled at her as he put the glass to his lips, his eyes intimate for a second or two. Jack Karaquazian considered the extraordinary likelihood that they had once been lovers. This made him even more uneasy, though he continued to trust the Rose.
“Why are you here, Captain Quelch?” She replaced the stopper of the decanter. She was not welcoming.
Quelch delicately relished his drink. “Quis separ- abit? I was passing through, my dear Rose, and had heard you were presently in New Orleans. I had it in mind to look at some new recruits and to take a glance at yours, if you had the fortune to pick any.”
“I’m not impressing this player or any other, Captain Quelch. That has never been my practice and you know it. Mr. Karaquazian is not a recruit and neither has he chosen to play the Game of Time. We field only volunteers. You would do well to return to your proper sphere, sir, and remember your situation. Here you breathe the same air as the living. Here you are merely tolerated. You are abhorrent, sir. You defy our laws.”
Oh, madam, pardon a poor zombie for paying a sentimental call on one of his old home haunts, where he hoped to derive a little comfort from a more fortunate sister.” Captain Quelch was laughing. “You are pompous, today, Rose. Not yourself at all.” This last was clearly a barb, but Jack Karaquazian did not understand it.
“Will you banish me, Rose? Back to my native Hell—our common ground? Will you exorcise me, Rose, or slay me with a spell as you slew Gaynor? Or seek the help of those diabolical machinoix as you did when poor unsuspecting Paul Minct sought to play a hand against you? He was never in your class, Rose. Few are.”
Jack Karaquazian found the white man more intelligent and entertaining than the average river rat but exuding an enormous sense of power and danger even as he joked with them.
The Rose was warily unafraid. She shook her hand at Captain Quelch. “We’ll meet soon, Horace. In more fulfilling circumstances, perhaps.”
"I'd enjoy a game again, my dear.” He licked a reminiscent lip.
“No more with me, my dear. I have done my serv- ice.
“You’ll never retire. None of us ever retires!” Captain Quelch cast a knowing eye over the shifting Brackett’s. “Nothing will keep you from the Second Ether, Rose, or the Game. It’s in your blood as it’s in mine. You could not exist without the taste of terror on your palate. Everything to lose! Everything to win!”
“There is one difference between us,” she reminded him.
Then something close to anger appeared on Captain Quelch's rugged reprobate's face and he said quietly, looking at his glass, “You can wound a chap, Rose, like nobody else.”
At this he stood up, placing his empty glass between the two Brackett's. “Clearly there's no human warmth here for an old shade.”
“Not much,” he said. “Not now.”
He left, after winking intimately at Jack Karaquazian. “Sine era et studio, old soul.” He paused to rebutton his tunic. “I trust we'll meet again, sir.”
“Looking forward to it,” said Jack Karaquazian. His own blood had quickened. He felt his body blossoming into secret and alarming vitality.

Jack stays with Rose, building up a complex variety of energized gases into worlds and intelligences to match her own but his whole being couldn’t engage and he admitted he felt the lack of edge which comes from playing the real thing. Soon, it could be both simpler and more exciting for Jack. After almost a week of that, a kiddikin tapped on their door with news of a visitor at the courtyard gate. The kidskin says it’s Quelch and Jack’s instinct was to refuse an interview but if this was the same Quelch who also left his card at the Cafe then he guessed he was ready to confront him. For some reason Jack’s nervous of Quelch which amuses Rose and so Quelch was admitted. Quelch’s unnerving appearance lets him anticipate Jack’s uncertainty when confronted by such an apparition as himself, stepped over from the Second Ether and still giving off traces of spectral dust in the image of his V original or maybe he was the original. Quelch greets them but Jack is put off by him, asking where he’s from and what he wants but Quelch scoffs that he’s from Oldreg. He tore apart whole scales to arrive and made wounds doing so. He calls himself the leveling scythe of the Second Ether and keeps mocking Jack but Rose says he knows almost nothing of the Second Ether. As the two get cutesy, Jack thinks they were once loves which makes him uneasy. Rose asks why Quelch is there but he was just passing through and heard she was in New Orleans, thinking to look at some new recruits and take a glance at hers if she had the fortune to pick any. Rose won’t reveal the player or any other since that’s never been her thing. Jack’s not a recruit nor has he chosen to play the Game of Time as they field only recruits. Quelch would do well to return to his proper sphere and remember his situation for there, he breathes the same air as the living. Quelch insults Rose and asks if she’ll banish him back to his native Hell, their common ground, exorcise him or slay him with a spell as she slew Gaynor or seek the help of the Machinoix as she did when Paul sought to play a hand against her as he was never in her class, few are. Jack finds Quelch to be more intelligent and entertaining but exudes an enormous sense of power and danger. Rose isn’t scared, telling Quelch they’ll meet soon in more fulfilling scenarios, maybe. He’d enjoy a game again but he’s done his service. Rose says he’ll never retire since none of them ever do. Quelch says nothing will keep her from the Second Ether or the Game since it’s in her blood as it’s in his. She couldn’t exist without tenor’s taste on her palette: everything to lose, everything to win. There’s one difference between them: she can wound someone like nobody else. Quelch leaves in a huff but says to Jack that they’ll meet again soon which freaks Jack out a bit.

When Captain Quelch had gone Mr. Karaquazian asked the Rose why her words had so hurt their visitor.
“He has no soul of his own,” she said. "He must leech from others. For all his fine words he is a scavenger, like any who sail with the Singularity. They have no business here. They grow too bold. They are attracted by death. They are carrion. This planet is near its end, I think.”
Jack Karaquazian was taken aback by her venomous eloquence. "He is your enemy, then?”
“There are two of him?”
“Two? Oh, no, Jack. More than two. But we'll take that in its best order, shall we? Synchronization is the key to harmonic scale. Like putting each line in play. Believe me, Jack, our pasatiempo there is easier than any ordinary day's game of ‘Pretty Beginners’ at the Terminal. It’s only that the stakes are different.”
“Are they all white, like Quelch, those we play against?”
“Some aren't. But they happen to be the people who elected to make themselves conquerors of the Second Ether. The rest of us were merely glad to be granted its beauty.”
“What's wrong with them wanting to conquer you?” Jack Karaquazian felt antagonism. “Do you not represent Chaos and the destruction of all sentience? Does not the Singularity represent Law and a secure, simple, predictable society unthreatened by chance? What does the Singularity represent? The unromantic desires of the common folk for a hearth, a home and children. This is the reality of the common dream, which the romantic denies. What am I to believe, Rose? I am given no arguments that I can grasp, no familiar maps. Show me how it's played and you know I'll join any game you like—but don't ask me to play blind. Or against my own people. Or against God. You won't do that, will you?”
“I said it to you one way.” She was patient. “But I'll say it your way, too, if it suits you: it’s an honest game I'll be offering, Jack, with honest winnings. And I promise I'll scroll the whole thing to you before I ask you to sit down at a table with me. You won’t ever be playing blind, Jack.”
He accepted her word and considered the events. Somehow Captain Quelch's visit had confirmed an instinctive understanding that Jack Karaquazian’s interests were linked with those of the Rose. Quelch represented something cold and loathsome in the lower levels of the human psyche. Something greedy and unwholesome. Something devolving, which served only the cause of the Old Hunter, which eternally plotted the reduction and ultimate destruction of the human spirit.
“Why,” he said, “did you not tell me more of this earlier, Rose? I could reasonably suspect manipulation on your part. I am averse to being manipulated. If you say your game is straight I'll take your word, but I’ll admit I’m having trouble doing it.”
“It gives me trouble keeping my oath,” she says. “I keep it anyway. I was waiting for my Sam Oakenhurst to arrive so he might tell you in words you’d best understand. I’m not keeping secrets from you that will affect your actions, Jack. I promise. You can decide each play as we go. I don't even ask you to commit to the Game of Time. No mortal soul could reasonably do that for long. To guard against insanity we play together and we play in turns. And we make ourselves forget that we play at all. Don’t pity yourself too profoundly, my dear. At least your true love's safe and sound, while I've no notion who or what has claimed the soul of mine.”
He was grateful for this reminder of his manners. He had been ungentlemanly. He would advertise his own petty feelings no longer. He felt he needed a good hand to play and an opponent like Sam Oakenhurst or Mistress Mint, whom he had also loved and who, for all her outward disapproval and even disappointment in him, had cared deeply for him and played a wise game. Almost as wise as Colinda Dovero’s, thought Mr. Karaquazian, and was glad to remind himself of what he stood to gain from this.
But then he frowned and shook his head.
Mistress Mint?
Surely she had been nothing more than his invention in a long game of “Bluff the Shade” he had played in Alexandria even before he took the schoomer for Atlantic City?
For the first time since he had put himself in the Roses hands Jack Karaquazian became afraid.

When Quelch leaves, Jack asks Rose why she offended him and it’s because he has no soul of his own and must leech from others. For all his eloquence he’s a scavenger like any who sail with the Singularity who grow too bold and are attracted by the planet’s death. Jack guess she’s his enemy and wonders if there’s two of him but there’s more. Rose says “Synchronization” is the key to harmonic scale like putting each line in play. Their pasatiempo there is easier than any ordinary day’s game at the Cafe, only that the stakes are different. Jack asks who their foes will be and they happen to be the people who elected to make themselves conquerors of the Second Ether while the rest are merely glad to be granted its beauty. Jack asks what's wrong with them wanting to conquer her and if she represents Chaos and the destruction of all sentience while the Singularity represents Law and a secure, simple, predictable society unthreatened by chance. He asks then what the Singularity represents which is the reality of the common dream while the romantic denies. He questions what he is to believe for he’s given no arguments that he can grasp, no familiar maps. He asks to be showed how it's played and he’ll join any game she wants but not to play him blind or against his own people or against God. Rose says it’s an honest game she’ll be offering with honest winnings and promises she’ll scroll the whole thing to him before she asks him to sit down at a table with her so he won’t ever be playing blind. He accepted her word and considered the events. Somehow Quelch's visit had confirmed an instinctive understanding that Jack’s interests were linked with Rose’s own. Quelch represented something cold and loathsome in the lower levels of the human psyche, something greedy and unwholesome, something devolving, which served only the cause of the Old Hunter, which eternally plotted the reduction and ultimate destruction of the human spirit. Jack asks why she didn’t tell him more of that earlier as he could reasonably suspect manipulation on her part. If she says her game is honest, he’ll take your word but he’ll admit he’s having trouble doing it. It gives her trouble keeping her oath but she keeps it anyway. She was waiting for Sam to arrive so he might tell Jack in words he’d best grasp. She’s not keeping secrets from Jack that will affect his actions. Jack can decide each play as they go. She’s not even asking him to commit to the Game of Time as no mortal soul could reasonably play for long. To guard against insanity they play together and in turns and make themselves forget that they play at all. Rose assures Jack that Colinda’s safe and sound while she has no notion who or what has claimed the soul of Rose’s. Jack feels at ease for a little bit but would prefer to play a hand against Sam or Mint who he thinks might be an invention in a long game he played in Alexandria. For the first time since he had put himself in Rose’s hands, Jack became afraid.

Now, he assumed, they would all be on their way to Natchez.
“Do we have another meat boat, Sam?” she wanted to know.
“I could not fairly ask for that. Then they offered me my caravel. I am not sure of it. They understand my goals and are glad of them. It took them many turns of the eternity cushions and the shutter boxes before they fully understood my needs and rose to fulfill them. In their own fashion, of course, which I in turn now understand. They insisted on preparing me for my journey. They have passed everything they know of the Second Ether into me. They, too, have been players in the Game of Time but have exhausted it and been exhausted by it. They are the missing fishlings, some say.” He became self- conscious. “Or at least that’s how the Chaos Engineers see things. I suppose you don’t look at that trash, do you, Jack?”
“I am unfamiliar with your pseudo-Vs, nor do I recollect their originals clearly. My childhood was full of Ali Baba and those wonderful historical soaps for which Egyptians were justly envied. These are like creatures from the barbaric past, from the time of the pharaohs!” Jack Karaquazian was puzzled by his friend’s unfading intensity. “But I have heard of the one named the Merchant Venturer, Pearl Peru, for she came calling on me once or twice at the Terminal when I was in no mood for visitors.” He did not mention Captain Quelch.
“Pearl Peru herself! You’re greatly honored, Jack. She’s one of the noblest and most beautiful of all the Paladins of Chaos. She is a paragon, Jack. Her only weakness is her kindly, trusting heart.”
“Sam!” says the Rose laughing. “These characters from your V magazines are of no interest to Jack!”
“When those characters come a-visiting, Rose, as they seem to be doing fairly frequently, I believe them to be of some interest,” says Mr. Karaquazian. “Sometimes I have the notion that we are all trapped in a bad game of ‘Old Tom's Last Roll.’ Is something happening to the rules?”
“Not yet, Jack,” says the Rose, “but we are playing for Time.”
It wasn’t much of an answer.

Jack assumes they’d all be on their way to Natchez with Rose asking if Sam’s got another meat boat. Sam couldn’t ask fairly for that then they offered him his caravel but he’s not sure of it. They know and appreciate his goals but it took them many turns of the eternity cushions and the shutter boxes before they fully grasped Sam’s needs and rose to fulfill them in their own way. They insisted on preparing Sam for his journey, having taught everything they know of the Second Ether. They have been Jugadors too but have exhausted the game and been exhausted by it. They are the missing fishlings, some say or at least that’s how the Chaos Engineers see things. Sam asks if Jack look at that fiction but he’s unfamiliar with Sam’s psuedo-Vs nor does her recollect their originals clearly. Jack’s childhood was full of Ali Baba and those historical operas of which Egyptians were envied. Those are the creatures from the barbaric past, from the time of Pharaohs but Jack has heard of Pearl Peru for she came calling on him once or twice at the Cafe when he was in no mood for visitors. Sam’s pleased by this but Rose says those characters from his mags are of no interest to Jack. When those characters come visiting, Jack believes they’ll be of some interest. Sometimes he has the notion that they’re all trapped in a bad game, asking if something’s happening to the rules. Not yet but they are playing for time

“There’s a man in Gulfport selling a boat that might suit us,” says Sam. “We could ride over and look at her. Then if we like her it’s a short haul to the Fault. Does she have to have sails, Rose?”
“This here’s a paddle-wheeler I guess.”
“All the better,” she says. “I prefer a little steam.”
“Let’ go,” says Jack Karaquazian, anxious to put at least the ambiguities of New Orleans behind him.
But Sam Oakenhurst must know what Pearl Peru said and what she had looked like. Was her body covered in multicolored skins which moved over it like living things? Did the ether-dust pour continuously from her helmet and nostrils?
"Unfortunately on the occasions that the lady called,” says Jack Karaquazian, "I was otherwise engaged and could not meet her. To tell you the truth, Sam, I was weary of strangers just then. I had some thinking to do.”
Sam Oakenhurst's long upper lip almost trembles with disappointment and he turns away to recover himself. "There have been periods,” he says by way of apology, "when only those melodramas saved me from madness. But perhaps I wasn’t saved from madness, after all?”
Jack Karaquazian puts his hand on his friend's arm.

There’s a man in Gulfport selling a boat that might suit them and they could ride over and look at her then if they like her, it’s a short haul to the Fault. Their vessel’s got an engine and they leave. Sam must know what Pearl Peru said and what she had looked like, wondering if her body’s covered in multicolored skins which moved over it like living things or if the ether-dust pours continuously from her helmet and nostrils. Jack says on the occasions that the lady called, he was otherwise engaged and couldn’t meet her, being weary of strangers then. There have been periods when only those melodramas saved Jack from madness but perhaps he wasn’t saved from madness, after all.

Mr. Karaquazian shrugged. He had taken liberally of the From. "Who knows, mon ami? Danson, danson! Make that squeezebox stir us all, mes amigos! Ola, Patric—’The Antelope' upon your autoharp, if you please. We have here all the power you’ll ever know or need.” The musicians grinned uneasily through the fluttering shadows. "Joli boys, alles dan- sez! Pretty amigos, bon temps, bon temps! Regard! Elle rollez! Play, my brothers, play. Tonight, at last, I am ready to dance.” Then, with the Rose on his arm, he stepped upon the floor, all poised and alive with danger. But it was Colinda Dover he saw as they danced.
(“God is life ruled by a moral principle and the Devil is death ruled by mere appetite,” says Jack Karaquazian to Colinda Dovero. “There are however many states between God and the Devil.” They dance together on the deck of the Etoile du Memphes while Mr. Pitre plays dobro and guitar and Sweet Steve, the blind kiddikin, runs his ghostly fingers over the buttons of his snaking squeezebox, playing all the grand old two-steps. Colinda Dovero sings in his ear: “O, joy. O, joieux embracero. Mon beau, mon brave. Dancing till the end of time.” And there would never be, could never be another Jack Karaquazian, she sings. Her Jack Karaquazian.
“He hunts for souls,” says Jack. “He hunts for yours and mine. They are what he feeds on.”

Jack dances with Rose, seeing Colinda as they danced in a flashback. God is life ruled by a moral principle while the Devil is death ruled by mere appetite. There are however many states between God and the Devil. Colinda says they’ll be dancing until the end of time. Old Hunter hunts for souls, hunting theirs for they are what he feeds on.

It is the first time Boudreaux Ramsadeen has seen any of the three on the floor. He is surprised at what graceful dancers they all are—handsome Jack Karaquazian, exquisite Rose von Bek, cadaverous Mr. Oakenhurst. It is as if legends have come to an ordinary dance hall. The other dancers are inhibited not by the skill of these jugadors but by the willingness of myths to take the common floor.
Eventually the music recovered its confidence and the fiddle player came in. The ope grew thick and the measures became familiar, in spite of their flourishes. The others returned to the dance until all were making their wild points and elaborate turns amongst those terrible shadows, leaping as the flames of the Fault leapt, uncertain and unafraid.
Only when the dancing went on without cease did Boudreaux come to realize that this was their true farewell. It was, he guessed, how they honored him. They were making the most of their days of life. When they went back to the boat they would begin a voyage from which, no matter what else occurred, they would never return.

It’s the first time Ramsy has seen any of the three on the floor. He is surprised at what graceful dancers they all are as if legends had come to an ordinary dance hall. The other dancers are inhibited not by the skill of those Jugadors but by the willingness of myths to take the common floor. The others returned to the dance until all were making their wild points and elaborate turns amongst those terrible shadows, leaping as the flames of the Fault leapt, uncertain and unafraid. Only when the dancing went on without cease did Ramsy come to realize that this was their true farewell

She found me reading “Spark of the Grey Fees” (the words were often familiar but the language itself a mystery, dependent on many secondary, even primary, references denied my limited intelligence and experience. But gradually I came to learn the rudiments of a kind of Second Ether pidgin until I grew skillful enough to enter into bond with my character and add her considerable store of wisdom to my own. Suddenly I knew the powers and nearomniscience of a demigod!). “I have never seen a man so hungry for the Second Ether,” she said.
My name is Sam Oakenhurst. I am of the jugador persuasion, Mercie Marie, and until I met my love, the Rose, followed that calling in the First Ether until, after several adventures, I joined the Rose to play the ultimate game, the Zeitsjuego, the Game of Time, which I shall continue to play for the rest of my long life, for I have by unhappy accident joined the ranks of the dying.
As soon as we were first reunited and alone, we embraced. In my fever I had confused her with Pearl Peru. It was as if everything I had ever valued or desired was at once restored to me.
“Spark of the Grey Fees” tells this tale the best, with all the nuances, the moral ambiguities, the odd twists of plot common to the finest old Vs of the golden age. It is a terrifying thing to have to accept one reality in favor of the others. It is that moment of choosing which is so distressing. Extinction or eternal life on the throw of a die! And in the end the Game of Time engulfed me. I was addicted as I had told her I would never be. As she had never wanted me to be.

Rose found Sam reading “Spark of the Grey Fees,” the words often familiar but the language itself a mystery, dependent on many secondary, even primary, references denied my limited intelligence and experience but gradually he came to learn the rudiments of a kind of Second Ether pidgin until he grew skillful enough to enter into bond with his character and add her considerable store of wisdom to his own. Suddenly he knew the powers and nearomniscience of a demigod. Rose has never seen a man so hungry for the Second Ether but he followed that calling in the First Ether until after a few journeys, he joined the Rose to play the ultimate game, the Game of Time, which he’ll continue to play for the rest of his long life, for he has by unhappy accident joined the ranks of the dying. As soon as they were first reunited and alone, they embraced. In his fever Sam had confused her with Pearl Peru. It was as if everything he had ever valued or desired was at once restored to him. “Spark of the Grey Fees” tells the tale the best, with all the nuances, moral ambiguities, odd twists of plot common to the finest old Vs of the golden age. It’s a terrifying thing to have to accept one reality in favor of the others. It’s that moment of choosing which is so distressing. Extinction or eternal life on the throw of a die and in the end the Game of Time engulfed Sam. He was addicted as he told her he would never be as she never wanted Sam to be.

“Our black little souls, Sam,” she had said. “That’s all we have between us and the Pit. But it’s enough to give us even odds in a game which, if you lose, you will live a billion glorious years or more and if you win, you live forever. Either way, Sam, suit yourself. You’ll discover what you want in the Second Ether. And it’s only rarely, muy companero, that you find what you expected to find. Have you anything to lose by playing the big table, Sam? Playing for the power to change the nature of reality? That’s what it means, when you control Time!” She pressed her warm rose lips against my hard, fleshless head. “We’re playing against Entropy and for Chaos. Against Singularity and for Law. For life against death. We’re playing for the power to change the human condition!”
As the meaning of her words threaded into the dark places of my imagination, I experienced the kind of fear which had seized me when the machinoix first began their indoctrination rituals with the Gentle Scarrings. But now I knew one thing I had not known then—I would survive and I would profit from the experience. That, I realized, was why the Rose had chosen me as her consort at this level of the Game.
I feared neither pain nor death but only the los of my love and my honor. And for those lone I was prepared to play to the end.
I lie.
I did not fear pain. I embraced it.
Pain was my positive proof that I lived.

Their black little souls are all they have between them and the Pit but it’s enough to give even odds in a game which, if Sam loses, he’ll live a billion glorious years or more and if he wins, he’ll live forever. He’ll discover what he wants in the Second Ether and it’s only rarely that he find what he expected to find. Rose asks if he has anything to lose by playing the big table, playing for the power to change the nature of reality for that’s what it means when one controls time. They’re playing against Entropy and for Chaos, against Singularity and for Law, for life against death. They’re playing for the power to change the human condition. As the meaning of her words threaded into the dark places of his imagination, he experienced the kind of fear which had seized him when the machinoix first began their indoctrination rituals with the Gentle Scarrings but now he knew one thing he hadn’t known then: he would survive and profit from the experience. He realized that was why Rose had chosen him as her consort at that level of the Game. He feared neither pain nor death but only the loss of his love and honor and for those lone he was prepared to play to the end. Sam lied, he didn’t fear pain but embraced it for pain was my positive proof that he lived.

The Rose had explained the existence of the Second Ether and how the Game of Time was played in it, a story created by the Chaos Engineers and the Singularity but affecting all existence, as well as the fate of every individual and quasi-individual. In the Zeitsjuego one joined one’s identity with that of an existing player. By adding one’s talents to the whole one played for an advantage in the story, perhaps making a new character or developing a fresh plot thread, perhaps a beginning, a fresh echo to fill a void and set new patterns working, perhaps even adding to the pantheon? She had told Jack that whether he played the Game or not, he would certainly be reunited with Colinda Dovero in the Second Ether.
“What are they—these Chaos Engineers and their opponents?” asked Jack. “Our creations?”
“It’s not as simple as that, Jack,” murmured Sam.
“But we play for Chaos?”
“We play on that side for our own advantage. Sometimes for theirs. It is an acceptable symbiosis.”
“How is that?”
The Rose explained how the symbiosis became complete until there was no escaping the character or the Game. One played perpetually until one’s dissolution. All characters were controlled by the laws of entropy. Ultimately they would die, their souls with them.
What the Rose and her kind played for was a chance to defeat the laws of entropy and create nothing less than a new reality. “To mold the multiverse in our own image.”
To Jack Karaquazian that sounded very much like blasphemy.
“To find a way of living in the multiverse according to natural laws? The triumph of life over death! The triumph, Jack, of God. Nothing less.”
“And that’s what you play for?”
“Pretty much.”
He said he could not refuse to play at least one game in the Second Ether. After all, they seemed to be trying for the same big win. But he had remained uneasy, even when Sam Oakenhurst and the Rose began to tell him the stories of the Chaos Engineers, the great epics of quests and revenge which were even now being enacted in the Second Ether. “It seems little different from a good game of ‘Oglala P.,' though I can't imagine how it would work out, what moves you'd have to make. What do we lose?”
“That's easy, too,” she said. “I told you. You lose your eternal soul. The demigods of the Second Ether are not immortal. Their longevity is vast, but ultimately they die. That's why Quelch was so bitter. And if you are not free of them, you die also. The dying demigods become increasingly desperate and greedy for life as they realize what is happening to them. They grow into demons. They prey on the living—their own kind as well as ours. They are death, Jack, determined to overcome life and see the whole multiverse an infinite emptiness rather than let others have it. It’s that simple, Jack.”
“Not simple in the playing, I’d guess.”
“I reckon not,” she agreed.

Rose explained the Second Ether’s existence and how the Game of Time was played in it, a story created by the Chaos Engineers and the Singularity but affecting all existence, as well as the fate of every individual and quasi-individual. In the Game, one joined one’s identity with that of an existing player. By adding one’s talents to the whole one played for an advantage in the story, perhaps making a new character or developing a fresh plot thread, perhaps a beginning, a fresh echo to fill a void and set new patterns working, perhaps even adding to the pantheon. She had told Jack that whether he played the Game or not, he would certainly be reunited with Colinda Dovero in the Second Ether. Jack asks what the Chaos Engineers and their foes are and if they’re their creations but it’s not as simple as that. Jack asks if they play for Chaos but they play for Chaos for their own gain, sometimes for theirs. It’s an acceptable symbiosis that became complete until there’s no escaping the character or the Game. One played perpetually until one’s dissolution. All characters were controlled by the laws of entropy. Ultimately they would die, their souls with them. What Rose and her kind played for was a chance to defeat the laws of entropy and create nothing less than a new reality, to mold the multiverse in their own image. To Jack, that sounded very much like blasphemy. To find a way of living in the multiverse according to natural laws, the triumph of life over death, the triumph of God is what Rose plays for. He said he couldn’t refuse to play at least one game in the Second Ether. After all, they seemed to be trying for the same big win but he remained uneasy, even when Sam and Rose began to tell him the stories of the Chaos Engineers, the great epics of quests and revenge which were even now being enacted in the Second Ether. It seems little different from a good game though Jack can't imagine how it would work out, what moves she’d have to make and asks what they may lose and it’s his eternal soul. The Second Ether’ demigods are mortal, their longevity vast but ultimately they die. That's why Quelch was so bitter and if he’s not free of them, he’ll die too. The dying demigods become increasingly desperate and greedy for life as they realize what’s happening to them, growing into demons. They prey on the living, their own kind as well as humans for they are death determined to overcome life and see the whole multiverse an infinite emptiness rather than let others have it. Jack thinks it complex in the playing.

"It's the apocalypse,” said Jack Karaquazian, watching them stumble through the fouled ruins. "The majority of us revert with terrible ease to the brute state!” Murder and rape had become the familiar norm. Doubtless the dinosaurs too had tramped decisively towards extinction, preying upon their own kind. He raised a hand to wish the women a safe journey. They no longer looked back but doggedly rolled their handcarts up the old trail joining the Vega di Tennessee which led into those beautiful blue pine hills where he and Colinda Dovero had spent a day or two long ago. As anger filled him, he could only curse his own folly in letting his lunatic notions of honor separate him from his soul's mate.
[...]
"She told me it was just good luck got her to what you call the Second Ether.” Mr. Karaquazian addressed the Rose as she joined him at the gangplank. "But I told her I was of an earning disposition. I couldn't take anything that was free.”
“I didn’t know that then. I should have imitated her generosity. Those Bergers were on my conscience. I guess I've discovered humility. It's of little use now. I am still separated from a woman I would kill to be near, to protect in any way she so desired.” He would no more think to impose upon her love than he would play a marked deck. His feeling for her surpassed even his sense of honor. His code had been his weakness. It had betrayed them both. It had divided them.
He heard her name in the soft wind blowing between the running lines. The wind slammed shut the wooden door of the wheelhouse, the texas. From somewhere below he was sure he heard a passenger murmur “Colinda” and then laugh, but he knew this must be an illusion. When he found her would she still want him? He had changed. He could not recall the message she had sent but he remembered his own sentiments. “When death comes, I want to be on the river.”
“It's simple enough.” The Rose was patient when he asked if Colinda still loved him. “She's waiting, Jack. Yet you continually question her motives, examine her reasons and objectives—forgetting that simple truth. Do you question your luck? She loves you, Jack. She probably doesn't even want to. Colinda's love for you is direct and uncomplicated. As enduring as your own. And never earned,’ Jack. Accept it as innocently as you offer yours and you will thrive in the Second Ether, mon brave.”
She stood beside him on the upper deck. The cool evening air was warmed by two black stacks which sent whispering woodsmoke into the surrounding landscape. “Truth and honesty are tested and proven and tempered in the Second Ether, Jack. In your world all is entropy. The lie is almost your only currency. Principle is martyred, raped and perverted. The truth is a dilute of uncertain memories.”
“You speak as if our dilemma here were a moral one. What morality has the Biloxi Fault?”
“Everything is a fragment of something else; a model for the whole. One thing echoes another. One thing mirrors another. There’s a morality to nature, Jack. One we learn to recognize and sometimes emulate. Like recognizes like. That's what you know already, Jack or you wouldn't be a jugador. You know the odds, the coincidences, the paradoxes, the repetitions which a true gambler senses and manipulates. Only the finest adepts can play the Game of Time with any hope of retaining and amplifying their own identities. With every game you play you increasingly become your own man.”
“You are daring to change God’s plan?”
“We are God's plan, Jack. We believe that if we can bend time, we will have altered the nature of reality. Alter the nature of reality and you create any multiverse obeying any laws you choose—a multiverse wholly benign to our kind. Where death is banished.”
Jack Karaquazian was in no doubt of his opinion and spoke his mind. “You are mad. And maybe damned.”
“Perhaps, but we are not the only people devoting our existence to this search. Others seek a return to their origins so that they might influence natural law. Any one theory or all of them will prove practical. Perhaps this race to seek our origins is common amongst sentient species? Perhaps the laws have already been changed many times? Perhaps the paradoxes and impossibilities we find in our worlds are merely fragments of a previous reality? Perhaps we are wrong and the multiverse is, after all, infinite. Perhaps the scales we know are only tiny motes in some vaster multiverse?”
“This is babbling folly. Mere visionary abstractions, Rose!”
“Madness is when you set yourself against infinity and inevitability. We believe we are not mad because we set ourselves against only quasi-infinity. Nature is finite. If the smallest fragment reflects the whole, then death is inevitable for the multiverse. But, by the same logic, rebirth is also inevitable. We wish to be present at that precise moment between the death of the old multiverse and the beginning of the new.”
“I have no such long view of things,” says Jack. “In a world of reflections there are no evident causes— only effects. You stand in a hall of mirrors trying to determine which image was the original. Yet they are perfectly reproduced. Is it the smallest or the largest? How can you tell? You have dispensed with all measurement! And therefore with all morality!”
“Not so. The answer is to create what you seek. You triumph over nature by winning at the Game. Every time you beat the odds, Jack, you add further substance to your own individuality. Ultimately you will resemble nothing but yourself yet you will recognize others like you. Self-discipline and self- knowledge are the key. An individual becomes a unique universe, able to move at will through all the scales of the multiverse—potentially able to control the immediate reality of every scale, every encountered environment.”
She looked up into the darkening sky. “We are magicians and ghosts, Jack. We are goblins and visitations. We are future and past. We are memory and we are forgetfulness. Yet we achieve a kind of psychic density so that we remain coherent as we travel up and down the scales, back and forth across the multiverse, walking between the worlds on the silver roads people call moonbeams. Our existence is deeply dependent upon individual responsibility and will. That which our group conscience understands to be evil, is evil.”
“This is blasphemous arrogance,” says Jack Karaquazian without dismay, smiling. “This is ungodly Satanism!" But he is curious.
“No, Jack. We are fulfilling the will of our kind and therefore the will of God. Consider, for instance, the intellectual rigor required, the careful debate between the wise thinkers of the day, the understanding of human nature, the willingness to listen to the testament of simple people, the ordering and reordering required, before those elders eventually codified the Ten Commandments. And if you believe those commandments came from God, so be it, for I believe God to be the sum of all that is humane in us, all that is logical and all that is, if you like, divine. But if God did give us the Ten Commandments through a revelation to Moses, what an intellect God must have! And if we fail to respect such a mighty intellect, we are fools.
“The world is full of more wisdom than destructive ignorance. Why then do we let our societies simplify and devolve? Look how we are reduced to warring tribes! How readily we offer up our own freedom to those who would destroy entire worlds for their immediate self-gratification. Why can't that vast majority of us band together to achieve peace and equity? What are we fighting, Jack, that has the power to conquer the will of almost every sentient creature in the multiverse?”
“You speak of the Original Insect.” It was growing cool. Down at the waterline the whitey stokers had come up for a breath of air and were staring with intense concentration into creamy water stirred by slow paddles, as if they divined their fate there.
“I speak of that life which is deadly, which exists only to devour and breed. Yes, and which we define as the Original Insect, inimical to our kind. It would reduce all life and thought to a few primitive functions, forever frozen in its development, thus achieving a kind of semi-immortality. But that is only death refusing the name, eh?"
“Doubtless,” says Jack, turning up his jacket collar. “You make our opponents seem unbeatable, Rose.”
He chided her for this. Both he and she already knew he was irredeemably destined to play the Game of Time. “I have a habit of cool-headedness, that's all,” said Mr. Karaquazian. “A certain talent with the flat tables. A firm belief that God enjoys a roll or two of the dice now and again ...”
“And a strong sense of what should be,” she added. She began to laugh at his mystification. “And who you are.” She enjoyed walking away from him, leaving him to watch the Indian women descend a hill and disappear.

Jack sees the collapse of humanity into barbarians as he think back on Colinda and regrets what he’d done to lose her. It’s then that the lengthy debate with Rose is underway, discussing the nature of humanity, identity, reality, God and the multiverse. Rose supposes that they may be wrong and that the multiverse may actually be infinite though it’s not definitive since going against the quasi-infinite is too much for anyone.

When she returned to the boat, the Rose mentioned nothing of her news to Boss Van Beek. Later Van Beek locked himself in conference with a lieutenant from the gunboat. He had been abstracted, as if he had heard uncertain news. The Rose spoke of this to Sam Oakenhurst and Jack Karaquazian. They agreed that Van Beek's men might have picked up rumors but were probably discounting them. Such apocalyptic stuff was widespread these days. “They get it from those magazines you read, Sam.” Half-serious, Jack Karaquazian teased his friend. “It's spreading into the real world. People will believe anything.”
“You angry, Jack. What is it? Some disappointment?”
“If you like, Sam.” Jack Karaquazian began to cough softly and excusing himself returned to his regular suite which now adjoined Van Beek's. His disease had been in remission for some time but had returned last night.
He was careful with his measure of Ackroyd's. He hung up his silk jacket and brocaded vest, slipped off his bright black boots, loosened his belt and his collar and lay back in his best easy chair, on the arm of which lay a recent copy of Captain Billy Bob’s Monthly relating the latest tales of the Chaos captains, in unstable power dyes which threatened to burn off the plastic and blind the viewer. The Monthly’s main story involved the search for a lost universe with an unlikely name. There was a further episode in the ongoing "Quest for the Fishlings” and a number of other stories involving minor characters from one series in major roles. "Professor Pop and His Speedsheir was for children while "Pearl Peru's Recipe Book” offered conventional hints.
Mr. Karaquazian could not believe these characters anything but fiction. Yet he had met Captain Quelch. Pearl Peru herself had come calling for him at the Terminal Cafe. Perhaps the magazines were only crude fictions invented for want of the real memories of these heroes and heroines of the Second Ether? No doubt they glamorized the truth like the old dime slots had glamorized N'Chaka, Ali Barber or Bumbum Wilson. There was no doubting Captain Quelch's reality, or his strangeness, much of which could be put down to an unfamiliar cultural ambience. But he had not seemed a demigod; merely a clever privateer.
Mr. Karaquazian could not imagine the value of reading the magazines but he conscientiously went through a whole stack, page by page, following the adventures of the Chaos Engineers in their perpetual war against the Singularity, that mighty pseudouniverse enclosed by a vast wall of supercarbon which tore through the scales at a sickening and always increasing rate, ripping ragged holes in the delicate branches and color fields; forever falling through seeming infinity, forever seeking to impose its simplified and sterile laws upon multiversal variety.
Control was their life. By means of ruthless conquest the Singularity believed they could overcome death. But death was all they ever won.

Rose delivers some news but Jack dismisses it as apocalyptic stuff being widespread from those magazines Sam reads, spreading into the real world. Jack coughs again as his disease had been in remission for some time but returned last night. He relaxes on his chair and picks up a recent copy of Captain Billy Bob’s Monthly relating the latest tales of the Chaos captains, in unstable power dyes which threatened to burn off the plastic and blind the viewer. The Monthly’s main story involved the search for a lost universe with an unlikely name. There was a further episode in the ongoing "Quest for the Fishlings” and a number of other stories involving minor characters from one series in major roles. "Professor Pop and His Speedsheir was for children while "Pearl Peru's Recipe Book” offered conventional hints. Jack couldn’t believe those characters to be anything but fiction yet he met Quelch. Pearl Peru herself had come calling for him at the Cafe. Perhaps the magazines were only crude fictions invented for want of the real memories of these heroes and heroines of the Second Ether. No doubt they glamorized the truth like the old dime slots had glamorized N'Chaka, Ali Barber or Bumbum Wilson. There was no doubting Quelch's reality, or his strangeness, much of which could be put down to an unfamiliar cultural ambience but he hadn’t seemed a demigod, just a clever privateer. Jack couldn’t imagine the value of reading the magazines but he conscientiously went through a whole stack, page by page, following the adventures of the Chaos Engineers in their perpetual war against the Singularity, that mighty faux-universe enclosed by a vast wall of supercarbon which tore through the scales at a sickening and always increasing rate, ripping ragged holes in the delicate branches and color fields, forever falling through SEEMING INFINITY, forever seeking to impose its simplified and sterile laws upon multiversal variety. Control was their life. By means of ruthless conquest the Singularity believed they could overcome death but death was all they ever won.

The current remained gentle, but anticipating what was coming Jack Karaquazian thought he felt it tug a little more aggressively. He was profoundly uneasy. He wondered if Sam Oakenhurst and the Rose were completely sane. The Mississippi River was running backwards. It was commonly believed that an abyss lay ahead—into which all this water was pouring. They seemed unconcerned. At what point, he wondered, did one universe impose upon another? He had hardly been aware of a shift. He had expected something more dramatic. Was the final slide toward oblivion always so uneventful?
He shrugged off his mood. Meanwhile Van Beek remained oblivious of everything. They let him borrow one of the Brackett's and he became absorbed in it, creating his own crude pseudo-reality.
The river was broadening. It was hard to make out the west bank now. Whole towns had already been engulfed, whole forests and mountain ranges. He again remembered his words to Colinda. When the Old Hunter came for him he wanted to be on the river. Maybe God was granting him this part, at least, of his unrealized dream.
He stood on the top deck, outside the texas, leaning on the brass rail and staring from side to side at the flat, grey expanse of water, mirroring an identical sky. Was the whole world slowly evaporating? He moved to look behind him. In the choppy waters of their wake the gunboat was not far away. Laboring to keep her speed down, she was in increasing danger of being swept on. The muddy wash of both vessels spread out in ever-diminishing ripples until they were indistinguishable from the tiny waves which the wind made on all that lonely water.
The birds were gone.
If the flood was upon them they were aboard an ill-equipped Ark. It seemed they had not been chosen to carry the race into the next world. Mr. Karaquazian began to laugh. Then he began to cough.
A few hours later, when it was dusk, there was nothing to be seen but the water. The waves were higher, breaking against the paddle-houses and pouring over the lower deck. There was a wind, too, from the North. It carried an unpleasant sweet smell. And they could hear far away a kind of howling which was obscenely familiar to Jack Karaquazian, though Sam Oakenhurst and the Rose did not seem disturbed by it. “It sounds human,” said Jack Karaquazian, “like the Fault.”
In the darkness which came upon them quickly, as if they had entered a cave, Jack Karaquazian went to his cabin and lay on his bunk listening to the river. Its speed continued gradually to increase. When, at last, he got up, it was dawn and the steamboat was rolling violently in heavy waves. Outside, the spray was high and it was raining. Ahead to starboard he could just make out, through the shifting vapor, the gunboat. Its engine squealing, it tried to reduce the distance between them.
He joined the Rose in the wheelhouse and borrowed her glasses, glimpsing terrified faces before the gunboat sank again below his vision. They seemed to be lightening the boat, but the Cassion still bounced in its harness. They were beyond hope and should be praying for a quick death. The boat came up again and he saw the white giant, sweat making the stain run in thin streaks over his face and body, doing everything he could to keep control of the wheel. Jack Karaquazian would not be surprised if his own face had something of the same expression.

The current seems gentle but Jack senses what’s coming and thought he felt it tug a little more aggressively, feeling real uneasy. He wondered if Sam and Rose were completely sane, seemingly unfazed. The Mississippi River was running backwards. It’s commonly believed that an abyss lay ahead into which all that water was pouring. He wonders at what point did one universe impose upon another, hardly aware of a shift. He expected something more dramatic, pondering if the final slide toward oblivion was always so uneventful. Van Beek remained oblivious of everything as they let him borrow one of the Brackett's and he became absorbed in it, creating his own crude faux-reality. The river was broadening and whole towns are swallowed along with whole forests and mountain ranges. Jack remembered his words to Colinda: when Old Hunter came for him, he wanted to be on the river so maybe God was granting him that part of his unrealized dream. He wonders if the whole world’s slowly evaporating. Jack watches the chaos some more as it’s all sucked into the next world, laughing and coughing all the way. It eventually dies down after a few hours but a wind comes from the North, carrying an unpleasant sweet smell and they could hear a kind of howling which was obscenely familiar to Jack but Sam and Rose didn’t seem disturbed by it. Jack thinks it sounds human like the Fault. The chaos returns as they enter into darkness with the cw beyond hope and should be paying for a quick death when they encounter a white giant.

The Rose had just relieved Sam Oakenhurst.
It was always obvious when the boat came under her control. There was a steadier feel to their progress and she used the paddles astutely both to slow and to steer. The whitey stokers were performing heroically, tirelessly. She had been given the best. She was now grateful to Sam Oakenhurst for persuading her to take them on. No ordinary stoker would have remained with the boat once the river turned round. Most whites were hugely superstitious and would have deserted readily at the first hint of queerness. But these worked almost without rest, with an intelligent, ready response to her needs. Something in her found their obedience distasteful, but she was glad of it. She had a hint, however, of why and how the machinoix had trained their whites and to what impossible humiliations and horrors they had been exposed before the most useful of them survived. Now, of course, they simply bred true.
The voice of the abyss was growing stronger now. One vast human shout of pain.
Slowly the sky grew pink, then crimson, until the diluted blood of millions drizzled upon their decks and stained the cream filigree and confident brass and they tasted it in their bones until at last even Boss Van Beek emerged complaining and cursing, then stopped to gasp at what he saw.
“Where’s my boat?”
“Your damned boat, sir, is over yonder,” said Sam Oakenhurst coming up from below in a yellow mackinaw and pointing.
The Rose's laughter was spontaneous. “Mustard just ain’t your color, these days, Sam!”
He enjoyed her humor. In the last few days their relations had again grown relaxed and he was sure of her love. He had become increasingly cheerful as Jack Karaquazian had grown increasingly glum.
“It’s okay once you done it, Jack,” Sam Oakenhurst reassured his friend. “The first time's always hard for us.” He, too, began to laugh. This time it was infectious. Mr. Karaquazian felt his spirits lifting. Then he laughed. Soon only Van Beek had not joined in their merriment. He was rushing back and forth on the top deck, darting down to the hurricane deck and back again. Something had happened to the other passengers! The boat was deserted! What was this? What was this? Where were his people?
The rain poured warmer and darker crimson and the horizon ahead of them boiled with brown vapor from which little tongues of oily blue and purple darted. Water was now roaring loud enough to drown the noise ahead, yet the Rose made no attempt to halt their progress towards the abyss. The rapids leapt and foamed. They were travelling at enormous speed. The awful horizon grew rapidly closer.
Then the water settled into a single, steady, spray- clouded rush. Boiling vapor filled the sky ahead and that sound of voices rose in their ears so they shivered with the pain. But Boss Van Beek paced and frowned. He had taken up the Rose’s glasses and located his gunboat, helplessly whirling out of sight, its crew waving wretchedly and firing off the Cassion as if they thought they could challenge that frightful apparition and force it to retreat. Then, suddenly, the gunboat was lifted easily into the air: to plunge down again and disappear, in a fraction of a moment, into the pit.
Boss Van Beek began to scream as the yowling chasm dragged La Perle in the gunboat’s wake. Then he stopped. For a moment there was a silence. The vapor cleared. They heard only the water rushing miles wide into a bottomless chasm. Beyond the chasm’s edge was no horizon at all: the edge of the world.
The clouds boiled up again. The voices dropped to a soft moaning. The boat's prow dipped forward, her paddles clanking powerlessly. Even the Rose had trouble keeping her steering true, weaving with all the currents which surrounded her, selecting, rejecting, taking first one branch and then another until at last she had found a main vein and followed it. It was the best she could do.
The three of them were crammed into the texas. But as soon as he saw he was of no use Sam Oakenhurst went looking for Van Beek who had vanished below.
“I'm a fool,” said the Rose to Jack Karaquazian. “I've let Quelch use me. Van Beek's one of his recruits!” She began to curse herself so intensely that Jack Karaquazian impulsively embraced her. He thought she had lost her mind.
Mr. Karaquazian had never felt so horribly ill. La Perle s twin stacks poured sparks and grey smoke into freezing air. Jack Karaquazian was reminded of the mint fields and date groves of Marrakech, capital of the Berber Empire, her dark green palms and glittering red walls raised against a royal blue sky, her minarets rippling with pearly color and her pastel towers beginning to sound the day's fourth prayer. The city seemed to laze in the sun, yet her streets and squares swarmed day and night with the voluble, witty denizens of that least disappointing of fabulous cities. And he thought the paddle-wheeler sailed over the rooftops of Marrakech and he recalled a game played there, named after the famous square: “Meeting the Dead.”
Sam Oakenhurst came in, shaking his head. The Rose's hands were firmly on the wheel. She had overcome her angry shame. The boat still moved readily to her command, flying out beyond the world's edge where the water crashed and shrieked, out into the bellowing storm, into the fractured air which broke like a slow mirror. When the cracks widened into rivers they flew down into a narrow vein of scarlet which bore them through pulsing violet rock and a blindingly vivid expanse of pale obsidian.
Obsidian became crystal and all that crystal was a great city, eerie in the distant fading vanilla light as they settled in calm water. Then the Rose began to curse even more violently, rounding on them as if they, too, were to blame for her dilemma.
“He used us just as he wished—Van Beek was Quelch’s recruit! And thus we lost our own chance into the Second Ether! We are marooned here. Becalmed for eternity! Oh, my weakness! My fascination with my enemies! It has proved our damnation!”
“Van Beek’s below,” said Sam Oakenhurst dumbly, staring out at the surrounding beauty, something neither he nor Jack had ever expected to see again.
“No he isn’t! No he isn’t!” The Rose left the wheel and pushed open the texas door to stalk about on her narrow upper deck. “No, no, no!”
“Van Beek paid for his passage with the blood of his people!” She groaned. “No meat boat needed there, my lads. We do not deserve to call ourselves adepts.”
Sam Oakenhurst and Jack Karaquazian searched briefly for Van Beek. “He must have gone overboard,” Sam called up to a still grim Rose. She turned her back on him.
But Jack Karaquazian coming from the stokehold said: “Well, he took the whites with him.”
“They all went into the Second Ether, I guess.” Sam Oakenhurst shrugged. “Or wherever it was we were. I'm reconciled to this, Jack. It ain’t new to me. Whatever it is the Rose wants us to go to, it don’t seem to want us. At least we got to keep the boat this time.”
"It’s not bad luck,” they heard the Rose say, “it’s bad judgement. What hope would we have had anyway? We’re numskulls! The simplest trick in the world!”
Jack Karaquazian found it hard to share her mood. He had packed himself a rare pipe of M & E and was enjoying it as he leaned on the rail, looking out across the tranquil waters of a lagoon where herons waded in the reeds and huge catfish swam with calm purpose just below the surface, their ancient whiskered faces benign. The oaks in the meadow on the southern bank were beginning to take on a tint of russet and there was a rich smell of autumn in the air. In that scene of extraordinary peacefulness Jack Karaquazian found it hard to understand why the Rose should be so disappointed. They had fallen out of the mouth of Hell to land, somehow, in a corner of Heaven.

Rose takes control of the boat and identifies the abyssal voice growing stronger as a pained human shout. The sky changes again with Van Beek waking up, looking for his boat. The storm gets more intense as they travel at enormous speeds, the horizon growing rapidly closer. They reach a calm at the bottomless chasm on the world’s edge. The chaos returns and Jack gets sicker than he ever had. Rose keeps her control on the wheel, the boat still moving readily to her command as it flies out beyond the world’s edge where the water crashed and shrieked, out into the bellowing storm, into the fractured air which broke like a slow mirror. When the cracks widened into rivers they flew down into a narrow vein of scarlet which bore them through pulsing violet rock and a blindingly vivid expanse of pale obsidian which became crystal and all that crystal was a great city, eerie in the distant fading vanilla light as they settled in calm water. Rose discovers Van Beek, Quelch’s recruit, used them just as he wished and they lost their own chance into the Second Ether. Now marooned there, they’re becalmed for eternity. The trio try to find Van Beek and it seems he brought some white slave with him into the Second Ether which seems to bar the trio from entering which freaks out Rose. Jack is calm however and think they’d fallen out of Hell’s mouth to land in a Heavenly corner somehow.

“It’s like being a piece and not a player,” said Jack Karaquazian. “That’s what scares me, Sam.”
“Well, we're still players, Jack. But I think we needed desperately to get over there. We're running out of luck. That's why she’s worried. My guess is we're just becalmed and can eventually make another attempt, but that ain't her way of responding to a set-back.”
Jack Karaquazian watched a kingfisher fly with swift, irregular wingbeats over the water to hover suddenly, sighting a fish feeding in the shallows, and dive, to flash upwards with a wriggling silver body in its triumphant beak.
“The weak shall devour the strong,” said the Rose to herself overhead. “He could as easily have written me a note!”
Jack Karaquazian wondered how they had come to this peaceful limbo which reminded him, in indefinable ways, of his childhood in Aswan when he had waded amongst the rockpools and ponds of the cataracts while the bright white sails of the little boats, the masts at cryptic angles to the tall palms, went back and forth in the calms, plying from shore to sandy shore. The great grey rocks had glittered like the hides of ancient beasts cooling in the streams.
He had watched the ibis striking between the papyrus and he had wandered through the ruins of so many dead civilizations, learning their languages and their signs, learning their secrets until gradually he came to understand he must go to Alexandria to his rebirth, where the adepts taught at the so-called Musram Berberim. After three years his master had sent him west to Marrakech, red city of storks and miracles. There was no finer training. He had arrived back in Alexandria a proud and full-fledged mukhamir. A jugador of the first class.
He had returned, at length, to Aswan.
“Mukhamir,” he told his father. “They say we are the chosen of God. That only we understand his complex logic.”
“Then you are an angel,” his father had said. “Or you blaspheme and are damned for eternity.”
“We are merely his soldiers,” Jack Karaquazian had said. “Defending God’s honor and our own.”
But the Civil War had begun, one sect against another, one mosque against another, and, untended, Egypt's monuments had collapsed. The Nile had grown so clogged with the dead they said you could smell Luxor as far as Nairobi. What was happening to him now was in that sense no worse than what had happened to all his family after the Turks arrived, but by then he had taken the schoomer for America. They had told him you could make a lifetime’s fortune working just a year on the handsome Mississippi steamboats, but they had not told him what bad losers some men and women could be. Thus he had learned to defend himself. Now his reputation with a weapon was as considerable as his reputation at the deep table. They had been heady years, playing life against death; risking all he had on the quickness of his mind and the speed of his draw until only the biggest gamblers or most powerful bosses would play against him and he had joined the small group who dominated the river queens in the years when society was still gripped by the madness of white power and was profligate with its energies.
The lean times had come with energy unaffordable to common folk, but still the landowners and industrialists, who wanted the thrill of playing against the best, would pay for all the feed the color demanded.
Then they had drilled the Fault and the odds changed radically, became harder to calculate, yet still they had congregated to play, this time at the Terminal Cafe, to which the old jugadors from many parts of the world had come, sooner or later. Now it was all done, thought Jack Karaquazian, watching a family of brown pelicans rise out of the middle of the lake and fly towards the west into a pale yellow sun. All the energy had been used up. The game was over. He regretted it but could think of worse places to end his days.
“I can't change! I'm useless! I'm the most gullible idiot in the multiverse! I deserve to die!"
The Rose was now out of Jack Karaquazian’s sight, on the other side of the texas, but he could hear her stamping. He was only remotely sympathetic. He wanted little more than what he had at this moment. He did not believe they were stranded.
As he stood dreaming into the water, he caught a distant sound in the sharp fall air, like a polite murmur, then a drone, rising to a whine, then falling again to a steady purr. He cleared his throat, realizing that he was no longer coughing. Looking up he saw a huge old-fashioned flying boat sailing swiftly over the horizon, her wings at a swaggering rake as she studied the paddle-boat.
"It’s a turning world, Jack," says Sam Oakenhurst coming up beside his friend and watching as the white Dornier, engines sputtering and booming on her upper wings, makes her dignified approach to the lagoon.

Jack thinks it’s like being a piece and not a player which scares Jack but Sam assures him they’re still players and thinks they desperately need to get over there. They’re running out of luck which is why Rose is worried. He guesses that’s why they’re just becalmed and can eventually make another attempt. Jack wondered how they’d come to that peaceful limbo which reminded him of his childhood in Aswan when he waded amongst the rockpools and ponds of the cataracts. Jack has seemingly gone back in time as he returns to Alexandria to his rebirth. A young Jack says Jugadors are said to be God’s chosen for only they understand his complex logic, making him an angel or he blasphemes and damned for eternity. Jack says they’re God’s soldiers, defending his honor and their own. The Civil War that Jack fled in the past takes place as Jack proves his mettle both in battle and on the deep table. They’d been heady years, playing life against death, risking all he had on the quickness of his mind and the speed of his draw until only the biggest gamblers or most powerful bosses would play against him and he joined the small group who dominated the river queens in the years when society was still gripped by the madness of white power and was profligate with its energies. The lean times had come with energy unaffordable to common folk, but still the landowners and industrialists, who wanted the thrill of playing against the best, would pay for all the feed the color demanded then they drilled the Fault and the odds changed radically, becoming harder to calculate yet they still congregated to play, this time at the Cafe, to which the old Jugadors from many parts of the world had come, sooner or later. It all ends as all the energy had been used up and the game over. He regretted it but could think of worse places to end his days. Rose thinks out some more but Sam tells Jack that it’s a turning world as the boat keeps on flying.

Jack Karaquazian had little curiosity about the machinoix or their taste. Like this bizarre white art, it related to nothing he understood or felt at ease with. He feared he lacked the imagination for the Rose’s Game of Time.
Sensing his friend's mood, Sam Oakenhurst stopped his enthusiastic explorations and came to sit down. “It ain’t scary once you get there, Jack. No scarier than anywhere else.”
Sam Oakenhurst had explained everything he could to Jack Karaquazian. He swore the Rose was not deceiving them. Apart from his own instincts, he trusted the word of the machinoix. They had once played the Game but now chose not to. Though weary of the Second Ether themselves they assured him she spoke only truth.
“We'll know how to play when we get there, Jack. It's the same as the games we’re used to, only with more scale changes. It should be easy for you.”
“I doubt that, Sam.”
Mr. Oakenhurst persisted. “I've had a taste or two of playing, Jack. There's nothing to beat the thrill. The way your blood quickens. Even the likes of us, Jack. It makes you young. Believe me, Jack. The Rose is on the square. You’ll get what you want out of this. As will I.”
With a slight gesture of his fingers, Jack Karaquazian acknowledged his friend’s concern. “I guess I’m used to relying on a few basic rules, Sam. I always saved complexity for my work. I always wanted my private life to be simple. Maybe I should have let a little more uncertainty in? I guess that’s how I really lost Colinda.”
“Maybe,” said Sam Oakenhurst. “I don't know.” Jack Karaquazian and Colinda Dovero were probably the best gamblers on the continent. Mr. Oakenhurst hated to see his admired friend experiencing regret. “You don’t have to do any of this. You can just go to her. You deserve that. Play later, when you feel like it. But Jack, I want to play bad. It’s what I’ve been training for. I just want to taste the Second Ether, know the characters in the Game, maybe get to link with Pearl Peru herself. But you think I’m crazy.”
“You always followed your enthusiasm though, Sam.” Jack Karaquazian began to grin.
“You can have Colinda without playing the Game, Jack. She hasn't played it. She will think no less of you.”
“I want a taste of it, too, Sam. I don’t have your obsession with it, but I do have a little curiosity. I’d like to find out where I stand as a player. Find the center of all this, maybe.”
“Maybe not. Maybe I’ll just have to make one for myself. Next time I see Mrs. Dovero I want to be pretty sure of my bearings.”
“You’re scared she won't want you?”
“Mainly that’s what I’m scared of,” Mr. Karaquazian agreed.

While in Rudy von Bek’s aircraft, Jack fears he lacks the imagination for the Rose’s Game of Time. Sam senses Jack's mood and stops his explorations to sit down. It ain’t scary once he gets there, no scarier than anywhere else, he insists. Sam explained everything he could to Jack, swearing that Rose wasn’t deceiving them. Apart from his own instincts, he trusted the machinoix’s word. They once played the Game but now chose not to. Though weary of the Second Ether themselves they assured him she spoke only truth. They’ll know how to play when they get there and it's the same as the games they’re used to, only with more scale changes which should be easy for Jack but he’s doubtful. He’s had a taste or two of playing with nothing to beat the thrill, the way their blood quickens, even for them and it makes them young. Sam asks Jack to believe him as Rose is on the square. Jack’ll get what he wants out of that as will he. He guesses he’s used to relying on a few basic rules, always saving complexity for his work. He always wanted his private life to be simple so maybe he should’ve let a little more uncertainty in, guessing that’s how he really lost Colinda. Sam isn’t sure but Jack and Colinda were probably the best gamblers on the continent. Sam says he doesn’t have to do any of that and he can just go to her. Sam asks he play later when he feel likes it since he wants to play real bad. It’s what he’s been training for. He just wants to taste the Second Ether, knowing the characters in the Game, maybe get to link with Pearl Peru herself but Jack thinks he’s crazy. He says Jack can have Colinda without playing the Game as she hasn’t played it and she’ll think no less of him but Jack wants a taste of it too. Jack doesn’t have Sam’s obsession with it but he does have a little curiosity. He’d like to find out where he stands as a player, find the center of all that, maybe. Jack thinks he’ll just have to make one for myself. Next time he sees Colinda, he wants to be certain of his bearings, scared that she won’t want him.

BardicheAssault · Jun 4, 2021

BLOOD: A SOUTHERN FANTASY, PT. 4-2

Until he looked out of the porthole Jack Karaquazian did not realize they had left the familiar world. What he saw was a mass of roughly circular dark blue shapes which grew smaller and lighter as they moved towards a pale yellow haze. The effect was of peering down an endless tunnel. He turned away and saw the Rose at the plane’s controls, a black figure against the pulsing red and orange kaleidoscope forward. The far porthole revealed an identical phenomenon of blue circles at which Sam Oakenhurst eagerly stared. Jack Karaquazian became aware of the engines grumbling on the upper wings.
The vibrations increased as the plane dipped to enter a jagged shard of faded green and from there soar above a field of enormous poppies.
He felt as though he had been absorbed by a Brackett’s. The light and color had a similar soft vividness. There were no shadows. Everything glowed with equal intensity as if from inner fire. Steered with extraordinary sureness, certain to have been this way before, the flying boat banked and then nosed into a sky coruscating with multifaceted moonstones.
Now he understood how she had come by her reputation on the Missouri. His teeth were like metal. They ached. He was glad he had not eaten with the others. Bile leapt into his mouth. He heard the Rose laughing, saw Count von Bek get up from the copilot’s seat and stroll past him towards the stem. Sam Oakenhurst took von Bek’s place. Jack Karaquazian watched while faces formed in harsh purple tapestries.
They were insect faces. He found them abominable.
Russet oak leaves, becoming brown streaked with silver, fanned out and dismissed the faces. He breathed the scent of lilies.
“Sometimes,” he heard the Rose say, “I think we’re shown a glimpse of the beginning. But maybe it’s only the end.”
It seemed to Jack Karaquazian that the plane banked again and began to spin: he became dizzy and the plane dissolved. He stood, naked and defiant against the firmament, his flesh fierce with brazen light, his destiny charted before his eyes, his spirit full of song. He was possessed of a noble certainty of purpose, ready to make his own way to the Second Ether and choose his role. He was consumed with a vibrant sense of physical well-being.
“Easy, Jack.”
The plane’s engines slowed and there was a sound of rushing air as she began to descend.
Jack Karaquazian wiped mist from the porthole and saw recently mown wheatfields, vineyards, rooftops and chimneys.
Then the flying boat was dropping towards a large artificial lake flanked by totems carved in marble and granite, figures of boys and women in absurdly stylized poses, the old pseudo-realism of a white civilization which in its day had ruled half the globe before collapsing under the weight of its own self- deception. Beyond this ornamental lake were the crenelated walls and towers of a barbarian city, its domes, steeples and votive columns rising high into an early morning sky.
The plane banked, straightened, coughed, coughed again, and hit the water smoothly with a loud thump which shocked both men. Up from the rear came a jaunty Rudy von Bek in holiday clothes, a pale grey suit and lilac accessories, including the traditional topper of his tribe. He carried a carpet bag. “It’s a wedding,” he said apologetically. “I’m the best man. Goodbye, my friends.” He shook hands with them both as he paused by the main door in the middle of the fuselage. He would pass through this onto the lower wing. He would take the inflatable on a cord. They would retract the boat as soon as he reached the shore. "I'm leaving you with the finest ether-pilot since Renark of the Rim. You are lucky men.”
“Which is why, I guess, were here.” Sam Oakenhurst was warmer to the white man than Jack Karaquazian was able to be. “We'll be seeing you, Rudy.”
Von Bek went forward to embrace the Rose. They spoke in that same guttural language, full of granite vowels and steel consonants, which Mr. Karaquazian believed resembled the tongue used by bull baboons battling for kingship. All those European dialects sounded the same, which was doubtless why Europeans preferred Arabic as their common language.
Watching Count von Bek rowing himself rapidly towards the bank, Jack Karaquazian took deep breaths of the autumn air. The light was red-gold and gently fading, even as the sun rose upon the flashing copper and tiles of Mirenburg's roofs and gave the whole city the gaudy grandeur of a carnival. It was impossible to see any beauty von Bek and the Rose claimed for the settlement.
Momentarily Mr. Karaquazian wondered why, at the last moment, Sam Oakenhurst had handed von Bek a folded sheet of paper, probably a letter.
He sought desperately for his bearings. He had had no time to gather himself, to take stock of what might be happening to him, to recover control.
The Rose watched von Bek through the plane's forward windshield. “You are wondering, Sam, why I would marry someone like that. Rudy is almost the opposite of his brother, though both had courage. He has rescued me more than once. There was no escape from that stasis until he arrived. And from here we shall easily fly through the Autumn Stars up into the Grail. I know the way.”
And from there, thought Sam Oakenhurst, with a sensation in his groin which threatened to overwhelm him and yet did not seem entirely sexual, it will be a short step to Pearl Peru and the Game of Time.
He kissed his soul mate and dreamed of extravagant adventure.

Until he looked out of a porthole, Jack didn’t realize they left the familiar world. What he saw was a mass of roughly circular dark blue shapes which grew smaller and lighter as they moved towards a pale yellow haze. The effect was of peering down an endless tunnel. He turned away and saw Rose at the plane’s controls, a black figure against the pulsing red and orange kaleidoscope forward. The far porthole revealed an identical phenomenon of blue circles at which Sam eagerly stared. Jack became aware of the engines grumbling on the upper wings, vibrations increasing as the plane dipped to enter a jagged shard of faded green and from there soar above a field of enormous poppies. He felt as though he had been absorbed by a Brackett’s. Everything glowed with equal intensity as if from inner fire. Steered with extraordinary sureness, certain to have been that way before, the flying boat banked and then nosed into a sky coruscating with multifaceted moonstones. Now he understood how she had come by her reputation on the Missouri. Jack watched while insectoid faces formed in harsh purple tapestries. It seemed to Jack that the plane banked again and began to spin, becoming dizzy as the plane dissolved. He stood, naked and defiant against the firmament, his flesh fierce with brazen light, his destiny charted before his eyes, his spirit full of song. He was possessed of a noble certainty of purpose, ready to make his own way to the Second Ether and choose his role. He was consumed with a vibrant sense of physical well-being. That’s interrupted as the flying boat was dropping towards a large artificial lake flanked by totems carved in marble and granite, figures of boys and women in absurdly stylized poses, the old pseudo-realism of a white civilization which in its day had ruled half the globe before collapsing under the weight of its own self-deception. They retract the boat as soon as they reach the shore as Rudy leaves them with Renark. Rose tells Sam that Rudy rescued her more than once, no escape from that stasis until he arrived and from there, they’ll easily fly through the Autumn Stars up into the Grail since she knows the way. Sam senses that Peal Peru and the Game of Time are near.

By the time we had found the Grail again and ridden effortlessly up the scales to the heart of the Second Ether, the Rose had convinced Jack of his sanity. Both he and I were almost through vomiting.
Jack says to me that I was right. The beauty of it is enough to die for.
“But we don’t have to die, Jack,” says the Rose. “That's the real beauty of it! We have a chance,” she says, “and we’ve damned all to lose given the odds against us. Change the nature of Time and you alter the terms of the human, condition.”
I understood better than Jack what she meant. They were trying to make some sort of just world! They were playing from faith, with the power of their trained wills. Giving their best in an effort to create an ideal.
From somewhere the Rose had obtained coordinates and a destination. We could rendezvous with our chosen patrons in the lower color fields where “Cuttlefish and her Paramour” was being played, with all characters present—Fearless Frank Force, Kapitan Kaos, Manly Mark Male, Little Fanny Fun, Corporal Pork, Karl Kapital, Straight Arrow and the others for the Singularity. Opposing them were Captain Billy-Bob and all her famous Chaos Engineers, Kaprikorn Schultz and some who were entirely for themselves.
With the legendary Spammer Gain, Pearl Peru was one of the few truly neutral adventurers. But Pearl’s weakness was for Bullybop, believed dead in the Blue Ice, searching for the Lost Universe of Ko-O- Ko, and this distracted Pearl from following her conscience, which told her to go to the aid of the Spammer Gain, whose quest for her fishlings had led that mighty benignity into the power of the Original Insect.
Jack was still uneasy about playing in the company of so many whites, particularly taking on a white’s role. I told him his distaste was a weakness which would do him no good in the Second Ether, where issues of blood had long since ceased to concern us.
He agreed. “To make a judgment according to race or gender is ungentlemanly and uncivilized, Sam. I know that. But that white battyboy freak still gives me the willies."
Von Bek had not seemed a freak to me. Perhaps that was because we were all freaks there, save Jack himself. The Rose for instance was only half human and maybe me, too.
“I’m way out of my depth again,” says Jack. “The same as I was when I lost Colinda. It's coloring everything."
“Wait until you're playing," I told him. “Then you’ll feel good again. You'll understand.”
But he was not entirely convinced. Twice, in the last little while, he had lost to me and the Rose at the Brackett's. We had been stunned. Jack had treated the events fatalistically, as if they were expected.
I told him this was a bad time to start getting demoralized. He agreed.

By the time they found the Grail again and ridden effortlessly up the scales to the heart of the Second Ether, Rose convinced Jack of his sanity. Both he and Sam were almost done puking. Jack says to Sam that he was right, the beauty of it’s enough to die for but they don’t have to die. The real beauty of it is they have a chance and they’ve damned all to lose given the odds against them. Change the nature of time and one alters the terms of the human condition. Sam understood better than Jack what she meant. They were trying to make some sort of just world and playing from faith with the power of their trained wills, giving their best in an effort to create an ideal. From somewhere, Rose obtained coordinates and a destination, rendezvousing with their chosen patrons in the lower color fields where a game was being played, with all characters present from the Singularity and Chaos Engineers’ struggle. With the legendary Spammer Gain, Pearl Peru was one of the few truly neutral adventurers but Pearl’s weakness was for Bullybop, believed dead in the Blue Ice, searching for Ko-O- Ko, and that distracted Pearl from following her conscience, which told her to go to help Spammer whose quest for her fishlings had led that mighty benignity into the power of the Original Insect. Jack was still uneasy about playing in the company of so many whites, particularly taking on a white’s role. Sam told Jack his distaste was a weakness which would do him no good in the Second Ether, where issues of blood had long since ceased to concern them and he agreed but Jack can’t quite shake his feelings. Sam asks him to wait until he’s playing then he’ll feel good again but Jack’s not entirely convinced since twice, he lost both Sam and Rose at the Brackett’s. Still, it’s a bad time for him to get spooked which he agrees.

At this rate, I said, you'll be taken out of the Game in the opener! It was as if he was deliberately trying to sour his luck. And his luck, I said, was the best thing we had on our side. I wasn’t fooling. Only as Jack weakened on us did I realize how much we were depending on his famous luck. But luck could go in seconds and never come back in a lifetime. We all knew that. Both the Rose and I were getting scared that Jack's luck wasn’t around any more. We could have one of the walking wounded on our hands.
I took to reminding him of his own stories, of his legendary fights and risks, his unprecedented winnings and extraordinary losses: of how he had faced five bigwigs fixing to bushwhack him down on the Colorado, just outside Austin. How he had been hanged and never even gotten a bruised neck.
In Baton Rouge he had beaten Old Mums Bonchance at her own game. She had ruled the tables for as long as anyone remembered. And Jack Karaquazian challenged her and won. There was no one like Jack Karaquazian, Al-Q’areen, in the whole of the States. With his Marrakech training and his true Egyptian blood he was the very model of intellectual Africa; independent and self-disciplined, refusing the obvious and partial solution in favor of the whole; conscious of the common good; courteous to ladies and his social inferiors and able, if called upon, to defend his people and his honor to the death. He was, I reminded him, the inspiration of a thousand outstanding jugadors on his adopted continent alone. He was courted by the most beautiful women. Anyone who had ever sat at the flat table with him boasted of it. Why was he upset by the experience of being a piece in the game rather than controlling everything?
"You're too used to knowing all the moves ahead of time,” I told him. "You’ll have to take this thing move by move, ^s she comes. At least for a while.”
He asked me if you ever got used to it enough to read the currents of the Game without thinking. I said I knew this happened. The Rose could do it. But you couldn't get too experienced at it. There was a point where you lost spontaneity. That was when you gave up or retired. If you refused to admit your condition, you lost, sometimes instantly, and were no more.
“Extinguished?”
“I guess so,” I said. “I only have a hazy idea.”

At that rate Jack’ll be taken out of the Game in the opener. It was as if Jack was deliberately trying to sour his luck which was the best thing they had on their side. Only as Jack weakened on them did Sam realize how much they were depending on his famous luck but it could go in seconds and never come back in a lifetime. Both Rose and Sam were getting scared that Jack's luck wasn’t around anymore. They could have one of the walking wounded on their hands. Sam took to reminding Jack of his own stories, his legendary fights and risks, his unprecedented winnings and extraordinary losses, how he faced five bigwigs fixing to bushwhack him down on the Colorado, just outside Austin and how he’d been hanged and never even gotten a bruised neck. In Baton Rouge, he’d beaten Old Mum’s Bonchance at her own game who ruled the tables for as long as anyone remembered. Jack challenged her and won for there was no one like Jack in the whole of the States. Sam reminded Jack that he was the inspiration of a thousand outstanding Jugadors on his adopted continent alone. Sam wonders why he was upset by the experience of being a piece in the game rather than controlling everything, thinking Jack’s too used to knowing all the moves ahead of time. He’ll have to take the thing move by move as she comes, at least for awhile. Jack asked Sam if he ever got used to it enough to read the Game’s currents without thinking. Sam said he knew that happened since Rose could do it but Jack couldn't get too experienced at it. There was a point where one lost spontaneity. That was when one gave up or retired. If one refused to admit their condition, they lost, sometimes instantly, and were no more but Sam only has a hazy idea.

I knew a little more than I admitted. I had trembled, after all, as the tongues of the machinoix relived their ecstatic moments at the Game of Time. So bébe! They had taught me how to discover the Second Ether on the Path of Pain. You had to be fully alive to survive the Second Ether and play the Game. But I had followed the wide, red paths between the universes, borne above them on wings of pure silver and calling out the songs which took me through a confusion of grids and vapors, following the long, winding roads, dusty in the summer's heat, between the rolling, wooded hills or coursing into the heart of stars, flying naked against unguessable miles of dark blue silk and green clouds and the smell of warm rain, threatening a storm.
"You are alive and free in every element,” I added. "You are fully alive. Aware of every individual vein and organ. Every blood cell. You have the whole multiverse at your disposal. You can go where you like and be whom you wish to be at any scale you choose.”
“But not if you play the Game of Time.” Jack grinned. “If you play the Game you do what Pearl Peru should do or what Karl Kapital would do. You must obey the rules, however subtle. You must play their story and not your own.”
“No,” I said, “you play your own story through theirs. That is what the great players do. That is the secret of winning at the Game of Time. You must hope to put your own stamp upon the tale, to leave it permanently altered. She is of the Just, as am I. We are hoping to bend the multiverse to our will and destroy the rule of the beast. It’s in their logic and their alchemy as it is in ours.”
Jack said it was superstitious bianco nonsense and was disbelieving. “Cheap fairground mumpo-jumpo. The kind those poor damned whiteys thrive on.”
“You'd be surprised what you can learn from their mumpo-jumpo!” I was angry with his deliberate ignorance. “They have an old wisdom, Jack.”
“It didn’t do them much good,” he said.

Sam knew a little more than he admitted, trembling as the Machinoix’s tongues relived their ecstatic moments at the Game of Time. They taught Sam how to discover the Second Ether on the Path of Pain. One had to be fully alive to survive the Second Ether and play the Game but Sam followed the wide, red paths between universes, borne above them on wings of pure silver and calling out the songs which took him through a confusion of grids and vapors, following the long, winding roads, dusty in the summer's heat, between the rolling, wooded hills or coursing into the heart of stars, flying naked against unguessable miles of dark blue silk and green clouds and the smell of warm rain, threatening a storm. Jack’s fully alive and free in every element, aware of every individual vein and organ, every blood cell. Jack has the whole multiverse at his disposal. He can go where he likes and be whom he wishe to be at any scale he chooses but not if Sam plays the Game of Time. If Sam plays the Game, he’ll do what Pearl should do or what Karl would do. Sam must obey the rules, however subtle. He must play their story and not his own. Sam objects as one must play their own story through theirs. That’s what the great players do and it’s the secret of winning at the Game. One must hope to put their own stamp upon the tale, to leave it permanently altered. Rose and Sam are of the Just, hoping to bend the multiverse to their will and destroy the rule of the beast. It’s in their logic and their alchemy as it is in the Just’s. Jack said it was superstitious bianco nonsense and was disbelieving but Sam gets mad at his denial.

I saw no further point in talking to him and went forward again. I could feel those gorgeous archetypes down in the lower color fields; I longed to hear the voice of Pearl Peru. I could sense them almost as strongly as they sensed me. They radiated an astonishing aura; mighty heroes and heroines playing out their lives with an intensity never captured even on the original V.
I had relived Pearl's early adventures. As human as myself then, she had sailed, upon the oceans of Venus, trading between the soiled worlds and the fresh, knowing only slow, succulent sensations.
Lured into the Limbo on the edge of the Second Ether by a powerful demon, all that remained of an earlier hero called Koo-Aga, Pearl had been forced to play crude games and make humiliating moves at remote provincial termini. The demon had inhabited her body so that he might gain the Second Ether and rejoin the Game of Time. But Pearl had learned her lessons and determined to make her own mark on that famous Game. She aspired to become a major player in the struggle between Chaos and Singularity but remain neutral. She would earn her place in the pantheon not by joining one side or the other but by her daring trade journeys and explorations.
So she became the Merchant Venturer, Pearl Peru, having exorcised the last of Koo-Aga. Her story grew to be an integral part of the larger saga, the Tale of the Fishlings, itself part of an even larger saga known as the Fifth Lay.
The stories were endless but fell eventually into familiar patterns. The trick was to anticipate or provide innovation. It could come from anywhere and from anyone.
That was what I tried to tell Jack. It was no good being suspicious of the unfamiliar when everything was strange.
I was never at any point actually alarmed by Jack’s lassitude and resistance, though I pretended to be. I knew he was the best of us. I knew that, once engaged with the Game of Time, he would play like the professional he was. At least, while his luck held.
But I knew I had to play the best I'd ever played if I was to have a chance of ever getting back together with the Rose. The irony was that, while Colinda Dovero placed no condition on Jack, the Rose would not be mine unless I had played the Game. She had to know my measure if I was to go with her. That at least was how I rationalized my decision and justified my fascination.
In a sense I was glad of Jack's situation. It meant I did not have to concentrate on my own.
Soon we would be choosing characters and I prayed to be accepted by Pearl Peru, to marry my soul to hers and become both a player and a piece in the Game of Time.
I did not anticipate my fate at all, which was to be rejected by Pearl Peru and taken in to the person of Captain Billy-Bob Begg.

Sam saw no further point in talking to Jack and went forward again. He could feel those gorgeous archetypes down in the lower color fields, longing to hear the voice of Pearl. He could sense them almost as strongly as they sensed him. They radiated an astonishing aura of mighty heroes and heroines playing out their lives with an intensity never captured even on the original V. Sam relived Pearl's early adventures. As human as himself then she sailed upon the oceans of Venus, trading between the soiled worlds and the fresh, knowing only slow, succulent sensations. Lured into Limbo on the Second Ether’s edge by a powerful demon, all that remained of an earlier hero called Koo-Aga, Pearl had been forced to play crude games and make humiliating moves at remote provincial termini. The demon had inhabited her body so that he might gain the Second Ether and rejoin the Game of Time but Pearl learned her lessons and determined to make her own mark on that famous Game. She aspired to become a major player in the struggle between Chaos and Law but remain neutral. She’d earn her place in the pantheon not by joining one side or the other but by her daring trade journeys and explorations. So she became the Merchant Venturer, having exorcised the last of Koo-Aga. Her story grew to be an integral part of the larger saga, itself part of an even larger saga. The stories were endless but fell eventually into familiar patterns. The trick was to anticipate or provide innovation for it could come from anywhere and from anyone. That was what Sam tried to tell Jack. It was no good being suspicious of the unfamiliar when everything was strange. Sam was never at any point actually alarmed by Jack’s lassitude and resistance, though he pretended to be. Sam knew Jack was the best of them as, once engaged with the Game of Time, he’d play like the professional he was at least, while his luck held but Sam knew he had to play the best he’d ever played if he was to have a chance of ever getting back together with Rose. The irony was that, while Colinda placed no condition on Jack, Rose would not be his unless he played the Game. She had to know his measure if he was to go with her. That was how Sam rationalized his decision and justified his fascination. In a sense Sam was glad of Jack's situation. It meant he didn’t have to concentrate on his own. Soon they’d be choosing characters and he prayed to be accepted by Pearl, to marry his soul to hers and become both player and piece in the Game. He didn’t anticipate his fate at all, which was to be rejected by Pearl and taken in to the person of Captain Begg.

All was silence as Captain Billy-Bob indicated the scale-screens and explained what she had learned from the mysterious "Professor Pop.” "We call it 'folding' but actually we are dissipating and concentrating mass in ratio to size, going 'up' scale or ‘down.’”
“But what’s the urgency of your summoning, Cap?” called out Little Rupoldo, high in the fold net, voicing the question in their hearts.
"We have just learned that the force which conquered the remains of the First Ether, and made a quasi-universe of it by means of their secret super-carbon science, is now bent on conquering the Second Ether!”
"But surely such primitive science cannot threaten the integrity and freedom of the Second Ether?” put in young Lieutenant Kaprikorn Schwartz, the ship’s accountant.
“Threaten it does, dear Kaprikorn,” Captain Billy- Bob assured the delicious boy. “But you are wise to be dismayed. Let ‘Professor Pop’ explain—” and she stepped aside for the huge greybeard as, the ether- dust powdering his tonsure, he addressed the crew and their sweethearts.
“My dears,” began the eminent oldster, “it is now believed by some that the power of the Singularity to put its stamp on Chaos is so considerable that the Second Ether has scaled herself to its laws rather than their adapting, as we do, to the sometimes whimsical conditions of nature. The only power presently great enough to challenge the natural order of creation, the Singularity, is, in the eyes of most intelligences, the personification of pure Evil, and Old Reg, the First Voice of the Singularity, Satan Incarnate. Yet the secret of victory still lies, it is believed, in Ko-O-Ko, the Lost Universe, and that is why we are, no matter what detours we take, always on that quest, that journey to Ko-O-Ko. We believe that what we find there will save us from extinction.”
There was a gasp from every throat as the enormity of their task was revealed to them. Yet not one raised a voice against the captain. Instead a cheer broke out and Bumbum Wilson jumped into the scale harness shouting: “We’ll follow you to the ends of the multiverse and beyond, Cap’n Billy-Bob, if it’s for our homes and dear ones.”
The proud explorer stepped forward, laughing with the joy of their confidence in her to steer them through the scales and win victory over the Singularity. She had drunk deeply of the Red Cup and now felt the power of the machinoix seeping into her bones.

All was silence as Captain Begg indicated the scale-screens and explained what she learned from the mysterious "Professor Pop.” They call it folding but actually they’re dissipating and concentrating mass in ratio to size, going upscale or down. Rupoldo asks Begg what the urgency of her summoning, high in the fold net. They’ve just learned that the force which conquered the remains of the First Ether, and made a quasi-universe of it by means of their secret supercarbon science, is now bent on conquering the Second Ether but such primitive science can’t threaten the Second Ether’s integrity and freedom, it seems. It’s a threat regardless but he’s wise to be dismayed. It’s now believed by some that the Singularity’s power to put its stamp on Chaos is so considerable that the Second Ether has scaled herself to its laws rather than their adapting, as they do, to the sometimes whimsical conditions of nature. The only power presently great enough to challenge the natural order of creation, the Singularity, is, in the eyes of most intelligences, the personification of pure Evil and Old Reg, Satan himself, yet the secret of victory still lies, it’s believed, in Ko-O-Ko, and that’s why they are, no matter what detours they take, always on that quest to Ko-O-Ko. They believe that what they find there will save them from extinction. Wilson jumped into the scale harness shouting that they’ll follow Begg to the ends of the multiverse and beyond if it’s for their homes and dear ones. The proud explorer stepped forward, laughing with the joy of their confidence in her to steer them through the scales and win victory over the Singularity. She drunk deeply of the Red Cup and now felt the power of the machinoix seeping into her bones.

Later Professor Pop addressed them all over his special "Omniphone” which broadcast to a range of a hundred thousand scales. They had suspected but were now certain that the Singularity’s quasiuniverse had begun to fall away from natural gravity . . .
(These creatures are one with the multiverse, Sam. Only we resist its logic. Only we believe that love can defeat entropy and change the nature of sentient life. We, who so readily recognize our own slender grip on immortality and understand that we face extinction at any minute. To the majority of your nearimmortals death is a very distant prospect. To ourselves it is more or less immediate. All a question of scale, Sam. We're merely taking advantage of our situation, the way we little humans will. We are, if nothing else, the creative force.
He smiled and rolled towards us. "Yesterday you said you weren’t human.”
"As human as you, Sam. But a rose is a rose.”)
“If the key to Ko-O-Ko lies within the Spammer Gain and the only way to contact her is to join the quest for her fishlings, then quest we must,” Captain Billy-Bob was saying. She was grateful for this renewal of energy.
But now all eyes were on the scale-screens which were beginning to tremble with an overload of readings as the odds were measured and each player assigned their chances.

Later Pop called them all over his special Omniphone which broadcast to a range of a hundred thousand scales. They suspected but were now certain that the Singularity’s quasi-universe had begun to fall away from natural gravity. Those creatures are one with the multiverse and only they resist its logic. Only they believe that love can defeat entropy and change the nature of sentient life. They, who so readily recognize their own slender grip on immortality and understand that they face extinction at any minute. To the majority of near immortals, death’s a very distant prospect. To them, it’s more or less immediate. All’s a question of scale and they’re just taking advantage of the situation, the way the little humans will. They’re the creative force. If the key to Ko-O-Ko lies within Spammer and the only way to contact her’s to join the quest for her fishlings then they must go. Begg was grateful for that renewal of energy but now all eyes were on the scale-screens which were beginning to tremble with an overload of readings as the odds were measured and each player assigned their chances.

"What are the fishlings?” Professor Pop smiled at Little Rupoldo's innocent question. "Originally hardly more than miscellaneous fractal dust moving through the scales in the wake of the Spammer Gain, then an ordinary Chaos free-scaler. Just as Spammer had, her fishlings gradually assumed a generic form and, with a spark of sentience, became the creatures we seek today.
"They swarmed around Spammer like pilot fish and made no distinction between themselves and their mother ship, who, in turn, had known them so long and through so many transitions that she believed them to be her natural children.
"She protected them as fiercely as she protected her crew. In particular Spammer s Captain Wopwop loved her fishlings. They were her sublime optimism personified. Captain Wopwop still sails with Spammer. They are oddly interdependent now.”

The fishlings were originally hardly more than random fractal dust moving through the scales in Spammer’s wake, then an ordinary Chaos free-scaler. Just as Spammer had, her fishlings gradually assumed a generic form and, with a spark of sentience, became the creatures they seek today. They swarmed around Spammer like pilot fish and made no distinction between themselves and their mother ship, who, in turn, had known them so long and through so many transitions that she believed them to be her natural children. She protected them as fiercely as she protected her crew. Spammer’s Captain Wopwop loved her fishlings for they were her sublime optimism personified. Wopwop still sails with Spammer and they’re oddly interdependent now.

Mr. Karaquazian was growing used to these radical changes of color, scale and image. He had begun to detect similarities, correspondences. It was an extraordinary kind of logic but its basis was not unfamiliar to a jugador of his rank. What had at first seemed disordered now betrayed the possibility of design. Each field unfolded its own scale, repeating its unique image with minor variations for something resembling infinity. Primroses enfolded and enfolded them, pink fading to yellow, fading to green, fading to deeper yellow, fading to black, fading to pink, enfolding and enfolding them as the flying boat poured its way decisively through the Second Ether, seeking the concourse of Chaos Engineers and Singularists which awaited their coming before beginning a further round in the Game of Time.
“We inhabit the same point in space but on a different scale,” she explains. “We call this ‘folding.’ It is how we take newcomers through the multiverse. Where required we have other means of travelling, but I have always preferred this wonderful old flying boat. It serves its turn and it isn’t nearly as extravagant as your disapproval suggests, Jack. The batteries in those restored engines will last forever. They are Swiss.”
“Look!” Sam Oakenhurst leans forward in excitement, peering through a sudden eruption of grey-blue auriculas becoming clouds and dissipating as if on a great wind. “Look, mes amigos, it is the Grey Fees at last! And see—our heroes and heroines take their ease before the next step of the Game. I can feel her. Pearl Peru needs me! They wait for us to join them.”
“You’re as eager as a virgin on his marriage night, Sam,” says Jack Karaquazian, who had mistaken the hills for waves. He looked out at the grey river winding under a grey sky. But the charismatic physicality of the Chaos Engineers and their equally powerful Singularity foes battered at them like a furnace, threatening to engulf them. Through the closed windows of the Domier poured the stink of archetypes and demigods; the vital, acrid scent of feral mammals. They reeked of the Minotaur. They triggered ancient terrors and delights. The Dornier descended into Babylon whose pagan pantheons celebrated an exquisite consummation.
Their senses alert to the presence of strangers, the great lords and ladies of the Second Ether looked up incuriously as the plane flew low over their concourse. Their chief attention was reserved for the cosmic energies against which they must soon be pitted.
Here were the mighty creatures of Hindu lore, of Egypt, Assyria and Persia. Mr. Karaquazian was enchanted at last. "Are these not our lost originals?”
“Possibly. But they are further from the angels than you or me, Jack.”
The Rose speaks softly.
Mr. Karaquazians unwilling attention was wholly absorbed. He had no method of resistance. He watched frozen, uncritical. Those gorgeous phantasms floated lazily in the brilliant power fields beyond the Grey Fees, splashing waves of boiling multi-hued color across their encrusted and corroded torsos, as if ceremoniously bathing.
All these monsters displayed bizarre coral-like formations on heads and bodies. Irregular spurs and growths frequently gave them an insectoid or reptilian beauty. Carapaces of jade, brows of crystal, faceted eyes of jewellish brilliance; helmets fused with bone, metal with flesh, veins with display systems, bearing witness to their million encounters with the less congenial aspects of Chaos. Some had taken on the characteristics of the higher molluscs, resembling multi-colored calimari, all sensitive tentacles and huge, inquiring eyes, yet still indefinably mammalian.
The magazines and even the original Vs had formalized and made more humanoid the appearance and identities of the Chaos Engineers and their enemies. Here, even Captain Quelch gave off unlikely vitality. His very outline seemed an elaborately artificial disguise, too human for the company.
Despite the variations of shape and limbs, each mighty being moved with a certain balletic formality clearly conditioned by its environment and perceptions, but which seemed ponderous to Mr. Karaquazian.
The same fractal dust played about their bodies. They spoke the same language and often had similar names. Both favored bizarre and awkward prosylactics. It was impossible to know how they distinguished friend from enemy.

Jack was growing used to the radical changes of color, scale and image. He’d begun to detect similarities, correspondences. It was an extraordinary kind of logic but its basis was not unfamiliar to a jugador of his rank. It seemed disordered at first but now betrayed the possibility of design. Each field unfolded its own scale, repeating its unique image with minor variations for something RESEMBLING INFINITY. Primroses enfolded and enfolded them, colors fading to other colors, enfolding and enfolding them as the flying boat poured its way decisively through the Second Ether, seeking the concourse of Chaos Engineers and Singularists which awaited their coming before beginning a further round in the Game of Time. They inhabit the same point in space but on a different scale, a process called “folding.” It’s how they take newcomers through the multiverse but when required they have other means of travel though she’s always preferred that old flying boat. There’s a sudden eruption of grey-blue auriculas becoming clouds and dissipating as if on a great wind which are the Grey Fees. The heroes take their ease before the next step of the Game. Sam can feel Pearl, she needs him as they wait for them to join. Jack sees the charismatic physicality of the Engineers and their equally powerful Singularity foes battering at them like a furnace, threatening to engulf them. Through the closed windows of the Domier poured the stink of archetypes and demigods, the vital, acrid scent of feral mammals, reeking of the Minotaur. They triggered ancient terrors and delights. The Dornier descended into Babylon whose pagan pantheons celebrated an exquisite consummation. Their senses alert to the presence of strangers, the great lords and ladies of the Second Ether looked up incuriously as the plane flew low over their concourse. Their chief attention was reserved for the cosmic energies against which they must soon be pitted. There were the mighty creatures of Hindu, Egypt, Assyria and Persian lore. Jack wonders if those are their lost originals but they are further from the angels than they are. Jack’s unwilling attention was wholly absorbed with no method of resistance. Those gorgeous phantasms floated lazily in the brilliant power fields beyond the Grey Fees, splashing waves of boiling multi-hued color across their encrusted and corroded torsos, as if ceremoniously bathing. All those monsters displayed bizarre coral-like formations on heads and bodies. Irregular spurs and growths frequently gave them an insectoid or reptilian beauty. Carapaces of jade, brows of crystal, faceted eyes of jewellish brilliance, helmets fused with bone, metal with flesh, veins with display systems, bearing witness to their million encounters with the less congenial aspects of Chaos. Some had taken on the characteristics of the higher molluscs, resembling multi-colored calimari, all sensitive tentacles and huge, inquiring eyes, yet still indefinably mammalian. The magazines and even the original Vs had formalized and made more humanoid the appearance and identities of the Engineers and their enemies. Here, even Quelch gave off unlikely vitality. His very outline seemed an elaborately artificial disguise, too human for the company. Despite the variations of shape and limbs, each mighty being moved with a certain balletic formality clearly conditioned by its environment and perceptions, but which seemed ponderous to Jack. The same fractal dust played about their bodies. They spoke the same language and often had similar names. Both favored bizarre and awkward prosylactics. It was impossible to know how they distinguished friend from enemy.

But, when Jack Karaquazian presented this opinion the Rose put her finger to her lips.
Too late, for he had been heard. This was punishable blasphemy.
The surge of their anger struck him with physical force. For the first time he realized how thoroughly the creatures were aware of his presence, his very thoughts! Yet he remained bewildered by their disapproval. He was told that this struggle was the way of things. There was no changing it. This was how the fabric of the multiverse was maintained. How all life was sustained. He would be punished at once and for an indefinite time. The last to question God’s evidence and authority had been taken in irons to a vault. This was demonstrated to Jack Karaquazian as he was taken in irons to a vault—scarcely a dungeon. The vault was vast and for much of the day was filled with sunlight which entered from stained-glass windows set in the roof. The glass and the sun made ever-changing patterns of color and these patterns eventually communicated something to him, touching a sense that had been almost dormant.
It was impossible to be bored. The patterns and the pain were a wonderful aid to memory.
For one month he was left alone, experiencing profound remorse for his past; for the second month his mother was brought to speak with him every day. By the third month he had figured out the basics of his situation and could make relatively minor alterations to it. He had hope of success, of some kind of redemption. He considered his history.
At last Jack was able, by his own efforts, to take the role of page in the entourage of Lady Mo, but was captured by a powerful pirate called Oot-Rajoo who employed a number of minor demons, and who forced Jack to play crude games and make humiliating moves at remote provincial terminals until the chance presented itself one day on Venus, to escape his disgusting master and become, within the year, the Merchant Venturer, Pearl Peru, famous on all the seas of the Green Planet. Whereupon she was Pearl Peru, combining Jack Karaquazian's own experience with hers and Jack was hard-pressed to maintain his own identity under the archetypal force of her personality.

But, when Jack presented this opinion, Rose put her finger to her lips. Too late, for he’d been heard. That was punishable blasphemy. The surge of their anger struck him with physical force. For the first time he realized how thoroughly the creatures were aware of his presence, his very thoughts yet he remained bewildered by their disapproval. He was told that this struggle was the way of things and there was no changing it. This was how the fabric of the multiverse was maintained, how all life was sustained. He’d be punished at once and for an indefinite time. The last to question God’s evidence and authority had been taken in irons to a vault. This was demonstrated to Jack as he was taken in irons to a vault, scarcely a dungeon. The vault was vast and for much of the day was filled with sunlight which entered from stained-glass windows set in the roof. The glass and the sun made ever-changing patterns of color and those patterns eventually communicated something to him, touching a sense that had been almost dormant. The patterns and the pain were a wonderful aid to memory. For one month he was left alone, experiencing profound remorse for his past, for the second month his mother was brought to speak with him every day. By the third month he had figured out the basics of his situation and could make relatively minor alterations to it. He had hope of success, of some kind of redemption. He considered his history. At last Jack was able, by his own efforts, to take the role of page in the entourage of Lady Mo, but was captured by a powerful pirate called Oot-Rajoo who employed a number of minor demons, and who forced Jack to play crude games and make humiliating moves at remote provincial terminals until the chance presented itself one day on Venus, to escape his disgusting master and become, within the year, Pearl, famous on all the seas of the Green Planet. Whereupon she was Pearl, combining Jack Karaquazian's own experience with hers and Jack was hard-pressed to maintain his own identity under the archetypal force of her personality.

My terror of this unfamiliar existence, which seemed to have absorbed years of my life and yet not physically aged me, I deliberately keep alive. My terror is original to me. It identifies me. But Pearl Peru refuses to be moved by it. Instead she calls upon my gaming skills, for she now defies the whole Singularity as she enters her ship, The Smollettsphere, and orders her crew to set course for the First Ether and home to Venus. “We'll take the old Solar Scaling Station. It's still the best. Set the controls for the heart of the sun.”
“You will,” the Rose tells me, even as this goes on, “experience sensations of extraordinary well-being, Jack, and a belief that you have ‘come home.' You will believe that the yearnings of your soul have been answered at last. That you have found the perfect equation. You have never been so at ease, so profoundly confident of your power. So complete. It is an illusion. This illusion will pass with familiarity. Pearl's crystallizing bones ache with the weight of her peculiar carapace.
“Only when absorbing something close to an equal can she feel, again, those familiar sensations and emotions you enjoy. This is why she welcomes you so greedily. That is her hunger, which you must not fear. For the most part Pearl's brave enough in her pain. But you must be wary of her taste for melodrama.”
“She's Sam's, Rose! She's for Sam!” I could not turn my guilty head to look for my friend who had yearned and suffered for this union with his heroine.
“For a mysterious reason Pearl's rejecting Sam even as she accepts you. He will feel bitterly betrayed and this, of course, will be of use in the Game. Anyone else would be proud to be taken by Captain Billy- Bob. Sam believes he could have helped Pearl channel her pain to positive effect. But clearly it has always been you she has wanted, since she came seeking you twice at the Terminal Cafe. And Horace fears you. Don't you, Horace?”
From somewhere came the garbled sounds of a Latin quotation.
The Rose seemed to be teasing both the invisible Captain Quelch and me.
“Well, then,” I said. “I must play her I guess.”
I gave my soul up to my legendary self.

Jack feels terror of the unfamiliar existence which seemed to have absorbed years of my life and yet not physically aged him. His terror’s original to him, identifying him but Pearl Peru refuses to be moved by it. Instead she calls upon his gaming skills, for she now defies the whole Singularity as she enters her ship and orders her crew to set course for the First Ether and home to Venus. They’ll take the old Solar Scaling Station which is still the best, ordering the controls set for the heart of the sun. He’ll experience sensations of extraordinary well-being and a belief that he’s come home. He’ll believe that the yearnings of the soul have been answered at last, that he’s found the perfect equation. Jack’s never been so at ease, so profoundly confident of his power, so complete but it’s an illusion that’ll pass with familiarity. Pearl's crystallizing bones ache with the weight of her peculiar carapace. Only when absorbing something close to an equal can she feel, again, those familiar sensations and emotions he enjoy. That’s why she welcomes Jack so greedily as that’s her hunger which he must not fear. For the most part Pearl's brave enough in her pain but he must be wary of her taste for melodrama. Jack keeps trying to reject her and give her to Sam but for some reason, Pearl's rejecting Sam even as she accepts him. He’ll feel bitterly betrayed and that’ll be of use in the Game. Anyone else would be proud to be taken by Captain Begg. Sam believes he could’ve helped Pearl channel her pain to positive effect but clearly it’s always been Jack that she wanted since she came seeking him twice at the Cafe. Quelch fears Jack which annoys him. Jack realizes he must play then and gives up his soul to his legendary self.

By releasing all control, by defying every instinct which until now had ensured his survival, Jack Karaquazian was almost immediately disembodied, as was the multiverse.
Aware of inchoate, seething Chaos all around him, knowing it to be the primal material from which all else was created, and direct evidence of a sentient will, he was at last unafraid.
He understood that this sentient will was only rarely capable of conscious self-direction upon any moral course. More often it manifested as little more than a blind urge to survive at all costs; the inheritance of the Original Insect, the mark of the Minotaur. What therefore was demanded of any trained jugador was to apply their own will, to use their own experience and intelligence, together with their own moral sensibilities, to create from that formless ether both shape, substance and a natural, enduring order which would be benign to the humans, or those of human origin, who played the Game of Time. It was their business to create, in short, more justice and greater predictability. To improve the odds for human survival.
All are players in the Game of Time. All have their parts, their place, their destiny. All have their chances.
That fragile combination of mind and conscience which was Mr. Jack Karaquazian hung in turbulent ether; a void without scale, direction or coherence. Jack Karaquazian felt the terrible pull of it. It tempted him; offering him rest, forgetfulness and comforting death. A kind of power. A kind of confirmation. A kind of honor ... It called to his blood.
The call was the most seductive Jack Karaquazian had ever experienced. As dreamily he let it claim him, he felt his very soul begin to lose substance. To dissipate. So, too, with his mind. Only by a vast and remarkable effort, struggling with an enemy without form or identity, was he able to reclaim himself. Then he understood that his act of self-reclamation signalled the beginning of this new Game. He had, as it were, taken hold of the Grail.

By releasing all control, by defying every instinct which until now had ensured his survival, Jack was almost immediately disembodied as was the multiverse. Aware of inchoate, seething Chaos all around him, knowing it to be the primal material from which all else was created, and direct evidence of a sentient will, he was at last unafraid. He understood that the sentient will was only rarely capable of conscious self-direction upon any moral course. More often it manifested as little more than a blind urge to survive at all costs: the inheritance of the Original Insect, the mark of the Minotaur. What was demanded of any trained Jugador was to apply their own will, to use their own experience and intelligence, together with their own moral sensibilities, to create from that formless ether both shape, substance and a natural, enduring order which would be benign to the humans, or those of human origin, who played the Game of Time. It was their business to create, in short, more justice and greater predictability. To improve the odds for human survival. All are players in the Game of Time, all have their parts, their place, their destiny, all have their chances. That fragile combination of mind and conscience which was Jack hung in turbulent ether in a void without scale, direction or coherence. Jack felt the terrible pull of it tempting him, offering him rest, forgetfulness and comforting death. A kind of power, confirmation and honor calling to his blood, the most seductive Jack ever experienced. As dreamily as he let it claim him, he felt his very soul begin to lose substance and dissipate along with his mind. Only by a vast and remarkable effort, struggling with an enemy without form or identity, was he able to reclaim himself. Then he understood that his act of self-reclamation signaled the beginning of this new Game. He had, as it were, taken hold of the Grail.

“Colinda, I love you.”
She had reached to him and she had cupped his blood in her hands. “It's better there, Jack. Come with me, Jack.”
He could not. Not then. Not until he had understood and confronted the forces which had brought him to this pass.
She had spoken of the Rose; of a world at peace.
He understood that the same struggle was taking place on every scale, at every level of the multiverse, a struggle that was infinitely complex, fundamentally simple; a struggle between life and death. Life was this unfamiliar, formless ether-stuff, without intelligence or means of self-reproduction. Death was the empty void into which all life, undirected and without consciousness, gradually dissipated.
He recalled Colinda’s talking in the early morning as the boat picked up speed past New Auschwitz.
“We came into existence by some accident, Jack. But now that we exist it is our moral duty to maintain our existence, to guarantee the existence of those who follow us. Our will is always, inevitably, the will of God. It is a will towards creativity, towards order, towards equity and justice and the rule of love. Some of us believe we are as much created by God as creating God but there can never be any meaningful dispute in the matter, since we live only to be united with God and one with God: the true reconciliation for which all life strives. First comes the senseless primeval struggle of form against form; then the conflict is structured to prevent useless waste; then the conflict is structured again, so that all shall understand its rules, then structured again so that the element of direct violence is removed; then it is changed into games and from games into mathematics and stories until the stories and the maths grow more and more to represent the complexity that is a reality comprising an almost infinite number of individual sensibilities. What we call reality in every meaning is the consensual will (unconscious, perhaps) of the Majority of Souls. The Will of the Just. All form struggles for consciousness, Jack, for it is through consciousness that form survives. Those who employ the instincts of the Beast are ultimately devoured. Yet often they are the ones who seem to triumph."
He recalled every moment of her conversation now, every nuance. It was as if she had been preparing him, so long ago, for this time.
“Oh, Colinda,” he said. “I love you. I will not perish.”
Jack Karaquazian could remember the sound of her silk dress in the hush of the Mississippi summer night, when the moon was high and the flat waters of the bayou mirrored every star. He could bring all that back—her scent, the touch of her, the beautiful, delicate tensions of his uncertain love.
“You can make it come out however you like, Jack. Make sure you keep a little confidence in your luck.” She had kissed him on the cheek, the sweet intimacy of a moth’s wing.

Jack calls to Colinda who asks him to come with her but he couldn’t, not until he had understood and confronted the forces which had brought him to this pass. She had spoken of Rose and a world at peace. He understood that the same struggle was taking place on every scale, at every level of the multiverse, a struggle that was infinitely complex, fundamentally simple, a struggle between life and death. Life was unfamiliar, formless ether-stuff, without intelligence or means of self-reproduction. Death was the empty void into which all life, undirected and without consciousness, gradually dissipated. He recalled Colinda’s talking in the early morning as the boat picked up speed past New Auschwitz. They came into existence by some accident but now that they exist it’s their moral duty to maintain their existence, to guarantee the existence of those who follow. Their will is always, inevitably, God’s will, a will towards creativity, order, equity and justice and the rule of love. Some believe they’re as much created by God as creating God but there can never be any meaningful dispute in the matter since they live only to be united with God and one with God: the true reconciliation for which all life strives. First comes the senseless primeval struggle of form against form then the conflict’s structured to prevent useless waste then the conflict’s structured again, so that all shall understand its rules, then structured again so that the element of direct violence is removed then it’s changed into games and from games into mathematics and stories until the stories and the maths grow more and more to represent the complexity that is a reality comprising an ALMOST INFINITE number of individual sensibilities. What they call reality in every meaning is the consensual will, maybe unconscious, of the Majority of Souls, the Will of the Just. All form struggles for consciousness for it is through consciousness that form survives. Those who employ the instincts of The Beast are ultimately devoured yet often they are the ones who seem to triumph. He recalled every moment of her conversation now, every nuance. It was as if she’d been preparing him, so long ago, for that time. Jack promises he won’t perish and could remember the sound of her silk dress in a Mississippi summer night hush, when the moon was high and the flat waters of the bayou mirrored every star. He could bring all that back. Jack can make it come out however he likes but he’s to make sure he keep a little confidence in his luck.

In the Medersa, Jack Karaquazian had studied earlier musical ages. For a while he had developed a perverse fascination for the weird whitey jass of the 1920s and 30s, not his usual taste at all. He remembered a Roy Summers Band recording from October 3rd '31, with the saxophonist Dan Donovan singing “This Is The Day Of Days.” In the background, the distinctive chords of Tommy Blade’s Xylo-Phone.
Note by note the exaggerated syncopation and rapid beat came back to him, and as he recalled the tune, the instruments and harmonies, all the colors of the music, it seemed to Jack Karaquazian that his love for Colinda Dovero grew into an enormous symphony which absorbed and amplified every sense until both he and his music filled the entire multiverse. As he looked about him, his own hands reinvented before his own eyes, he saw movement in the surrounding chaos, hints of shapes and colors and even scents and sounds, which gradually began to take substance, slowly at first and crudely, then faster and faster, the stuff building into a towering pyramid which disappeared from sight overhead.
There was space, thought Jack Karaquazian with hope, so therefore there must be time.

In the Medersa Jack had studied earlier musical ages. For a while he developed a strange fascination for the weird white jazz of the 1920s and 30s, not his usual taste at all. He remembered a Roy Summers Band recording from October 3rd 1931, with the saxophonist Dan Donovan singing “This Is The Day Of Days.” In the background, the distinctive chords of Tommy Blade’s Xylo-Phone. Note by note the exaggerated syncopation and rapid beat came back to him, and as he recalled the tune, the instruments and harmonies, all the colors of the music, it seemed to Jack that his love for Colinda grew into an enormous symphony which absorbed and amplified every sense until both he and his music filled the entire multiverse. As he looked about him, his own hands reinvented before his own eyes, he saw movement in the surrounding chaos, hints of shapes and colors and even scents and sounds, which gradually began to take substance, slowly at first and crudely, then faster and faster, the stuff building into a towering pyramid which disappeared from sight overhead. There was space, thought Jack Karaquazian with hope, so therefore there must be time.

He saw that the pyramid was made of flesh. It was composed of millions of separate beings—and such beings!
"They are angels,” said Jack Karaquazian to himself. "They are God's angels taking their battle- stations in the Game of Time.”
Choir upon choir of angels rose above him accompanied by the most blissful music, the most astonishing perfumes.
Winged and scintillant, with weapons which burned with all the glories of Paradise, with instruments of mysterious function, their robes swirling and waving as if in some heavenly wind, they rose. They rose towards the Godhead.
And each angelic face was the face of someone Jack Karaquazian had known or loved or admired. He saw his father and his mother, his teachers, his brothers and sisters and friends and every woman he had ever betrayed, every man he had ever killed.
It seemed to Jack Karaquazian that he stood upon a wide, grassy plain. Above him was the silvery pallor of an evening sky into which a huge, pulsing red sun bled its light. And on either side of that globe, filling every horizon and rising into distant invisibility: rank upon rank of angels—Lucifer defying God—the forces of Chaos and the forces of Singularity ready for war: ready to begin the great story that was the Game of Time.
It seemed to Mr. Karaquazian that every soul in creation who had ever lived and died, or who lived now, was represented in that ultimate equation of sentience.
But even as he watched, the character of the two angelic armies changed—the one growing bizarre and complex, with individuals taking on increasingly idiosyncratic shapes, like the Hindu pantheon, the Egyptian or the Chinese, and somehow blending together to form an extraordinary and beautiful whole—while the other army grew steadily more austere, resembling the ascetic warriors of his boyhood reading; its colors fading to lusterless greys and blacks and pale browns, its individuals assuming an unholy similarity, no face different either in feature or expression, forming itself into a single wedge of power, a phalanx which threatened Chaos with the cruel ambition of its Singular nature.
Here were Chaos and Singularity taking the purest forms of their opposition as they prepared to fight a battle neither would or could ever win, but which could destroy the multiverse and sacrifice everything living to the infinite void.

He saw a pyramid made of flesh, composed of millions of separate beings, God's angels taking their battle-stations in the Game of Time. Choir upon choir of angels rose above him accompanied by the most blissful music, the most astonishing perfumes. Winged and scintillant, with weapons which burned with all the glories of Paradise, with instruments of mysterious function, their robes swirling and waving as if in some heavenly wind, they rose. They rose towards the Godhead and each angelic face was the face of someone Jack had known or loved or admired. He saw his father and mother, his teachers, his brothers and sisters and friends and every woman he ever betrayed, every man he ever killed. It seemed to Jack that he stood upon a wide, grassy plain. Above him was the silvery pallor of an evening sky into which a huge, pulsing red sun bled its light and on either side of that globe, filling every horizon and rising into distant invisibility: rank upon rank of angels, Lucifer defying God, the forces of Chaos and the forces of Singularity ready for war: ready to begin the great story that was the Game of Time. It seemed to Jack that every soul in creation who had ever lived and died, or who lived now, was represented in that ultimate equation of sentience but even as he watched, the character of the two angelic armies changed, the one growing bizarre and complex, with individuals taking on increasingly idiosyncratic shapes, like the Hindu, Egyptian or Chinese pantheons, and somehow blending together to form an extraordinary and beautiful whole, while the other army grew steadily more austere, resembling the ascetic warriors of his boyhood reading, its colors fading, its individuals assuming an unholy similarity, no face different either in feature or expression, forming itself into a single wedge of power, a phalanx which threatened Chaos with the cruel ambition of its Singular nature. Here were Chaos and Singularity taking the purest forms of their opposition as they prepared to fight a battle neither would or could ever win, but which could destroy the multiverse and sacrifice everything living to the infinite void.

What hope was there? Jack Karaquazian wondered, and then turned to watch as, between those two vast, assembled armies, a great cloud boiled, lazy and opulent and radiant with vivacious strength, creating its own music and harmonies as it rolled slowly through the ether, seeming to sing.
Gradually it became possible to perceive the size of the cloud and also its form. This was the Spammer Gain, tolerant and invulnerable, content with her fishlings around her, a mighty organism swimming carelessly through the gathered armies of the Apocalypse, glowing with constantly changing colors and planes, turning eyes which were the size of galaxies to regard the combatants with sorrow.
There were few amongst those two angelic hosts who did not seem shamed by her distress.
“The conflicts must be structured and explained. There can be no cessation to the Game of Time. That will mean the cessation of existence itself."
Jack Karaquazian denied this. At a particular moment, he brought the multiverse back into the void. He and a million souls like him. Spontaneously, unconscious of all others, he recreated the multiverse in order at last to be reunited and know peace with Colinda Dovero.
The Rose had understood his power. His power and his luck is what she herself gambled upon. It was what she had promised him.
“Ah, Colinda! I will conquer this inchoate infinity. I will give it form. I will do whatever is necessary to ensure that I stand beside you once more."
Chaos reared and was again a pyramid of glorious variety, a host which flashed with all the colors of the spectrum, with brass and gold and silver and copper, with platinum and steel. And through it all those same familiar faces in uncountable numbers rose in a great scintillating tower of creation, pulsing like living jewels, their beauty rich enough to breathe, strong enough to sustain all human need. They rose surely to the Godhead, to challenge that phalanx which was the' bleak threat of the near- invincible Singularity—firm ranks of hard-faced soldiers, countless numbers of them, trained to demand only victory, disciplined to serve only one idea, embodied in one human master, one Greater Being comprising the Singularity, Old Reg, the Original Insect. Only the latter’s reality was ever disputed amongst them; the former, never.
They prepared for a battle which, when in some unguessable future it came, must ultimately determine the nature of reality.

Jack wonders what hope there is and turned to watch as, between those two vast armies, a great cloud boiled, lazy, opulent and radiant with vivacious strength, creating its own music and harmonies as it rolled slowly through the ether, seeming to sing. Gradually it became possible to perceive the size of the cloud and also its form. This was the Spammer, tolerant and invulnerable, content with her fishlings around her, a mighty organism swimming carelessly through the Apocalypse’s gathered armies, glowing with constantly changing colors and planes, turning eyes which were the size of galaxies to regard the combatants with sorrow. There were few amongst those two angelic hosts who didn’t seem shamed by her distress. The conflicts must be structured and explained so there can be no cessation to the Game which’ll mean the cessation of existence itself. Jack denied that for at a particular moment, he brought the multiverse back into the void, he and a million souls like him. Spontaneously, unconscious of all others, he recreated the multiverse in order at last to be reunited and know peace with Colinda. Rose understood his power and his luck which is what she herself gambled upon. Now with Colinda, he swears to conquer the INCHOATE INFINITY, to give it form and do whatever’s necessary to ensure that he stand beside her again. Chaos reared and was again a pyramid of glorious variety, a host which flashed with all the colors of the spectrum, with brass, gold, silver, copper, platinum and steel and through it all those same familiar faces in uncountable numbers rose in a great scintillating tower of creation, pulsing like living jewels, their beauty rich enough to breathe, strong enough to sustain all human need. They rose surely to the Godhead, to challenge that phalanx which was the bleak threat of the near-invincible Singularity, firm ranks of hard-faced soldiers, countless numbers of them, trained to demand only victory, disciplined to serve only one idea, embodied in one human master, one Greater Being comprising the Singularity, Old Reg, the Original Insect. Only the latter’s reality was ever disputed amongst them, the former, never. They prepared for a battle which, when in some unguessable future it came, must ultimately determine the nature of reality.

BardicheAssault · Jun 4, 2021

BLOOD: A SOUTHERN FANTASY, PT. 4-3

Jack thought again of Colinda. How could such cosmic actualities depend so much upon a few familiar human emotions? Upon love and faith and luck?
As Jack Karaquazian gradually reclaimed his physical identity from the ether, he took a deep breath, like a new-born child, and inhaled with a shock the fetid stink of the Beast. It was only then that he truly understood how not all life survived through superior intellect or knowledge in the Game of Time. Other kinds of vitality had been drawn into this fresh reality by the psychic gravity generated by himself and those who had, individually and without mutual influence, between them somehow recreated the cosmos. A multiverse of possibilities obeyed the new laws Jack Karaquazian and his kind had built from the stuff of chance. But the new was still threatened by the old. Still threatened by the Beast.
Only through playing the Game of Time could Mr. Karaquazian make sense of this struggle. They formalized their war, just as the laws of chivalry had once determined the stages of a battle. Without those laws, the complex mathematics, conflict itself was almost impossible. It was the means by which the parties could avoid stasis, establish a time, a place and a prize. Thus wars were turned into tournaments and tournaments into sports. And so too the Beast was tamed but never banished.
Now all he could do was play.
Even as Jack Karaquazian watched, listening to the opulent disharmony that was Chaos and the steady, horrifying drum beat of the Singularity, he saw them swirl suddenly and change into complicated patterns of raw, violent energy.
Chaos was no longer flesh. It had become whirling golden leaves and green, blossoming clouds. It had become hectic and whimsical, trembling through the entire catalogue of color, a measureless palette of shade and nuance . . .
While the grey Singularity, stark and cold and consistent, as simplified and specialized as a shark, hovered, ready to strike at the very center of the blood red rose, at the very heart of Chaos, to devour all that wild energy, tame it, enslave it, pervert it to the service of the Original Insect. . .

Jack thought again of Colinda. How could such cosmic actualities depend so much upon a few familiar human emotions? Upon love and faith and luck? As Jack gradually reclaimed his physical identity from the ether, he took a deep breath, like a new-born child, and inhaled with a shock the fetid stink of The Beast. It was only then that he truly understood how not all life survived through superior intellect or knowledge in the Game. Other kinds of vitality had been drawn into that fresh reality by the psychic gravity generated by himself and those who had, individually and without mutual influence, between them somehow recreated the cosmos. A multiverse of possibilities obeyed the new laws Jack and his kind had built from the stuff of chance but the new was still threatened by the old. Still threatened by The Beast. Only through playing the Game could Jack make sense of this struggle. They formalized their war, just as the laws of chivalry had once determined the stages of a battle. Without those laws, the complex mathematics, conflict itself was almost impossible. It was the means by which the parties could avoid stasis, establish a time, a place and a prize. Thus wars were turned into tournaments and tournaments into sports and so too The Beast was tamed but never banished. Now all Jack could do was play but even as he watched, listening to the opulent disharmony that was Chaos and the steady, horrifying drum beat of the Singularity, he saw them swirl suddenly and change into complicated patterns of raw, violent energy. Chaos was no longer flesh. It had become whirling golden leaves and green, blossoming clouds, hectic and whimsical, trembling through the entire catalogue of color, a measureless palette of shade and nuance while the grey Singularity, stark and cold and consistent, as simplified and specialized as a shark, hovered, ready to strike at the very center of the blood red rose, at the very heart of Chaos, to devour all that wild energy, tame it, enslave it, pervert it to the service of the Original Insect.

“No! Colinda!”
Where was she? He existed only because his desire for her to exist was stronger than his own will to survive.
(She had found him once, when he had tried to avoid her, in their early days, standing by the bar of the Lazarus Saloon on rue Royale. "One day we shall dance together, Jack. And that dance shall determine our destiny. And it will be a destiny which joins us together for eternity." He had smiled and refused to understand her, pointing out the virtues of the zee-band which had just come up on stage. Soon her words were drowned by “Les Flammes d'Enfers.")
Again Jack Karaquazian yelled into the void, defying death, refusing defeat and still claiming his Colinda. All he wanted was that she should exist: that she should survive. And he would die if necessary to achieve that end.
This immeasurable army represented every stage of the human journey. It marched, it seemed to Mr. Karaquazian, into a mirror. People against people, army against army, race against race, individual against individual, forever at war, forever marching into the mirror. Forever swallowed up in the Game of Time. And yet this struggle could never be determined by conflict? That was obvious to Jack Karaquazian.
“There must be some means of resolving this,” said Jack Karaquazian, “some compromise which could be reached. Some sublime equation.”
He knew exactly what he was testing and that this time there would be no punishment. The gods had lost their power over him. He had successfully challenged their mathematics.
Again Jack Karaquazian saw the Angelic Host mounted in a great pyramid, saluting the pinnacle where a gold and silver figure, St. Machael as Jack Karaquazian knew him, lifted a burnished blade as if recognizing the source of all creation, the Godhead itself. Once more that indescribable music filled Jack Karaquazian's soul. Had he been able, he would have wept.

Jack loses Colinda, existing only because his desire for her to exist was stronger than his own will to survive. She found him once, when he had tried to avoid her, in their early days, standing by the bar of the Lazarus Saloon on rue Royale. One day they’ll dance together and that dance’ll determine our destiny and it’ll be a destiny which joins them together for eternity. Again Jack yelled into the void, defying death, refusing defeat and still claiming his Colinda. All he wanted was that she should exist, that she should survive and he would die if necessary to achieve that end. The immeasurable army represented every stage of the human journey. It marched into a mirror or so it seemed to Jack. People against people, army against army, race against race, individual against individual, forever at war, forever marching into the mirror. Forever swallowed up in the Game and yet the struggle could never be determined by conflict. That was obvious to Jack, thinking there must be some means of resolving that, some compromise which could be reached, some sublime equation. He knew exactly what he was testing and that this time there would be no punishment. The gods had lost their power over him. He successfully challenged their mathematics. Jack again saw the Angelic Host mounted in a great pyramid, saluting the pinnacle where a gold and silver figure, St. Michael as Jack knew him, lifted a burnished blade as if recognizing the source of all creation, the Godhead itself. Once more that indescribable music filled Jack's soul.

Jack Karaquazian understood that God had created an enemy when he had created the profoundly mysterious idea of free will, which was the ultimate triumph of Chaos, a reality sustained entirely by conscious consensus.
It was not for God to reconcile us, Jack Karaquazian would say, when he told the story, it was for all of us to achieve reconciliation. But Old Reg would have none of it. The idea of shared and equal responsibility sickened him he said. How could existence be controlled, examined and predicted? Civilization would decline to savagery in a matter of decades. The majority of beings, Old Reg's orthodoxy insisted, were still in a state of childhood and needed guidance, not power. Stability came only from a common leader, a benign father who would stop this petty squabbling and end the spread of spiritual pestilence, the inroads that chance had already made upon their lives.
Old Reg's arguments made sense to Jack Karaquazian. Why risk more bloodshed, more agony and horror? Where was compassion?
It became clear to him that he was, by nature, better suited to serving the Singularity. Jack Karaquazian was not sure why he supported the cause of Chaos. Colinda had spoken of slower time, of security and peace. How could Chaos possibly achieve such a state? It must be the Singularity that Colinda served.
Why not play for the Singularity? Play for the rule of law and the security of simplification?
“Jack," said Colinda, standing beside him as the cool dawn came up over the roof of the Van Beek Hotel and the crows went crying into the air above Mud Island, “you should give it up, Jack. You should conquer this urge of yours to control. It can lead only to damage and destruction. It can lead only to decay."
Jack Karaquazian watched those massed angelic ranks, winged and splendid, moving in a dance which was some kind of conversation. Their spiritual and intellectual development was inconceivable to him. They were able to speak a thousand languages, and were fluent in at least as many mathematical systems. They were learned and wise and courageous beyond the imagination of any mortal, belonging neither to past nor present but undoubtedly to some miraculous future when he and his people would reach at last some further stage in their unsteady progress towards a state of grace.
Swords burned against the heavens; supernatural horses reared and bellowed. The multiverse was filled with the scent of roses as the angelic armies opened their glorious mouths and cried out their joy, cried out in the fulfillment of a prophecy which told how Chaos and the Singularity must be reconciled and how only through that reconciliation would order come to the multiverse of mankind.
But when would this reconciliation come? Was it not already too late?
Banners blazed! The horses snorted and their breath was white fire. Their hooves struck gashes into the very fabric of existence and revealed the terrible, empty regions of limbo, which even now threatened to gulp down their fragile wall against reality.

Jack understood that God created an enemy when he created the profoundly mysterious idea of free will, which was the ultimate triumph of Chaos, a reality sustained entirely by conscious consensus. It was not for God to reconcile them, Jack would say, when he told the story, it was for all of them to achieve reconciliation but Oldreg would have none of it. The idea of shared and equal responsibility sickened him. He wondered how existence could be controlled, examined and predicted. Civilization would decline to savagery in a matter of decades. The majority of beings, Old Reg's orthodoxy insisted, were still in a state of childhood and needed guidance, not power. Stability came only from a common leader, a benign father who would stop the petty squabbling and end the spread of spiritual pestilence, the inroads that chance had already made upon their lives. Oldreg's arguments made sense to Jack: why risk more bloodshed, more agony and horror? It became clear to Jack that he was, by nature, better suited to serving the Singularity. Jack was not sure why he supported the cause of Chaos. Colinda had spoken of slower time, of security and peace. He wonders how Chaos could possibly achieve such a state. It must be the Singularity that Colinda served since she’d play for the rule of law and the security of simplification. Colinda stands beside him as the cool dawn came up over the roof of the Van Beek Hotel and the crows went crying into the air above Mud Island, telling him that he should give it up and conquer that urge to control for it can lead only to damage, destruction and decay. Jack watched those massed angelic ranks, winged and splendid, moving in a dance which was some kind of conversation. Their spiritual and intellectual development was inconceivable to him. They were able to speak a thousand languages, and were fluent in at least as many mathematical systems. They were learned and wise and courageous beyond the imagination of any mortal, belonging neither to past nor present but undoubtedly to some miraculous future when he and his people would reach at last some further stage in their unsteady progress towards a state of grace. Swords burned against the heavens, supernatural horses reared and bellowed. The multiverse was filled with the scent of roses as the angelic armies opened their glorious mouths and cried out their joy, cried out in the fulfillment of a prophecy which told how Chaos and the Singularity must be reconciled and how only through that reconciliation would order come to the multiverse of mankind but Jack wonders when would that reconciliation come, and if it’s not already too late. The horses snorted and their breath was white fire. Their hooves struck gashes into the very fabric of existence and revealed the terrible, empty regions of limbo, which even now threatened to gulp down their fragile wall against reality.

“Colinda,” said Jack Karaquazian. “It must be you. You are my inspiration.”
And it was as if the armies had heard his voice and they drew back from the conflict. And as Jack Karaquazian watched he saw each angel, one by one, foes and friends, kneel and bow their heads as if they understood at last what thin barriers separated them from endless death.
They kneeled, arrayed upon the brink of Time, upon the very ledge of darkness beyond which was nothing and beyond which there never could be anything. They had arrived at the Gates of Entropy, through which all sentient life must pass at last.
The angels kneeled, apparently in prayer. A hush fell upon the multiverse. They must decide now if they will pass through those gates or turn and compromise. One way leads to pride and death, and the other to humility, love and life. They must decide how much they value life.
But first there must be further moves made in the Game of Time. The complexities as well as the simplicities must be reflected and celebrated.
Sam Oakenhurst must be sacrificed. The Rose must achieve her victory. Jack Karaquazian must play his best and final hands.
Jack Karaquazian is sleeping. He is dreaming. “But now, Jack,” Colinda seems to be saying to him, “now you must rejoin the Game. There is much for you to do. Take your place again. It is your duty to steer the destiny of Pearl Peru.”
With melancholy reluctance Jack Karaquazian returns to the Game. Now he understands exactly what it is he will lose should he fail.

Jack says it must be Colinda since he’s his inspiration and it was as if the armies had heard his voice and they drew back from the conflict and as Jack watched he saw each angel, one by one, foes and friends, kneel and bow their heads as if they understood at last what thin barriers separated them from endless death. They kneeled, arrayed upon the brink of Time, upon the very ledge of darkness beyond which was nothing and beyond which there never could be anything. They had arrived at the Gates of Entropy, through which all sentient life must pass at last. The angels kneeled, apparently in prayer. A hush fell upon the multiverse. They must decide now if they will pass through those gates or turn and compromise. One way leads to pride and death, and the other to humility, love and life. They must decide how much they value life but first there must be further moves made in the Game. The complexities as well as the simplicities must be reflected and celebrated. Sam had to be be sacrificed, Rose had to achieve her victory and Jack had to play his best and final hands. Jack’s sleeping, dreaming but now he must rejoin the Game for there’s much for him to do. It’s his duty to steer the destiny of Pearl and with melancholic reluctance, Jack returns to the Game, now understanding exactly what it is he’ll lose should he fail.

In order to make effective moves in the Game of Time {La Zeitjuego as it is called by the Singularity) Jack Karaquazian has been forced to accept their logical overview (but also clings to his own, making concentration on the Game doubly difficult). Meanwhile, Sam Oakenhurst has been absorbed into the greatest of the Chaos captains, Billy-Bob Begg, who believes she has taken his power and wisdom by drinking from the Red Cup. The Rose refuses the Game but remains in her ship, eagerly interested in the outcome and observing much of the play through her scale-screens, which have been adapted for the purpose. She sniffs for those connecting scents which will help her form a picture and witness Jack’s learning the story of the fishlings:

In order to make effective moves in the Game, Jack had been forced to accept their logical overview, but also cling to his own, making concentration on the Game doubly difficult. Meanwhile, Sam had been absorbed into the greatest of the Chaos captains, Begg, who believes she’s taken his power and wisdom by drinking from the Red Cup. Rose refuses the Game but remains in her ship, eagerly interested in the outcome and observing much of the play through her scale-screens, which have been adapted for the purpose. She sniffs for those connecting scents which will help her form a picture and witness Jack learning the story of the fishlings.

In the course of her extensive ether-travelling the Spammer Gain had become completely organic, nowadays resembling at stable scale a well-fed sea- mammal, sweet-featured, trailing impossibly long mustachios of glowing baleen and glittering coral- colored tentacles, her forequarters resembling a vast tropical cuttlefish a million miles wide, her lovely eyes full of wise astonishment.
Her intellect was in a constant state of activity. She existed in deep co-dimensional symbiosis with her crew whose well-being was her motherly concern. Her crew loved her with unreasoning loyalty and an almost childish passion.
The patterns of these linked emotions were a powerful natural talisman protecting the Spammer Gain, with the result that she had virtually no traditional enemies.
Even the Singularity had to treat with the Spammer Gain. The fishlings, who had conjured themselves into sentient existence around her, created in her a profound maternal pride which added to their mutual invulnerability. In all their ether-travelling, all the dangers of their deep explorations and high-scaling adventures, they were protected by the massive power of their mutual love and their relish for existence.
The love between the Spammer Gain and her fishlings was celebrated throughout the multiverse. Captain Wopwop of the Spammer Gain was an admired merchant venturer in her own right, courageous and clever and shrewd and risky as a rolled rat. She too had changed conspicuously under the fluid logic of the Second Ether and her face had come to look almost purely piscine. Hers was perhaps the most sublimely beautiful face in all the multiverse, while her generosity and active sympathy were a watchword amongst even those munificent and profligate Chaos captains who spoke of her in the same reverential breath as Captain Billy-Bob Begg, their exemplar and, upon appropriate occasions (for all the Chaos captains were fiercely free), their mentor.
Ultimately the fishlings began to form simple societies, separating into a number of tribes. The leaders were identified by the name of their tribe—thus Perch was Chief of the Perch tribe, Bream, Chief of Breams, and so on. There were at least fifteen tribes, each with distinctive appearance and customs, including Roach, Grayling, Salmon, Tench, Chubb, Charr, Eel, Zander, Barbel, Pike, Rudd and Dace, but their rapid evolution was to prove their downfall and Kaprikorn Schultz would set a false attractor to lure them over, using the boomwap he had stolen from Professor Pop: and everyone’s wrecked on main street from drinking unholy blood . . . His plan was to win the confidence of the infamous Homeboy Tong and become their chief accountant.
Schultz departed, the fishlings swarming behind him, all but Chief Tench, a singularly intelligent creature who, having failed to warn the others of its misgivings, had elected to stay with Spammer, even though it had almost torn his soul apart to do so, for the false attractor was unusually convincing and had created all kinds of seductive secondary realities.
Delivered over to the evil ministrations of Mrs. Reg, co-desk to the Instrument, the fishlings would be fed into the maw of the Original Insect and thus, the Singularity hoped, bring their legendary patron to their aid in the conquest of the Second Ether. Only blood could activate the necessary equation. But through carelessness and an innate sporting sensibility, Kaprikorn Schultz lost his stolen charges when he failed to refold his boomwap, causing his false attractor to dissipate. The fishlings vanished. Now not even the infamous Banker to the Homeboy Tong knew where they had gone.

In the course of her ether travels, Spammer had become completely organic, nowadays resembling at stable scale a well-fed sea-mammal. Her intellect was in a constant state of activity. She existed in deep co-dimensional symbiosis with her crew. The patterns of those linked emotions were a powerful natural talisman protecting Spammer, with the result that she had virtually no traditional enemies. Even the Singularity had to treat with the Spammer. The fishlings, who had conjured themselves into sentient existence around her, created in her a profound maternal pride which added to their mutual invulnerability. In all their ether travels, all the dangers of their deep explorations and high-scaling adventures, they were protected by the massive power of their mutual love and their relish for existence. The love between Spammer and her fishlings was celebrated throughout the multiverse. Wopwop had changed conspicuously under the Second Ether’s fluid logic and her face had come to look almost purely piscine. Ultimately the fishlings began to form simple societies, separating into a number of tribes. There were at least fifteen tribes, each with distinctive appearance and customs, but their rapid evolution was to prove their downfall and Schultz would set a false attractor to lure them over, using the boomwap he had stolen from Pop and everyone’s wrecked on main street from drinking unholy blood. His plan was to win the confidence of the infamous Homeboy Tong and become their chief accountant. Schultz departed, the fishlings swarming behind him, all but Chief Tench, a singularly intelligent creature who, having failed to warn the others of its misgivings, had elected to stay with Spammer, even though it had almost torn his soul apart to do so, for the false attractor was unusually convincing and had created all kinds of seductive secondary realities. Delivered over to the evil ministrations of Mrs. Reg, co-desk to the Instrument, the fishlings would be fed into the maw of the Original Insect and thus, the Singularity hoped, bring their legendary patron to their aid in the Second Ether’s conquest. Only blood could activate the necessary equation but through carelessness and an innate sporting sensibility, Schultz lost his stolen charges when he failed to refold his boomwap, causing his false attractor to dissipate, the fishlings vanishing. Now not even the infamous Banker to the Tong knew where they had gone.

“My fishlings!” cries the wretched monster. “O, bring me back my fishlings!”
And so loved is the Spammer Gain that almost every Chaos Captain, wherever they are, on whatever business in the multiverse, rallies to her cri de coeur. And for love of Pearl Peru came Fearless Frank Force, Hero of the Singularity, to dare the Lavender Field and face the risk of massive psychic reordering. Five times Fearless Frank Force and his ship The Right Course for Recovery had corkscrewed down the misty maze of tunnels ripped through the fabric of the multiverse by previous Singularity voyagers. The tunnels' boundaries were announced only by the subtlest changes of lavender shades. Following crude charts and hearsay, Captain Force survived to enter the Poppy and the Poppies where a kind of civilization had developed. It had made Frank Force its king and bequeathed to him his uncanny Fold Suit which allowed this paragon of all that was virtuous in the Singularity to pass along the megaflow without damage to his surroundings. He was heading for Ko-O-Ko, the Lost Universe, in the belief that the fishlings had found a home there.
Meanwhile evil Freddy Force, whose machinations allowed him to become Old Reg's Favored Number Two, believes his noble twin to be dead and has captured Little Rupoldo. “I shall try my luck again,” he declares. “And next time I shall bring you back the Mangootr they put your father in!” Chuckling, he departs on his stolen Vespa Vortex Navigator. He hopes to trade information with Kaprikorn Schultz at an agreed rendezvous. (In those days Kap- rikom’s rank was only temporary.)
“My fishlings! Where are my fishlings?” The whole multiverse reverberates with her agonized plea. “Bring me back my fishlings!”
A scarlet cloud billows out from the Spammer Gain, a spume which rages, with painful yellows and dark, rocky greens at its dissipating edges. She scales recklessly down towards the dangerous demonworlds of Limbo where echoes alone rule, their meaning forgotten, their origins lost, where all that is left of our former gods is a heartless appetite.
Deeply she dives down-scale, all her screens alive with rapidly growing and fading perspectives and formulae in every level of the spectrum, astral rays blazing a path through the roiling fractures of dissipating Chaos, pale blues and golds, pale lemons and pinks, teasing their way into the spaces which always grow between proliferating matter. Deeply she dives, as if the pain of it will replace the pain in her heart. Her recklessness terrifies even Captain Wopwop who begs her for all their sakes to change course and go upscale again, at least until they have discussed their predicament. Ghosts lick at their souls. Forgotten godlings taste the scent of them. Greedy echoes, longing for the substance Spammer can provide in such magnificent quantity.
“They begin to hunt us,” says Captain Wopwop. “Here, our love has no power.”
“What?” Spammer is dreamy, lost, drowning in her sorrow.
“If the fishlings are in Limbo, Spammer dear, there is no saving them, just as we cannot save ourselves.”
“What? Are you frightened Wopwop, dear?”
“Aye, Spammer. Never more so. Is this not fruitless? Tell me you think it is! Do not extinguish us like this, Spammer. Feeding the damned at last.”
But, before Spammer can answer, news comes over the experimental omniphone. Little Rupoldo has escaped Freddy Forces captivity and has stowed away on a Singularity ship. He has overheard many crucial conversations. Fearless Frank Force has discovered Ko-O-Ko, the Lost Universe, and is even now seeking the fishlings there.
The Spammer Gain quickens with hope and she begins the long, exhausting scale-jump, via the old Mars Scaling Station, which will return them to the Second Ether. The Singularity will try to block her way. She will disguise herself as one of their number.

And so loved is the Spammer that almost every Chaos Captain, wherever they are, on whatever business in the multiverse, rallies to her cry and for love of Pearl came Frank Force, Hero of the Singularity, to dare the Lavender Field and face the risk of massive psychic reordering. Five times, Force and his ship had corkscrewed down the misty maze of tunnels ripped through the fabric of the multiverse by previous Singularity voyagers. The tunnels' boundaries were announced only by the subtlest changes of lavender shades. Following crude charts and hearsay, Force survived to enter another ship where a kind of civilization had developed. It made Force its king and bequeathed to him his uncanny Fold Suit which allowed the paragon of all that was virtuous in the Singularity to pass along the megaflow without damage to his surroundings. He was heading for Ko-O-Ko in the belief that the fishlings had found a home there. Meanwhile Freddy, whose machinations allowed him to become Oldreg's Favored Number Two, believes his noble twin to be dead and captured Rupoldo. He’ll try his luck again and next time he’ll bring him back the Mangootr they put his father in. Freddy departs on his stolen Vespa Vortex Navigator, hoping to trade information with Schultz at an agreed rendezvous. Spammer keeps searching for her fishlings, the whole multiverse reverberating with her agonized plea. A scarlet cloud billows out from the Spammer, a spume which rages, with painful yellows and dark, rocky greens at its dissipating edges. She scales recklessly down towards the dangerous demon worlds of Limbo where echoes alone rule, their meaning forgotten, their origins lost, where all that is left of our former gods is a heartless appetite. Deeply she dives down-scale, all her screens alive with rapidly growing and fading perspectives and formulae in every level of the spectrum, astral rays blazing a path through the roiling fractures of dissipating Chaos, pale blues and golds, pale lemons and pinks, teasing their way into the spaces which always grow between proliferating matter. Deeply she dives, as if the pain of it will replace the pain in her heart. Her recklessness terrifies even Wopwop who begs her for all their sakes to change course and go upscale again, at least until they have discussed their predicament. Ghosts lick at their souls. Forgotten godlings taste the scent of them. Greedy echoes, longing for the substance Spammer can provide in such magnificent quantity. They begin to hunt the crew for there, their love has no power but Spammer’s dreamy, lost, drowning in her sorrow. If the fishlings are in Limbo, there’s no saving them, just as they cannot save themselves. Spammer thinks Wopwop afraid and she is but it’s useless and begs she not kill them like that, feeding the damned at last but, before Spammer can answer, news comes over the experimental omniphone. Rupoldo escaped Freddy’s captivity and has stowed away on a Singularity ship. He overheard many crucial conversations and Frank’s discovered Ko-O-Ko and is even now seeking the fishlings there. The Spammer quickens with hope and she begins the long, exhausting scale-jump, via the old Mars Scaling Station, which’ll return them to the Second Ether. The Singularity will try to block her way so she’ll disguise herself as one of their number.

Sam Oakenhurst made his play and sat back to take a breather. He suspected the Rose of having something to do with Pearl Peru's failure to accept him. The Rose has always been jealous of Pearl. He remembered how ill-tempered she had become when he had first taken an interest in Pearl's adventures. He was not sure of his feelings. He still loved the Rose, yet he had yearned so long for Pearl Peru! Now that he was denied her, he believed himself betrayed.
I could do nothing but offer her my best, he would write in his journal. I had acquired the key to positive pain. This permitted me an almost limitless power, which was sought by Captain Billy-Bob Begg herself, whose own strange carapace had endowed her with peculiar aches and agonies. I was able to translate all this pain into daring battle-plays and countermoves, with nothing to fear but death and no longer fearing that! We had the whole multiverse to play for, with immortality the pot of the day! This understanding brought her a certain ease and sometimes wild joy. Initially I could find no links to help me reveal the deeper solutions she needed, yet sometimes I felt as if she were eating me alive—but absently, as one might chew upon a forgotten piece of gum.
“It's a game with all winners or all losers, depending on their luck and judgement," I told Jack.
I will admit that I was bitter that he should have the role I so coveted, but if one of us was to be a winner, rather than both, I accepted that he was the better player. When we had first parted to go to our identities and play La Zeitjuego, the Game of Time, I had told him spitefully that his identity was obvious—he could always look in the mirror. In my case all I had left of myself were my original eyes, now mere optic options.
Captain Billy-Bob was paying attention to the screen where Little Rupoldo had successfully hooked them into the Singularity's senders. I leaned forward, over Little Rupoldo's pixing shoulder, and watched.

Sam made his play and sat back to take a breather, suspecting the Rose of having something to do with Pearl's failure to accept him. Rose had always been jealous of Pearl, remembering how ill-tempered she became when he’d first taken an interest in Pearl's adventures. He wasn’t sure of his feelings but he still loved the Rose yet he had yearned for Pearl. Sam could do nothing but offer her his best, he would write in his journal. Sam acquired the key to positive pain that permitted him an almost limitless power, which was sought by Captain Begg herself, whose own strange carapace had endowed her with peculiar aches and agonies. He was able to translate all the pain into daring battle-plays and countermoves, with nothing to fear but death and no longer fearing that. They had the whole multiverse to play for, with immortality the pot of the day. That understanding brought her a certain ease and sometimes wild joy. Initially he could find no links to help him reveal the deeper solutions she needed yet sometimes he felt as if she were eating him alive but absently, as one might chew upon a forgotten piece of gum. It's a game with all winners or all losers, depending on their luck and judgement. He admits that he was bitter that he should have the role he so coveted but if one of them was to be a winner, rather than both, he accepted that Jack was the better player. When they had first parted to go to our identities and play the Game, Sam had told him spitefully that his identity was obvious, he could always look in the mirror. In Sam’s case, all he had left of himself were his original eyes, now mere optic options. Begg was paying attention to the screen where Rupoldo had successfully hooked them into the Singularity's senders.

Old Reg, his toothbrush moustache bristling with urgency, his round glasses angry with cold reflections, his tie a tight knot at his throat, addressed the Singularity's noblest hero. “There are five freescalers of hume origin and three Chaos Engineers with the power to freescale. You, Frank Force, against all eight humes (and we do not know how many followers of the First Beast, all those sliplings and swiflings)—you, Frank Force, are the only Singularist with the means of emulating their skills. You achieve this wholesomely, through rational scientific, rather than metaphysical, method. Your mathematics are clean. Fate and the Poppy and the Poppies have provided you with an uncanny Fold Suit which permits you to roam almost at will through the Second Ether. I therefore adjoin you to seek the fishlings wherever they have flown, even to Ko-O-Ko, the Lost Universe, and return them to the Spammer Gain. Thus we shall ensure that powerful freescaler's loyalty to our cause, guaranteeing our conquests! You are further adjoined to avoid the presence of the Outlaw Venturer, Pearl Peru, at cost of Withdrawal of the Desk, leaving you unprotected against the lust of the Original Insect and consigned to Perpetual Shame.”
Excommunicated!
Fearless Frank Force received this news with considerable dismay. His whole purpose in convincing Old Reg to let him seek the fishlings was so that at length Pearl Peru would look on him with favor, turning her attention away from the loathsome Bullybop. He was not to know recent events had overtaken him. Bullybop had used his lover's power over Pearl Peru to try to bring her to Schultz's confederacy. This had sickened her and at last confirmed her common sense, which she had been ignoring. In disgusted rage she had freed herself from his emotional glamor. His loathsome influence was broken. But her caution towards the Singularity and its servants remained.
(Furious and frustrated, Bullybop takes the Blue Cup and absorbs Paul Minct. A further mistake. He rushes to join Pearl's enemies but is incautious and is in turn absorbed.)
“See,'' I told Little Rupoldo, “under the deadly authority of the Singularity Frank Force becomes a creature unable to follow its conscience or its desires! This, Little Rupoldo, is the path of death. This is what would conquer us and win the Game of Time. We must throw ourselves into the turbulence of unknown scales and seek the Lost Universe of Ko-O- Ko. We must seek and survive the pain.”
These words were relayed. There was a silence in the great control room as the crew considered the meaning of my decision. Then, in accord, they offered up a cheer. “We’re with you, dear Main Type, to the ends of the multiverse, if need be.”
I gave orders for rapid angular scaling, simultaneously moving through time and space as well as scale. It would be agony for us all.

Oldreg addressed the Singularity's noblest hero. There are five freescalers of hume origin and three Chaos Engineers with the power to freescale. Frank Force, against all eight humes, and they don’t know how many followers of the First Beast, all those sliplings and swiflings, he’s the only Singularist with the means of emulating their skills. Frank achieves that wholesomely, through rational scientific, rather than metaphysical, method, his mathematics clean. An uncanny Fold Suit was given to him which permits him to roam almost at will through the Second Ether. He therefore adjoins Frank to seek the fishlings wherever they’ve flown, even to Ko-O-Ko and return them to Spammer. Thus they’ll ensure that powerful freescaler's loyalty to their cause, guaranteeing their conquests. Frank’s further adjoined to avoid the presence of Pearl, at cost of Withdrawal of the Desk, leaving him unprotected against the lust of the Original Insect and consigned to Perpetual Shame. Frank received that news with considerable dismay. His whole purpose in convincing Oldreg to let him seek the fishlings was so that at length Pearl would look on him with favor, turning her attention away from the loathsome Bullybop. He was not to know recent events had overtaken him. Bullybop had used his lover’s power over Pearl to try to bring her to Schultz's confederacy. This sickened her and at last confirmed her common sense, which she had been ignoring. In disgusted rage she freed herself from his emotional glamor. His loathsome influence was broken but her caution towards the Singularity and its servants remained. Furious and frustrated, Bullybop takes the Blue Cup and absorbs Paul Minct, a further mistake. He rushes to join Pearl's enemies but is incautious and is in turn absorbed. Under the deadly authority of the Singularity Frank becomes a creature unable to follow its conscience or desires. That’s the path of death, that’s what would conquer them and win the Game. They must throw themselves into the turbulence of unknown scales and seek Ko-O- Ko, seek and survive the pain. The crew are quiet at first but say they’re with Begg to the ends of the multiverse if need be. Begg gave orders for rapid angular scaling, simultaneously moving through time and space as well as scale. It would be agony for them all.

Frank Force passes us by, his uncanny Fold Suit pulping and repulping as he chooses the notorious underside. He considers fresh equations.
“She will not take it kindly,” he says, “if I kill Bullybop.”
Frank Force does not realize that Pearl Peru has had her last encounter with Bullybop. This encounter will become legendary as The Conflict at the Field of the Blue Pearl Crocus:
Bullybop had returned, he said, with Pearl’s spare livershield which he had borrowed:
It was a ruse. He was Bullybop in appearance, but already the half-demon Baron Pin was in control of him. And Pin favored the taste of Minct.
The moment they were alone amongst the crocuses, Pearl’s instinct (actually Jack’s memory) told her Bullybop retained nothing of his original character. Paul Minct’s features, still masked, gloated at her, horribly familiar to Sam Oakenhurst, now linked in. Nothing had warned him of Sam Oakenhurst’s memory and experience. Such a combination was unimaginable to him. Baron Pin did not reveal himself but let Paul Minct blossom and define the character, with the result that Pearl’s sense of loathing increased enormously. She immediately developed a physical aversion for the creature who had once held her with the power of a deep addiction. She craved now to destroy Bullybop. Jack’s experience and instincts rescued her.
Still linked to Captain Billy-Bob but drawn temporarily to Pearl, with Jack's active help, Sam Oakenhurst remained terrified of his old enemy. Paul Minct had not long preceded him into the Second Ether. Only through this unprecedented double equation was Mr. Minct resisted. At the end, employing furious force, Sam Oakenhurst almost killed himself and his whole gestalt. But at last it was done in a moment. Raging and vicious, Pin Minct fought these unnaturally novel mathematics and lost.
“Much obliged, Sam,” says Jack Karaquazian, while Pearl Peru stares coldly down at her ruined exlover. And Sam Oakenhurst, whose co-option to Pearl's cause can only be brief, which was only possible because of his enduring obsession and Jack’s talent for innovation, returns wholly to Captain Billy-Bob Begg. “Much obliged.”
I am relieved. I have no liking for such daringly unconventional moves. My admiration for Jack Karaquazian, however, increases. We are short a Bullybop, a Minct and a Baron Pin and that cannot be a minus. We have taken control of the logic. The angels are devouring each other. I can still hear echoes of their conflict.
“Don’t mention it, Jack.” I say.
Jack had taught me the crossover technique which was to seal my fate. I had occupied two characters at the same time, playing them in harness. An impossible triumph.

Frank passes them by, his uncanny Fold Suit pulping and repulping as he chooses the notorious underside. He considers fresh equations. She’ll not take it kindly if he kills Bullybop. Frank doesn’t realize that Pearl has had her last encounter with Bullybop which ‘ll become legendary as The Conflict at the Field of the Blue Pearl Crocus. Bullybop returned with Pearl’s spare livershield which he had borrowed but it was a ruse. He was Bullybop in appearance, but already the half-demon Baron Pin was in control of him and Pin favored the taste of Minct. The moment they were alone amongst the crocuses, Pearl’s instinct, actually Jack’s memory, told her Bullybop retained nothing of his original character. Paul’s features, still masked, gloated at her, horribly familiar to Sam, now linked in. Nothing had warned him of Sam’s memory and experience. Such a combination was unimaginable to him. Pin didn’t reveal himself but let Paul blossom and define the character, with the result that Pearl’s sense of loathing increased enormously. She immediately developed a physical aversion for the creature who had once held her with the power of a deep addiction. She craved now to destroy Bullybop as Jack’s experience and instincts rescue her. Still linked to Begg but drawn temporarily to Pearl, with Jack's active help, Sam remained terrified of his old enemy. Paul had not long preceded him into the Second Ether. Only through that unprecedented double equation was Mr. Minct resisted. At the end, employing furious force, Sam almost killed himself and his whole gestalt but at last it was done in a moment. Raging and vicious, Pin fought those unnaturally novel mathematics and lost. Jack greets Sam while Pearl stares coldly down at her ruined ex-lover and Sam, whose co-option to Pearl's cause can only be brief, which was only possible because of his enduring obsession and Jack’s talent for innovation, returns wholly to Begg. He’s relieved, having no liking for such daringly unconventional moves. They are short a Bullybop, a Minct and a Pin and that cannot be a minus so they’ve taken control of the logic. The angels are devouring each other, he can still hear echoes of their conflict. Jack had taught Sam the crossover technique which was to seal his fate. He had occupied two characters at the same time, playing them in harness, an impossible triumph.

It was impossible to be a freescaler and a Chaos Engineer. That was the received wisdom before Little Rupoldo cleared the Great Gnat and raced home on a barrel stave. In order to travel, the engineers manipulated the multiverse, following the ether patterns and the scales and sometimes bending them a little. The freescalers, on the other hand, took their chances and went all the way with whatever flow was fastest or what seemed to be going in their direction. Blown like dandelion spores on the cosmic winds, using their wits only in self-defense, they sometimes bleated like Easter lambs in their helpless terror. Their philosophy—if such it was—could not be understood by Corporal Pork. His attention was still on the screen where the freescalers had left their trails. But this was something new. “I'll stake hell to a herringbone if it isn’t a sniffer sidling in at last,” he declared. “What news, my snouts?”
The Singularity’s Freescaling Ace, Fearless Frank Force, is approaching the Now The Clouds Have Meaning, ship of the famous Chaos Engineer, Captain Billy-Bob Begg,” whiffled the little fellows. “There, it is said, they will parley.”
“Unprecedented! Could this be the beginning of Peace between Chaos and the Singularity? An agreement to hold the-Balance by other means than this life-devouring rivalry?”
“Love will conquer, Porky,” promises his new paramour, Little Fanny Fun. “Love will conquer. It is what we play for. But how else shall we consume Time? Loyalties are changing suddenly now. I am helpless. I have no side!”
“Love is our friend in this,” says Corporal Pork. Captain Quelch, who is their prisoner, snorts with contempt.
“Nar! Nar!” he bellows, in mockery of the First Beast, whose brother he has so recently ripped up. “Let this loving peace develop and we shall cease to exist! You foolish dullards! It is your own doom you'll bring with this sentimental lust, this feeble guff. Love is never our friend! Should it triumph, we shall have no further purpose!” He is drunk on super- refined carbons, filling their quarters with appalling fumes. He has already devoured an entire flagon of Ackroyd's Vortex-Water. “We'll be redundant. All we can do is play our bloody Game. We're specialized creatures. If we succeed in establishing and holding the Balance we're done for, my dears. We go straight to Limbo, darlings, believe me. Sat sapienti—you think I’m the cynic? Who set us up for this? God, do you think? Or people like us, but a couple of million scales bigger—doing just what we’re doing now? And maybe somebody’s doing the same with them. Where does the Game end? Maybe it's infinite. The strong shall devour the weak. That is the only law of nature I understand. How long does it go on for, my dears? How far does it go? Why question the unanswerable? Why don't we enjoy the Game and play it forever, my darlings? If were bound for Limbo it's inevitable. Death is a natural consequence of life. Since death is inevitable we might as well make the most of life while we have it. Taste each moment. There isn't anything better than this for us. And it isn't that damned bad, either! The Game has been good to me. If the Game stops, corporal, so do we.”

It was impossible to be a freescaler and a Chaos Engineer. That was the received wisdom before Rupoldo cleared the Great Gnat and raced home on a barrel stave. In order to travel, the engineers manipulated the multiverse, following the ether patterns and the scales and sometimes bending them a little. The freescalers, on the other hand, took their chances and went all the way with whatever flow was fastest or what seemed to be going in their direction. Blown like dandelion spores on the cosmic winds, using their wits only in self-defense, they sometimes bleated in their helpless terror. Their philosophy couldn’t be understood by Corporal Pork. His attention was still on the screen where the freescalers had left their trails but this was something new. He’ll stake hell to a herringbone if it isn’t a sniffer sidling in at last. The Singularity’s Freescaling Ace, Frank, is approaching Begg’s ship. There, it is said, they will parley but that’s unprecedented. Pork asks if that could be the beginning of peace between Chaos and the Singularity, an agreement to hold the-Balance by other means than life-devouring rivalry. Love will conquer for it’s what they play for but how else shall they consume Time since loyalties are changing suddenly now. Quelch, who is their prisoner, snorts with contempt. He bellows, in mockery of the First Beast, who’s brother he has so recently ripped up. He says if they let the loving peace develop, they’ll cease to exist. He’s drunk on super-refined carbons, filling their quarters with appalling fumes. He already devoured an entire flagon of Ackroyd's Vortex-Water. They’ll be redundant for all they can do is play their Game. They’re specialized creatures so if they succeed in establishing and holding the Balance they’re done for. They go straight to Limbo. He asks who set them up for that, thinking it was God or people like them, but a couple of million scales bigger, doing just what they’re doing now and maybe somebody’s doing the same with them. He asks where the Game ends, thinking it’s MAYBE INFINITE. The only law of nature he understands is Social Darwinism but he asks how long does it go on for, how far does it go, why question the unanswerable and why don't they enjoy the Game and play it forever. If they’re bound for Limbo, it's inevitable. Death’s a natural consequence of life and since death’s inevitable, they may as well make the most of life while they have it, taste each moment. There isn't anything better than that for them for the Game’s been good to him. If the Game stops, so do they.

“Love cannot be our enemy,” says Corporal Pork.
“Love is our salvation," says Fanny Fun.
“Our doom!” Captain Quelch gulps the carbons like a goose gobbling smoke. “Admit it, Pearl. Your creed must damn us all to inevitable and immediate death.”
“We shall change the nature of the multiverse and therefore the terms of the human condition,” says Pearl Peru from the shadows where she rests. Her war against Bullybop has exhausted her and she yearns for Frank Force, wondering why he does not come to her. “We shall change the nature of reality. We shall change our own fates. The secret lies in our power over Time. We can order reality so that love truly does rule the multiverse.”
“A tall order, dear.” Captain Quelch pretended to return to his V. He had noted uneasily Jack Karaquazian's eyes peering out from Pearl's glittering head. He had gambled on the Egyptian being as upset by change as himself. Yet Mr. Karaquazian was taking untypical risks. Was even strengthened by them.
Was it time, Quelch wondered, to desert the Singularity? “Iuppiter ex alto perjuria ridet amantum, as Ovid would have it.” The very small talk of these people sickened them. How could they draw strength from such insubstantial whimsy? At this moment however their grip on their power seemed far surer than his own.
What sort of minds, Quelch asked himself, could make sense of all that slithering, constantly regenerating and proliferating primary etherstuff, that untameable slime? He shuddered. He was revolted, even now, merely to be in their company. His temper had not been good since he had lost his peabody in the crude opening round as they had reached the Grail. He longed for the clean, open seas of the life he had left behind, the warm scents of the tideless Mediterranean where they had all been bom, so long ago, where Europe met Asia and Africa. He even felt nostalgic for Kent.
Pearl groans. "Where is Frank Force? Will he ever return from the Lost Universe? O, Frank! My love! Is he gone with the fishlings?”
“Look,” says Corporal Pork, all his little eyes upon their brightening screens. “Look, my friends! I think we are rescued.”
Something has holed the Singularity's false- universe. Its hectic momentum has been reversed. It is the Spammer Gain bright with supercarbon filings which swarm to her motherly gravity. Another new development.
“Fresh fishlings for her, I think,” says Pearl Peru in satisfaction. “But what became of the others?”
Only Captain Tench, venturing alone and determined into that vast and uncongenial universe, will ever discover the truth.
Spammer has inadvertently blown up the Martian Scaling Station, causing a flux-twist which, in turn, has given Captain Billy-Bob the coordinates she needs.
The news comes through on the omniphone—in her ship, the Now The Clouds Have Meaning, Captain Billy-Bob has freescaled the length and breadth of the Second Ether, returning with fresh, detailed charts locked into her logic banks. It is just the knowledge the Engineers need to develop much-needed new mathematics.
Now they can, with confidence, challenge and perhaps even defeat the Singularity!
But still no news of Frank Force. It seems the rumor of his rescue by Captain Billy-Bob was false. Pearl Peru begins to weep.
Captain Billy-Bob does not return in triumph. She is broken with shame. Having fallen through thousands of millions of scales in her wild search for the Lost Universe, her adventures have taken eons of subjective time. She and her crew have suffered impossible agonies and transformations, only through luck retaining a rough equivalent of their original psyches. But they failed to find the fishlings. Sam Oakenhurst blames himself.
“And where is Frank?” demands Pearl, ungenerous in her desperation, careless of her friend's terrible burden.
“Frank is safe,” says Captain Billy-Bob, shivering with the enormity of her guilt. “Frank at least is safe. He is with me.” The voice on the omniphone became a dissipating echo. Pearl would learn the implications of this soon enough.

They keep arguing over if love will save them but they’ll change the nature of the multiverse and therefore the terms of the human condition. Pearl’s war against Bullybop exhausted her and she yearns for Frank, wondering why he doesn’t come to her. They’ll change the nature of reality, change their own fates for the secret lies in their power over Time. They can order reality so that love truly does rule the multiverse but Quench doubts her, pretending to return to his V. He had noted uneasily Jack's eyes peering out from Pearl's glittering head. He had gambled on the Egyptian being as upset by change as himself yet Jack was taking untypical risks and was even strengthened by them. Quelch wonders if it was time to desert the Singularity. The very small talk of these people sickened them, wondering how they could draw strength from such insubstantial whimsy. At that moment however their grip on their power seemed far surer than his own. Quelch asks himself what sort of minds could make sense of all that slithering, constantly regenerating and proliferating primary ether stuff, that untameable slime. Pearl asks where Frank is and if he’ll ever return from Ko-O-Ko. Pork thinks they’re rescued for something has holed the Singularity's false-universe, its hectic momentum reversed. It’s the Spammer, bright with supercarbon filings which swarm to her motherly gravity. Pearl thinks it’s fresh fishlings for her but wonders what became of the others. Only Captain Tench, venturing alone and determined into that vast and uncongenial universe, will ever discover the truth. Spammer inadvertently blew up the Martian Scaling Station, causing a flux-twist which, in turn, has given Begg the coordinates she needs. The news comes through on the omniphone in her ship that Begg freescaled the length and breadth of the Second Ether, returning with fresh, detailed charts locked into her logic banks. It’s just the knowledge the Engineers need to develop much-needed new mathematics. Now they can, with confidence, challenge and perhaps even defeat the Singularity. Still no news of Frank as it seems the rumor of his rescue by Begg was false. Begg doesn’t return in triumph, broken with shame having fallen through thousands of millions of scales in her wild search for Ko-O-KO for her adventures took eons of subjective time. She and her crew suffered impossible agonies and transformations, only through luck retaining a rough equivalent of their original psyches but they failed to find the fishlings, Sam blaming himself. Pearl asks where Frank is and he’s safe for he is with Begg.

Acting spontaneously, Captain Billy-Bob Begg, in order to save her ship and her crew and pull Frank Force from the plasma vortex which Kaprikorn Schultz had erected in their path, had repeated the impossible double-up maneuver, this time irrevocably combining both her body and her spirit with Frank Force's, melding them together into one permanently enjoined being! The power of Chaos and Singularity, combined with the ingredients of the uncanny Fold Suit broken into a rich and near-lethal fuel, had brought the Now The Clouds Have Meaning home.

Acting spontaneously, Captain Begg, in order to save her ship and her crew and pull Frank from the plasma vortex which Schultz had erected in their path, had repeated the impossible double-up maneuver, this time irrevocably combining both her body and her spirit with Frank's, melding them together into one permanently enjoined being. The power of Chaos and Singularity, combined with the ingredients of the uncanny Fold Suit broken into a rich and near-lethal fuel, had brought her ship home.

“Sam Oakenhurst is dying,” cries the Rose. “Quickly, Jack! He is dying of shame. He has lost control of his own logic.”
“Forgive me,” begs Sam Oakenhurst of them all. “I set my sights on pain when I should have set them on love. It was my fatal confusion, Rose. Forgive me.” But he will live for countless millennia, united with Captains Begg and Force: a tiny part of them.

Sam’s dying and Rose begs Jack to act as he dies of shame, losing control of his own logic. Sam asks to be forgiven since he set his sights on pain when he should’ve set them on love. It was his fatal confusion but he’ll live for countless millennia, united with Begg and Force as a tiny part of them.

Fearless Frank Force is helpless, bewildered by his coexistence with Captain Billy-Bob. They share identical space and scale. Frank Force is not sure what to do or say now. Is he still alive?
It had been Sam’s decision. He had known it would kill him as an individual. But Pearl and all the others were saved. Jack Karaquazian would live to win where Sam Oakenhurst had lost.
Jack Karaquazian looked at Sam Oakenhurst, their identities wavering, focusing, seeking one another out. Pearl’s wonderful arms embraced her lover.
“So long, Sam,” she said.

Frank’s helpless, bewildered by his coexistence with Begg. They share identical space and scale but Frank’s not sure what to do or say now or if he’s still alive. It was Sam’s decision, knowing it would kill him as an individual but Pearl and all the others were saved. Jack would live to win where Sam had lost. Jack looked at Sam, their identities wavering, focusing, seeking one another out as Pearl’s wonderful arms embraced her lover, Sam.

It had been an act of extraordinary self-sacrifice and cleverness, taking great courage on Sam Oakenhurst’s part, making himself the medium through which Captain Billy-Bob and Fearless Frank Force joined their strength together. He had reconciled Law and Chaos through the power of his loving sacrifice. No such act had ever succeeded in the history of the Game. He has changed the rules.
The Rose had not anticipated this. “Sam!” She is at her friend's remains. He lies on the vibrating floor of the Domier while a violent storm crashes around them. Silver lightning glares against the windows. His strange skull lifts itself.
“Sam! Come back! You had some bad luck, that was all. You don’t have to go. Look! Jack's released himself from Captain Peru!”
“It’s a question of honor, Rose,” says Sam Oakenhurst. “I pushed Captain Billy-Bob to the decision. I guessed wrong and I took them all with me. I caused them impossible agony and for nothing. I said we were exploring but I was really escaping. I owe this to them. I owe this to the Pearl, to bring her lover home. Goodbye, Jack. I did my best. You still have a game or two to play. But I think I’ve improved your odds a little ...”

It was an act of extraordinary self-sacrifice and cleverness, taking great courage on Sam’s part, making himself the medium through which Begg and Frank joined their strength together. He reconciled Law and Chaos through the power of his loving sacrifice. No such act had ever succeeded in the history of the Game, changing the rules. Rose hadn’t anticipated that, begging Sam to come back, saying he had some bad luck and he doesn’t have to go, pointing to Jack releasing himself from Pearl. It’s a question of honor as he pushed Begg to the decision. He guessed wrong and he took them all with him, causing them impossible agony and for nothing. He said they were exploring but he was really escaping. He owes that to them, to Pearl, to bring her lover home. He bids Jack farewell, having done his best. Jack still has a game or two to play but he thinks he’s improved Jack’s odds a little.

“Have you learned nothing, Sam?” asks Jack Karaquazian, his grief turning to anger against his old partner. He looks back from where he sits at his controls. The windows are full of uneasy blackness slashed with crimson. “Your honor will destroy you as it almost destroyed me. Your chivalry is the Old Hunter’s finest disguise. His last resort. Don’t you understand what you achieved?”
“I had a duty to Captain Billy-Bob. I could not let her down. She is my Main Type.”
“What about Pearl Peru?” Jack Karaquazian tries mockery to sting his friend back to their company, to save his human soul. “Was she not also your Main Type once?” He rises from his seat and kneels down.
“Goodbye, Pearl,” says Mr. Oakenhurst. “Frank Force and Captain Billy-Bob will find you. God is, after all, a tree.” And he lets himself go.
Sam Oakenhurst’s mortal body dies in Jack Karaquazian’s arms. What is left of him has gone to play in the service of entropy; to roam the quasi infinite, a demigod blessed by death’s eternal simplicities. A gloriously doomed soul.
And the Rose falls weeping upon Jack Karaquazian's weary shoulder.

Jack asks if Sam’s learned nothing. Sam’s honor will destroy him as it almost destroyed Jack. Sam’s chivalry is the Old Hunter’s finest disguise, his last resort. Jack asks Sam if he understands what he achieved but he had a duty to Begg so he couldn’t let her down as she is Sam’s Main Type. Jack asks if Pearl wasn’t also his Main Type once, trying mockery to sting his friend back to their company, to save his human soul. Sam bids Pearl farewell as Frank and Begg will find her. God’s a tree after all. Sam’s mortal body die sin Jack’s arms. What’s left of him has gone to play in the service of entropy, to roam the QUASI-INFINITE, a demigod blessed by death’s eternal simplicities, a gloriously doomed soul.

As she comforts her friend, Pearl Peru keeps half an eye on the controls of The Smollettsphere, waiting for a blink-up from Professor Pop who has installed his latest omniphonic equipment in the disused bellows chamber. This is a moment of grief and she respects it. Pearl feels for the Rose, feels for her friend, but she must remain vigilant now. The Singularity has pursued Fearless Frank Force and is desperate to reach him before he consummates his love. They are confused by his readings and do not understand that he has been united with their greatest enemy through Sam Oakenhurst’s noble act of reverse entropy.
Old Reg's mystified grumble comes over the omniphone. “I smell some perverse equation. Obscene mathematics. Can they have eaten our noble hero?”
“It could be their tradition,” says evil Freddy Force, equally baffled. “But they cannot be allowed to break any further rules. Our whole existence is suddenly at risk.”

As she comforts her friend, Pearl keeps half an eye on the controls of her ship, waiting for a blink-up from Pop who installed his latest omniphonic equipment in the disused bellows chamber. The Singularity pursued Frank and is desperate to reach him before he consummates his love. They are confused by his readings and do not understand that he’s been united with their greatest enemy through Sam’s noble act of reverse entropy. Oldreg's mystified grumble comes over the omniphone, smelling some perverse equation, obscene mathematics, wondering if they’ve eaten Frank. Freddy think it could be their tradition but they can’t be allowed to break any further rules, their whole existence suddenly at risk.

Based on Karaquazian's gambit, a significant round in the Game of Time, with far-reaching consequences, achieved thus:
SO to BBB and hold; BBB to FF and hold;
(Resolves to BBB+FFF and a Significant Wedding:-BBB+FFF=A+PP, where Chaos=Singularity (CS). And held stable. An unprecedented resolution which will be recorded as a classic, the famous Cosmic Balance. It will be spoken of in legend.)

Jack’s moves in the Game are revealed, resolving via Significant Wedding and holding stable an unprecedented resolution which’ll berecorded as a classic, the famous Cosmic Balance that’ll be spoken of in legend.

Sam Oakenhurst has been the catalyst for the chemical wedding of Fearless Frank Force and Billy- Bob Begg. That alone was a daring move risking extinction of his individual soul. He learned the move from Jack Karaquazian who had already established the precedent and the odds. Mr. Karaquazian had set the scene, visualizing the chances of the best outcome and his gamble had paid off. It was probably the greatest success of his long career.
But now the action was alarming even Captain Billy-Bob. She speaks urgently to Pearl Peru. “We cannot afford to deny tradition further. I am carrying too heavy a cargo. You have witnessed the consequences. This new logic could destroy us. We have no notion of its power or effect!"
Nothing will remain of Sam Oakenhurst in the First Ether but his memory and his deeds.
While Pearl Peru has great respect for Captain Billy-Bob she keeps her own counsel. She is confused by the strange attraction she now feels for the famous Chaos Engineer. It is the emotion she felt for Captain Force. It is almost uncontrollable, unmistakably sexual. Yet, for all this rising lust, Pearl cannot agree with Billy-Bob. Pearl now knows tradition is death and orthodoxy will always cause the destruction of those who embrace it. That is the fundamental logic of the Game of Time: by refusing its logic, one alters its nature. It is thus that a round is won.
“Congratulations, Jack,” says the Rose. “Now we can rest.”
Jack Karaquazian knows that he survives and owes it to Sam, together with the conquest of his own preconceptions. He is free. He feels an equal measure of triumph, humility and grief.
Not knowing why, Captain Billy-Bob has developed a reciprocally overwhelming desire for Pearl Peru. “Has anyone ever mentioned how you look like Captain Wopwop in the face? Are you related?”
As the news comes over the omniphone, announcing Old Reg's peace proposals, we leave Pearl Peru joined in sexual congress with Captain Billy-Bob who had absorbed a partner to be alive again.
It is how a god survives.

Sam’s been the catalyst for Frank and Begg’s chemical wedding. That alone was a daring move risking extinction of his individual soul. He learned the move from Jack who already established the precedent and the odds. Jack set the scene, visualizing the chances of the best outcome and his gamble paid off. It was probably the greatest success of his long career but now the action was alarming even Begg, speaking urgently to that they can’t afford to deny tradition further. He’s carrying too heavy a cargo as she’s witnessed the consequences. That new logic could destroy us, they’ve no notion of its power or effect. Nothing will remain of Sam in the First Ether but his memory and his deeds. Pearl is suddenly sexually attracted to Begg but she can’t agree with Begg, now knowing tradition is death and orthodoxy’ll always cause the destruction of those who embrace it. That’s the fundamental logic of the Game of Time: by refusing its logic, one alters its nature. It is thus that a round is won. Jack has won and now they can rest. He knows that he survives and owes it to Sam, together with the conquest of his own preconceptions. He’s free, feeling an equal measure of triumph, humility and grief. As the news comes over the omniphone, announcing Oldreg's peace proposals, leaving Pearl with Begg who had absorbed a partner to be alive again for it’s how a god survives.

What Sam Oakenhurst had lost to his honor, Jack Karaquazian had gained over his presumption. The Rose kept a light hand on the wheel but still wept for her stolen love, envying Jack his courage, his dramatically successful grasp of the Game. “You are a jackal,” she says. “You have the sweet hand of a grand master. Clean, simple and ruthlessly definitive. I'm proud to know you, Jack.” It was clear, however, that she wished he had died and not Sam.
He looked for mockery and was surprised to find none. He tasted the triumph of his victory. He licked his handsome lips. Grateful for Sam's sacrifice, he had also helped engineer it.
The Domier began to descend through pale wisps of lavender cloud beneath which, Jack thought, he could see the ocean, bright and calm in the sunshine, blue as his native Mediterranean.
“Video meliors, proboque; deteriora sequor, as the poet says. Ovid seems pretty perfect for this moment, don't you think, old boy? O, the wild rose blossoms on the little green place. Literacy is our most valuable gift, the source of memory and enduring myth; the wellspring of all we now call civilized and the means by which we pool our commonwise. Communicating thus from Past to Present we improve our understanding of the world and our multiverse. I came to appreciate the true value of literacy when I tried to imagine the emotions of the first human being realizing the implications and the potential of a written language! Video meliors, old chums.”
And here came Captain Quelch, wearing a stained linen suit, a gaudy gold watch chain in his waistcoat pockets, a slightly faded carnation in his lapel, his battered white cap at a rake, a bit of unlit cigar in his mouth, a small carpet bag in his hand, trudging from the back of the plane. “My motto, anyway.” Smelling faintly of cognac, he leaned over the Rose, staring down at the gentle waves which ascended to meet the flying boat. "Good to be home, eh, Rosie?”
Jack Karaquazian saw that she was grateful for Quelch s company. She reached up and took the old pirate's arm. He chuckled affectionately, almost embarrassed.
Mr. Karaquazian felt something like a cold knife cut and he was free of Pearl Peru. She fell away behind him, intent on her fresh ambitions, her new love.
The war amongst the angels was not over. Even now monstrous forms were moving through the color fields, treading the silver roads between the worlds, their armies reassembling as they prepared for a further stage in the struggle. One reconciliation, no matter how impossible it had seemed, did not mean that the struggle was resolved, only that those who fought, those who played the Game of Time, were aware that it was possible to establish new laws. Jack Karaquazian and Sam Oakenhurst, through their mighty alter-egos, had changed the assumptions of the Game forever. They had left their mark upon the multiverse and the struggle between Chaos and the Singularity would never have the same character again. Mr. Karaquazian understood that there were many games to be played and that perhaps he would be called upon to play again. But meanwhile he was content. He believed that he had earned his respite, his chance of tranquillity and fulfillment. His reunion with Colinda Dovero.

What Sam had lost to his honor, Jack had gained over his presumption. Rose kept a light hand on the wheel but still wept for her stolen love, envying Jack his courage, his dramatically successful grasp of the Game. He’s a jackal, having the sweet hand of a grand master. Clean, simple and ruthlessly definitive. She’s proud to know Jack but it’s clear that she wished he had died and not Sam. He looked for mockery and was surprised to find none, tasting the triumph of his victory, licking his handsome lips. Grateful for Sam's sacrifice, he had also helped engineer it. Quelch arrives, talking about literacy as their most valuable gift, the source of memory and enduring myth, the wellspring of all they now call civilized and the means by which they pool their commonwise, communicating from past to present and improving their understanding of the world and multiverse. Jack sees this and feels grateful for his presence but he felt something like a cold knife cut, freeing him of Pearl Peru. She fell away behind him, intent on her fresh ambitions, her new love. The war amongst the angels was not over. Even now monstrous forms were moving through the color fields, treading the silver roads between the worlds, their armies reassembling as they prepared for a further stage in the struggle. One reconciliation, no matter how impossible it had seemed, didn’t mean that the struggle was resolved, only that those who fought, those who played the Game, were aware that it was possible to establish new laws. Jack and Sam, through their mighty alter-egos, had changed the assumptions of the Game forever. They left their mark upon the multiverse and the struggle between Chaos and the Singularity would never have the same character again. Jack understood that there were many games to be played and that perhaps he would be called upon to play again but meanwhile he was content. He believed that he had earned his respite, his chance of tranquillity and fulfillment, his reunion with Colinda Dovero.

The Rose let out a sigh. "You always did know what surface your bread was buttered on, Horace.” She touched her lips to Quelch’s pitted wrist.
“Medio tutissimus ibis, dear girl. Any chance to dodge the old tempus edax rerum, you know. I say, Jack! Look, old boy—down there—that's our island!”
The Rose was smiling, perhaps retrospectively. She brought the boat delicately to the waves and landed almost soundlessly in a little bay whose rocky walls were terraced by cream and white houses trimmed with royal blue or ocher, an entire town built up three sides of verdant cliffs which tumbled brilliant streams of silvery water straight into the sea. Men, women and children leaned over balconies to witness their arrival. Dogs barked. There was a quay and a white stone mole. Beyond these were the red and blue striped awnings of cafes and restaurants. The harbor bustled with returning fishing boats seeking lanes amongst slender yellow yachts and fat black sailing dinghies.
Expertly the Rose taxied her massive flying machine into a mooring at the mouth of the bay. She switched off the engines. She pointed at the rich tumble of villas, apartments, churches and public buildings clustered above them; a natural pyramid . . .
“What is this place?" Jack Karaquazian trembles intensely with the dawning realization of his release.
"Las Cascadas, dear boy," Quelch tells him. “Our island paradise. Our home. That’s my old girl, over there!" Captain Quelch points at a handsome white yacht anchored near the mole. She bears the blazon Hope Dempsey, Casablanca. Quelch removes the stub of his cigar from his lips. “Where did you think we were? It's home, old boy. Smell that air! Cleanest in the world. There’s nowhere to beat the Med, Jack. You know that.”
Captain Quelch unbuttons his collar and yawns. “Would you believe I used to teach at a school in Kent? I was thinking of going over to have a look at the old place. I left under a bit of a cloud. I never could abide red tape.”
"Please tell me where we are," begged Mr. Karaquazian, rising unsteadily.
"You're safe enough, Jack. You helped create that security. The Fault’s only a legend here. A fading echo.” The Rose unstrapped herself, got to her feet and began to collect her things from around her seat. “This is an old city. It has always welcomed the likes of us, Jack. You might not want to leave." She looked up, offering him a quick grin.
“How did you find it, Rose?” he asked.
“I was brought here by a lover, long ago." She swung a duffel bag over her elegant shoulder. “Better get ready, Jack.”

Rose, Quelch and Jack move on over to Las Cascadas, their island paradise where the Fault’s only a legend there and a fading echo.

Near the flying boat's door Jack Karaquazian stands before a full-length mirror. He is preparing for his love. He wears his tight-waisted black silk jacket, his best linen and fancy vest, his black trousers, his silver- studded boots. His long hair hangs straight to his shoulders, framing his handsome face. Al-Q’areen is a kindly, clever jackal. He slips ancient rings on his fingers, scarabs and vultures, and, for luck, puts a fresh deck into his breast pocket. He smiles as he adjusts his cravat and remembers herons flying against the cypresses, the pale sun burnishing the waters of the bayou where three gold stains lay upon the surface. Pauvre pierrot, muy petit beau. He clears his throat, unsurprised that his disease has not returned. He has defeated it. He remembers how she scooped his blood in her palms before she disappeared. Is that how she brought him here? By old-fashioned magic? But where else has he left his blood?
The Rose is now joyfully eager to disembark. She makes her way past a whistling Captain Quelch and heaves open the big door.
Already a boat, powered by an old-fashioned outboard, bounces across the calm waters towards them. Jack Karaquazian no longer disapproves of such engines. In an extraordinary act of self-renewal he has rejected all his earlier certainties and prejudices to win a handle on his own salvation.
He begins to hum the strains of “Grand Mamou,” recalling how he and Colinda danced on the deck of the Etoile du Memphes in the warm, drying air, when they had first declared their love.
Then he adjusts his cuffs, sets his hat on his head, glances one last time into the mirror and steps out again, brave as ever, to claim his heart.
“I’m feeling it, Sam,” he says.

Jack has seemingly cured his disease as he looks at three gold stains lying on the surface. He wonders if Rose brought him there and cured him of his disease with magic.

BardicheAssault · Jun 7, 2021

BardicheAssault said:
Jugadors are Broken, Pt. 5

Gary attacks Eric which forces the other Champions to become the Three-Who-Are-One.

T3WA1 and Rhynn prepare to battle which gets Kwll's attention.

The battle is raged on high and low as the cosmic beings fight at the same time as Eric and Gary.

All across the multiverse, adepts monitor the struggle between Chaos and Law, hopefully searching for signs that the Balance might be restored. In Mu-Ooria, the Off-Moo are taking careful measurements, performing delicate calculations. Metatemporal Detectives and Temporal Adventurers are accessing vast computer banks processing mountains of data in the Time Centre. The Grey Lords in Tanelorn are pondering the position of the pieces as the endgame approaches and in all cases, the conclusion is inescapable for like the Balance itself, all hope is lost.

Deep within Ko-O-Ko, the conclusion of the game arrives as T3WA1 and Rhynn fight while Eric and Gary continue to brawl.

Rhynn says T3WA1 are interfering with their game but they seek to restore the Balance before all of existence is lost but Rhynn doesn't care about either existence or the Balance.

While Rhynn is distracted by T3WA1, Kwll sees a chance for an easy victory but Rhynn asks that Kwll help him which he feels he cannot just stand idly by and watch his brother be defeated by another's hand.

Kwll joins the fight while T3WA1 replies that the conclusion of their game will bring with it the end of all life in the multiverse, either in formless chaos or sterile rigidity. Rhynn tell Kwll to ignore the mayflies since at any scale, they are beneath their contempt.

T3WA1 says they'll not be ignored as the trio unleash forces in a titanic struggle that are beyond imagination and comprehension, so potent that those forces begin to distort the very fabric of reality itself and the walls of the Lost Universe start thinning.

As Ko-O-Ko continues its erratic course through the multiverse, different worlds phase in and out, barely visible through the rips in reality which causes Eric and Gary to fight on different worlds.

T3WA1 are overwhelmed by both gods and as the battle rages for longer and longer, the chance for the Balance's restoration slips away. Eric meanwhile notices he's got all the pieces to restore the Balance but he just needs a few seconds.

Gary stabs through Eric but Eric just takes it and stabs Gary in return.

T3WA1 has lost the fight and the duo are about to end them and finish their game with Eric pulling the sword out and saying that the only way to get inside Gary's guard was to let him hit him.

Eric attempts to restore the Balance again but Gary tries to stop him though Eric pulls him into a hug and forgives him.

Eric merges with Gary, becoming one being. They are a potent mix of Law and Chaos though the merge seems unstable but they pick up the swords regardless.

With both swords of Law and Chaos in each hand, the merged Beck stand equally balanced as a living metaphor and by the special logic of Ko-O-Ko, reality and metaphor are indistinguishable from each other. With one balance restored, the other begins to repair itself.

The Cosmic Balance is fully restored and puts an end to the Game of the Lost Gods, there needing no victor when every conflict leads to equilibrium. Kwll asks if they should upset the Balance and begin a new game but Rhynn's tired and asks if they even remember what they disagreed over but Kwll doesn't and agrees to send them back whence they came and be on their way, leaving the multiverse again it seems.

During this entire ordeal, the one time Eternal Champions could hope to match a Lost God was if they became the Three-Who-Are-One (should've been The-Four-Who-Are-One but they got interrupted). Even then, the Three-Who-Are-One could only match one Lost God at a time. Against two at the same time, the Three-Who-Are-One got overwhelmed.

Individually, Eternal Champions couldn't hope to even be a threat to either Lost God/Jugador. That's how massive the gap is between them.

Just a little addendum to this: anyone who plays the Game of Time becomes a Jugador.

And they remain Jugadors so long as they play the Game of Time and while playing, their stats get a massive boost.

The moment they stop playing the Game of Time, they stop being Jugadors and they actually get nerfed.

In the case of The Balance Lost, the moment that the Three-Who-Are-One appeared and distracted Rhynn and Kwll, the two Lost Gods stopped playing the Game of Time and got nerfed from being Jugadors back to being "just" Lost Gods.

Even with that nerf, however, Eternal Champions needed to fuse together just to avoid getting instantly killed. This basically kills off the misinformation that Eternal Champions are the top tiers of Michael Moorcock's series.

Against one Lost God, the Three-Who-Are-One was holding their own and could even overpower the god at times. Once the other god joined in, though, the Three-Who-Are-One was completely outmatched and was only saved when Eric restored the Balance by fusing together with his brother, Gray.

Needless to say, it would have been an even worse scenario for the Eternal Champions had the Lost Gods kept their amps as Jugadors.

The gods have always been a big deal in Moorcock's series, and he's even gone on to imply that Rhynn and Kwll are actually manifestations of the Cosmic Balance itself which is why they're so powerful to begin with.

Eternal Champions grow stronger when they're in close proximity to each other and even more so when they fuse; that is evident in the scans.

But they are still nothing to a Jugador.

TokiNoOuja · Sep 2, 2023

Did anyone know where can i read the Elric of Melnibone books for free?

Michael Moorcock Series General Discussion

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