Now there's a noble woman.
Unlike her less worthy comrades in Special Ops. Two high-ranking officers, Major Issue and General Confusion. As to NCOs, Corporal Punishment was nasty. I got on better with his cousin "Gee, I cracked it."
Was she an NCO? She wore neither pips nor stripes, sometimes no uniform at all.
The Communications Officer? They just called her 'Commie'. Of the others they said "Even mention our existence and you're dead."
Jesting apart -- am I ever anything but serious, dear visitor? -- today you find me home from an unusual if banal summer mission.
Not for the Factory, which isn't expecting me back until Monday. Indeed, if they knew, I'd be hung, drawn and quartered.
Was I in Paris? Who's to say? Not me. No postcard stands, no modern medicine, so much desert that it was like Afghanistan used to be before the Soviets moved in. The locals were wild, proud and mostly friendly.
Somebody fed the pigeons. My flowers survived, droopy after what people tell me was a bad mix of heat and cold.
For a week, I've seen no news. I'm told the world's as mad and wonderful as usual. Little different from the Kabul I recall. A ragtail postman occasionally looked in what passed for a mailbox, grabbed a handful and left the rest to stew.
They should have called that box Poste Restante; its contents were doubtless penned with all the variety of Auden's 'Night Mail' (Newearth), but never read. Luck chose the chancers.
Back to "Mac OS X for unknowns," and (I'd hoped) to blogosphere, it was a drag to find it was debriefing time.
He perched on the desktop, peaked cap discarded, too much hair for an officer, a couple of top buttons missing, a half-eaten pizza on the floor. Sunny side down.
I first took the shaggy brute for an extinct techie. He stank of overflowing ashtrays, finished off my Diet Coke, and had that gaze brought on by nights of problem-solving. But there was his uniform, singling him out as one of the five percent, just another rebel hostile to the madding crowd.
"Hmm," he said without preamble. "Before you're going anywhere, chum, you've got to deal with me. Where are we?"
"Dunno. Some call it the shadow cave. Some the Passion Play. Others--"
"Do they now? Like Jethro Tull? That's old. Remember the rabbit who lost his specs?"
"Wasn't a rabbit. It was a hare. Did you take the blue pill?"
"A story at any rate, old boy. Room for stories here?"
"Good ones, if possible."
This ... thingy of yours," he said, squishing a filthy fingernail into a wormhole in the Apple, "is in a mess. A right old mess. I'm Colonel Panic. Delighted to meet you."
"Oh blast!" I said. "The pleasure's scarcely mutual. It's been so long I didn't recognise you."
"Shit happens. Haven't done much maintenance of late, have we?"
"How long's it going to take?"
"God knows, chum. Maybe a few minutes. Maybe a few days. Depends what we find inside, doesn't it? Got any tools?"
"Of course."
He inspected them. "Yes, these should do the trick. Apart from that! Chuck it out. Know where it comes from?"
"It's a stray. Shouldn't be there, forgot I had it."
"I'll tell you what that was," he said, watching a German tourist coach splinter the remnants of the plastic case he'd thrown out of the window. "Part of the sodding Monopoly game."
"Gates's game?"
"The very same. Billy boy. If you'd bothered to take a decko, there was a great read in SVMMac. A chat with that other William fellow. Gibson. They still here?"
"Who? The tourists? So it seems. William Gibson?"
"Yes, laddie. William Gibson, literary giant, still straddling 'cyberspace'. It's in Frog, of course. He's had children. Most of 'em just don't know it. Know what he says?"
"I imagine you're keen to tell me."
"When he wrote wotsit--"
"'Neuromancer?'"
"Hole in one. That's it. Said he'd 'never have imagined the ubiquitous nature the Internet would take on'. His very words."
"Nobody did."
"Wrong. He also said 'Open Source is faithful to the real nature of computing. It's not a bid to monopolise everything, like Microsoft'. Classic example. Nothing new."
"So what is?"
"Not much. Fellow thinks the Web is as significant as the first cities. 'We have to get to new kinds of towns,' he said."
"What does he use?"
"Macs. Thinks highly on 'em. Doesn't think much of science fiction."
"William Gibson doesn't think much of science fiction. Right."
"Seriously. He thinks SF is better for 'apprehending the present' than seeing where we're going."
"So do I."
A second butt burned a fancy new hole into the carpet. The creep glanced down as I stamped it out. He lit another, looking back at the ceiling.
"Sorry about that. Bloody fags. Messy as your Mac. Just published a brand-new book too."
"Colonel--"
"Brand new in Frog anyhow. 'Identification des schémas'."
"What that's supposed to mean? Forget it. This is fascinating, but--"
"Dunno exactly. 'Pattern Recognition,' I think. I'm told it's worth the time."
"Pattern recognition? Always was. Seeing things afresh. All that shit. But Colonel, if you are one--"
"Great man, Gibson." The dying cigarette found the outskirts of an ashtray.
"Colonel?"
He turned his squint on me. "Of course I'm a colonel. What makes you think different?"
"Where do you think you're going?"
"Here of course. And now. Catch the flying nanosecond, make it eternity. You know. Just like Mum. Zen's the word."
"Sod this for a game of soldiers! I don't see what on earth you're driving at."
"On earth? Where the bloody hell d'you think you've been this summer? That summer, as was. Or wasn't. May the good Lord send us an Indian one. That's what she always said."
"Who did?"
"Cat's mother. Meant what those Yanks call 'the fall'. But you know all about that, don't you, old pal?"
"Look, this really is neither the place nor the time--"
"Then just tell me what's the place? What's time? Tell me that."
"Frankly, you're getting up my nose!"
"You're making this up, aren't you?"
"Me? You don't exist."
"Does she exist?"
"Who?"
"You know perfectly well. The woman you saw yesterday."
"Which one? I've been all over the shop."
"Dead bloody right. All over the place so long they call you the shoplifter. Always picking up all kinds of bits and pieces, chum. Think they haven't noticed? Her of course. The head woman. What a name!"
"Yes, and what a woman! What's more to the point is that she's a damned sight more to the point than you've been. Colonel. You're supposed to be helping me fix the Mac."
"Like heck I am. All right, a bit. I'm really here to give them a debriefing."
"Who?"
"Them. The famous Five and Three-Quarters. Out there. In the real world. Five and three-quarters? More like a quarter, I'd reckon. If that..."
"Shall we get on with the job?"
"What job? You want this ... thingy of yours working just so you can tell them all about it?"
"No way!"
"Know something, chum, that was rich from you. Mighty rich. Fool! What have you done with the king?"
"Which king?"
"Lear."
"Never touched him. Last bloke I chatted with was Icarus."
"Never heard of him. Now Shakespeare, there's a succinct writer for you. A cosmos in a play, world in a paragraph kind of man. 'All the world's a stage'--"
"He fell down."
"Who did?"
"Icarus."
"Comes to us all, mate. Tumbleweed tapestry of life. Magnificent weave of the cosmic web. Matter over mind. Same thing, really, isn't it? Now do you want to tell 'em all or not?"
"Tell them what, you warped asshole?"
"Delirium, that's what it is. The whole bang shooting match. Eternity's Joke. The present moment? Bullshit. Never was one. Said it yourself. So you are going to tell them?"
"What, the Laughing Buddha? Ha bloody ha."
"No. Her. You silly wretch."
"I'm no such thing."
"Always were, chum."
"Things change."
"Do they? All looks the same to me. Same old world, same stories. Forever and ever. Amen. You telling them?"
"No fucking way! Is that clear? No way. She is real, she's somewhere out there, she's ama--"
"You don't want to go mistaking her for the White Goddess now, do you?"
"I never did."
"Liar!"
"Lear. Liar. What next? I'm going to trash you. Enough's enough. People have to know when to stop. Colonel? My ass. But first tell me what was so rich?"
"You don't want me to fix the Mac?"
"Not any more. I can manage that on my own."
"I've got right up your nose now, haven't I?"
"Yes. Now you have."
"Best place to be, old soldier. Always was. Sticky fingers in your skulls."
"Who do you take yourself for? Samuel Beckett? Harold Pinter? William Blake? Albert Camus?"
"None of 'em. I'm just your kernel, a small bit of the machinery that makes you tick. Should that happen to be the word for such an erratic clock. Half the time you're unconscious."
"Life without sleep. World without mind. Amen."
"That was my line, scribbler. Not yours. You're getting good at plagiarism. You'll steal all and everything--"
"Everything and nothing."
"There you go again... You go on pilfering, you'll wind up like them."
"Like who?"
"Les autres, mon cher. Mon brave! Like in the film."
"The film I saw the other night? 'The Others'?"
"Another perfect shot, Captain, if I may say so. Good, isn't she? Nicole Kidman. You should write it up one day."
"Already been done."
"That never stopped you so far. Want my advice? Stick to films, old boy. Music. Literature. Finer things of life... Scared you, did it?"
"Not once I understood about the ghosts. Like you. I've got it now."
"What have you got?"
"The others. Those French writers, philosophical fellers. Sartre."
"Sartre? Chap was a nihilist! Existentialist. Worse than Camus."
"No he wasn't, not completely. Anyway, he's very dead now. And Camus did look on the bright side sometimes."
"So did Brian, Life of. Jokers. Camus? 'The Outsider'? One great big identity crisis. What a whopper. Dying to see--"
"That's it. Out you go. This instant!"
"I can't, chum. Sorry and all that, but I can't."
"Why not?"
"'No man is an island.' Not one single manjack. No woman either."
"You're such a shithead. I was going to steal that!"
"What did I tell you? Nothing new under the sun."
"Yes there is."
"What might that be? Could I have a pair of hotpants too?"
"I am not wearing hotpants. This is September."
"A very nice one. Off to a lovely start. Give me some hotpants."
"I haven't got any, but there's a spare pair of shorts in the drawer. You can take them with you. Don't bother to say goodbye."
"Which drawer? There are thousands of them, millions maybe. Even billions. An infinite universe of drawers. It's an open and shut case."
"The sum of --"
"-- all your fears!"
"Get lost. Go!"
"Simply can't oblige, chum. Impossible."
"If I pick you up bodily and throw--"
"Bodily? Now that's another one."
"Another what?"
"Rich. Very rich. Stop looking like you've seen a ghost."
"They don't exist."
"How do you know? You have the gall to come to me looking for answers? That's pretty insolent of you, I'd say."
"In the first place, I never invited you. Secondly, I never wanted answers from you. There are plenty of other people around for that, thanks. Let alone Gibson's global network."
"You mean the shalady? Just for instance?"
"Are you trying to tell me I'm schizophrenic?"
"Sometimes, old boy, we do wonder. Don't you?"
"Never for a split sec--"
"Personality, chum. Want evidence? First, you think I'm a Colonel. Joke number one. And then you say I don't exist. Then you start to accuse me, of the few friends you've got, of straying from the point. That's pretty damned conclusive, isn't it? When have you done anything but stray from the point? Ever? Take one look at this blog of yours."
"You're no friend of mine. Don't you dare be so presumptuous and take your sorry ass out of here."
"I truly can't do that, old chap. You have just one redeeming factor. One. And I hope to God God knows it when you try to get to heaven."
"There is no God."
"Blasphemer."
"There's no heaven either."
"Maybe not. But try this one. What if, always perhaps, 'God is Love'? That's all, nothing else."
"Now you're the plagiarist. Reading minds or what? Can you do time travel too? Colonel. You nicked my best line. I've been putting a shine on it for years."
"Your best line? Thief! You ... you Buddhist."
"That's not true."
"Maybe it isn't at that, chum. You know where you should be right now?"
"No. Where should I be right now?"
"Locked up. Somewhere so permanent, secure and unreachable only God can find the key. Should he, she or it be so inclined."
"No chance! I've been locked up half my life. Locked out, often enough. I'm not going there any more."
"Want to know what your sole redeeming factor is?"
"Not really."
"Lear. Liar. Lair. You've swallowed the bait, you're in the lure now."
"Find another word for it. Just one more."
"Again, old pal, sorry and all that. I'll tell you all the same. You steal everything, the whole bang shooting match. You look everywhere, high and low. In corners. Even the drawers."
"Doesn't everybody? Isn't that the name of the game? Really? And is it really stealing?"
"Not when you do it right, old soul."
"Oh yeah? And how, mon colonel, are you supposed to 'do it right'?"
"You know."
"Do I?"
"Always been an open secret. No secret at all, in point of fact."
"What is it then?"
"You take the lot and you make it your own."
"That's it? So what?"
"That's all, old chap. All there is to it. Heaven, hell, places in between. Know what's so difficult?"
"I can guess."
"Try me."
"Remembering it and knowing where to stop and where to start."
"In a nutshell. Or a ker--."
"Always starting over?"
"'Always coming home.' Forever and ever. A--"
"Fine, thanks. Now you've solved the riddle of the universe, would you be so kind as to fuck off?"
"No. Anyway, you're wrong. As ever."
"Why?"
"Don't ask me, chum. What's the army know? Ask a nuclear physicist, ask a brain surgeon. Get your head examined. Oh, and try asking artists too."
"What sort of artist?"
"Any kind apart from a piss-artist."
"Now you're taking the piss."
"Knocked the stuffing out of you?"
"No."
"Good."
"By the way."
"Yes?" He looked startled, a shimmer in the dark when the lights went out.
"You can't go."
"Why not? I never said that. Packed my bag already."
"You're part of me."
"Oh yes? And how do you feel about it?"
"Odd. All in my head?"
"Not quite, old son. Out there as well."
"Where?"
"Now that's still for you to find out. Good luck. Adieu."
"Wait."
"What now?"
"Is there ... a formula? A magic word?"
"Of course. It's common knowledge."
"You mean I'm the only one not--"
"Yes, laddie."
"Want to tell me what it is?"
"Certainly."
"Yes?"
"It's my name."
"So what's your name?"
"Say 'please'."
"Please."
Say 'Ahh'."
"Ahhhhh..."
"Now you're talking."
"What's your name ... please."
"Clint Eastwood."
"You're joking."
"'course I am. I haven't got one."
"No kidding. That was boring, wasn't it?"
"Certainly was."
He took the hotpants.
Hesitated.
"Want to know something else?"
"No thank you."
"Thought not. You'll never make a philosopher."
6:23:05 PM link 
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