From: intraphase@gmail.com

Trevor pulls a pouch of tobacco purchased at the gas station out of a windbreaker pocket resting it on his lap with his feet floating in the air above the unmeasured void. A long but pleasant day has him feeling peacefully whimsical. Adept at rolling
cigarettes in the dark, force of habit, nonetheless, has him staring down at his hands. The guileless moon hoping to rise is cloistered.
There is no indication that the less crowded areas of the night sky have already faltered to a starless black sheet, the fuzzy distant super galaxies vanished. Without resistance the great pearly highway of the Milky Way’s wide
ribbon of filaments is
gone.
Nothing remains. Trevor’s attention is so completely on the pleasure of smoking, that he lights a cigarette staring out into a blank universe disarmed by The Origin; with zero perturbation, puzzlement or reverence. Becoming aware of a single point of
light about sixty miles across the canyon that ruptures all absence, Trevor wonders if a plane got lost. He looks at his cigarette wondering why it tastes so good. The lost plane is just sitting there. He speaks to himself aloud.
“A cross country trip with friends, a good smoke, what more could I ask for.” He says gently kicking his feet back and forth over the cliff with one arm around the tree. “I wonder if that could be a space vessel wandering around lost after a
daytrip.” The distant light doubles in size as the thought trails away. He pauses while raising his free hand. A measure of caution replaces his lightheartedness. Pretending all is well, “Hey stranger, do you have tracker
beam tech… There’s a
large parking lot up above; plenty of room to bring that contraption in for a landing. We’ll smoke the old peace pipe.” The light doubles in size striking terror into Trevor as he tries to rise and run. Struck dumb and motionless unaware The Origin
is here, One Existent One.
The light remains at a polite distance. Trevor is a young boy again in 1967.
He awakens in perfect darkness holding a length of garden size picket fence, crouching down behind it hiding.
In the medium distance, a large being in a thick dull luminous light, its feet moving like a cross country skier becomes visible. Trevor realizes it can see him through the picket fence and it vanishes. The ten foot being seems set on ignoring him and
shall pass perpendicular to him twenty feet away; as The Titan is passing it stares straight ahead but Trevor catches him peeking out of the corner of his eye. He leaps into the being instantly. From inside he looks left and sees himself still standing
outside a Lilliputian compared to the immense herculean beast. He knows he must
jump back into his body. Forthrightly back in his own body he watches the strange form depart. Suddenly he is sitting on a circular red maroon leather bench that fills the
lower wall on the inside of a small white ship made of peaceful light. Looking out of one of the eighteen small portholes everything is dark except for a small cluster of white-yellow copper and gold-red crystalline light.
Looking away from the window he sees a small black chair in the center. A silver ring on posts
surrounds it; but there is a gap behind the chair. Upon noticing the gap he is standing on the chair looking upward into an intense white light that stops at the small bubble of a cupola above his head. Perching on the thick arms of the chair the top of
his head touches the clear barrier. He surveys the light and is back at the Grand Canyon.
He looks at the baseball sized orb of light fifty odd feet in the distance. “You may approach.”
The globe approaches to within three feet. “Contextuality between The Finite and The Infinite.”
Trevor throws his unfinished cigarette away using his free hand to reach out and touch The All.
He is in the twenty console black ship, an intraphased junction, at the northwestern ten thirty position holding the symbol that translates archival information back and forth between science, art and religion. He is calm, maintaining a salute and
steady gaze with twenty others.
The ATM rises off the memory monument, does two quick laps counterclockwise around
the master data collection archives and one lap clockwise, returning to a reclining position.
Trevor is back at the Grand Canyon the small ball of light is waiting calmly but expectantly.
Reaching out again he touches The All. He is in some unknown future waypoint; it is night, he is driving on a dark deserted highway, the car clock is a digital one reading 02-02-2014 in the date box and 3:15 AM in the time box. He decides to consult the
vanity mirror to see whose body is doing the driving. It is to dark. It could be him or Harris or Mathias. He senses a presence above the vehicle. Leaning forward over the steering wheel he scrunches forward to gaze upward careful not
to forget to drive.
A large radiant computational engine is closest, followed by a small engine at the one-thirty position followed by a medium sized engine at the eleven-thirty position. Trevor sits back comfortably pausing before realizing he must look a second time to
visually confirm the configuration: and reinforce that this has truly occurred in real time in the real world. Scrunching forward he looks up again and whoever ends up passing this waypoint first; far in the distant unrecognizable future, says with
genuine exasperation and a profound sense of fatigue.
“This is not helping!” Trevor detects genuine anger and frustration from whoever this is.
Trevor is back at the Grand Canyon. A small native boy is sitting beside him. He hopes this is the signal the dream is ending. He lights two cigarettes handing one to the first player back in The Construct ready to play the game of
creation. The young
native touches the benign shining sphere of The All and holds his palm out for inspection. Trevor using his right index finger touches the boys left palm. He is now in the black twenty console junction-ship in Mr. Eight’s black uniformed body. He sees
the ATM rise up on one elbow as the white mist surrounding the memory monument begins stirring. He feels all three boys leap back and forth countless times.
Sitting on the edge of the canyon again he cordially smokes with the boy. The
lad reaches for his hand and inscribes a six letter name on Trevor’s palm, before using both his hands to roll
McBain’s palm and fingers into a fist. The youth gravely places his index finger over sealed lips tapping himself three times to imply absolute silence. The youthful Player One takes Trevor’s wrist with one hand and softly clasps The All’s globe
with the other.
Trevor passes through the large well-lit sixty-four console junction hearing a mechanical voice recite its signet, “All Transit 64 Prime Junction All Transit 64.” There is enough presence in the large spacious device to briefly
assess it and
reconnoiter some imagery into his mind. He sees the portrait of himself from the previous journey at a distant console this same native sitting on his lap. The same floating zero rings and five descending circular substratum stairs are
at the center.
Replacing The Monument and ATM is a three foot black disk, hovering in the air,
on the same plane: periodically leveling its pitch to the floating Zero Horizon. Player One spends a portion of his, just recently acquired, motion dynamics to pantomime ATM
walking around the monument: then points to the thirty-six inch hovering disk. This brief period of unrestricted movement ends.
The dreams have led Trevor to believe The Skytrax like The Rover is an expeditionary vessel; the extension of a larger vessel with Zero Point Clocks melded to a perpetual original innovation.
They are now on The Skytrax and several crew members pass by without perceiving them.
Player One tugs Trevor’s arm to announce they‘re undetected and freely capable of movement. The youth leads McBain down a long Cherrywood paneled corridor to the Viscount Library, a stadium size circular sorting room for preserved antiquities. A
dozen three story book lined palisades jut out towards the room’s center from
the far wall, holding completed collections of first edition series reference digests and instruction manuals for ancient and modern innovations.
Aloysius is in the center of the cavernous beehive of acquisitions wielding a
diamond encrusted stiletto, methodically opening a box of private letters exchanged in 1855 between Samuel Clemens and Edgar Allen Poe; concerning the subject of a series of
dreams each man had about the future. Each time he grows bored with the task of
book bindery he turns to the studio dockyard and tool chests on the five by twenty foot oak table to his left. The paint and shellac dry he readies the tiny brass letters for
the forty-four inch longboat’s stern. A hummingbird escaped from the aviary is pestering a finch inside a large brass cage held on a floor stand. Having misplaced the key to the enclosure he takes the eight inch long razor stiletto to pick the lock.
The finch freed from annoyance it flies towards palisade three. Aloysius knows Mr. Eight has virus archives there that roam back to the earliest epochs.
Alighting from the final stairway he ignores Aloysius heading for The Core carrying a hand cabinet made of Macassar Ebony with two sturdy triple-ply leather handles. As the commandant and chief parliamentarian; Aloysius sprints after him hoping to seal
the entryway. Mr. Eight doubles back, circling to the dock studio, lofting the longboat model under his free left arm. Aloysius caught off guard and winded is
halfway back before realizing Mr. Eight has outflanked him. With the viral archive only ten
paces away from leaving through the chambers twenty foot tall heavy rosewood doors; Aloysius in a panic hurls the knife at the left door. Mr. Eight turning to advise his associate of certain legalities, watches in a state of adrenalized anger, as the
knife slows to a funeral pace. The two birds Aloysius had just negotiated a settlement between, are observed dropping out of flight in midair directly between the two boys, stone dead.
Trevor’s hand is taken by Player One as the room fills with cobwebs of black light. Eight raises the hand cabinet and the knife impales itself off center of the wide square antique box.
The dark filaments retreated Mr. Eight sets the cabinet and model down needing both hands to withdraw the jeweled stiletto letter opener. Flustered he
gashes his right palm splaying open a deep wound, from the webbing between his middle and ring finger,
to the center of his palm.
Sliding the stiletto into his right rear pocket he finally sees the profuse outpouring of blood spurting rhythmically in sympathy with his heart. Hoisting the model and ebony hand cabinet he kicks the meeting line of the five ton rosewood doors
splintering them off their hinges into heaping effusions of fragments, shavings
and dust. Half of the Viscounts Libraries books on all three floors tumble jaggedly from their shelves. Aloysius is pacing in circles his spectacles lost.
Trevor and his native guide follow in Mr. Eight’s bloody trail to the outer
wall of The Core.
They reach the black onyx wall before him; Player One taking McBain’s hand walking through the containment barrier effortlessly, then standing aside. Eight enters opens the ebony hand vault selecting a particular poison vial for each Origin Player he
intends to slay. Covered in blood he uses both hands to scoop up the three dozen vials. Becoming drawn he gives a stupendous right footed boot to the Zero
Horizon containing the three circling Paradome Lightmach Engines that weave the
clear, dark, and
white light into usable fabrics. It leaves its computational axis and crashes to the ground clanging until it settles dismembered from The System of The Alls.
All-20 ignites the escape sequence. Each console releases its four stacks of two hundred and fifty-six evacuation disks. Mr. Eight hurriedly steps into the
white mist of Eternal Presence covering the two lowest substratum stairs. Hurling down the
vials one by one, he calls out each opponent’s original name; followed by the
self-destruct command Penta Annihilatum.
The Pilot as Overlord blockades Evangelina’s primordial coterie: refusing to allow the eternal outlier’s menagerie of thirty-six mammoth dragons, giant
hellions, and savage titans in The Core.
Trevor and The Player watch each wide screen ignite in a blaze of manifold colors. Mr. Eight
walks out of the white mist retrieves the forty-four inch model and defiantly strides back in setting Aloysius longboat afloat on the Eternal Presence to mock his enemies. Diligently avoiding Mr. Eights grasp the black disks are shepherding the
consciousness of the all back into the monument. The brackish unsightly color combinations of the poisoned players become easily discernable. Trevor’s young native guide summons a small black ship from its evacuation tasks.
The ship stops in front of Player One and he grabs McBain’s hand and touches the disk.
They are sitting in the back row of the fieldstone amphitheater that surrounds The Octagon.
The Zero Horizon seems to be functioning and individuals from many eras are coming and going assembling and departing civilly. Player One lifts his finger from the disk and it returns to its duties. The Owl facing the inevitable appears in the white mist
standing coldly naked between Mr. Eight and the reclining ATM. The thirty six poisoned attachments to the Eternal Monument are curtly severed from The Eternal with Aloysius’s diamond encrusted stiletto letter opener. Michelle lifts up his model
longboat from the Eternal Presence while Mr. Eight removes each tiny diamond at
the other end of the ochre colored tentacles. Michelle’s appearance speeds the rate of escape as the entire populous of The Construct take refuge in the monument.
Mr. Eight empties the thirty-six diamonds into a small leather pouch walking into the last wisps of Eternal Presence waiting to escape. He holds the bag aloft wagging it back and forth and turns to walk away. With her free hand Michelle slips the
stiletto out of his rear pocket and raises it for a downward plunge. The ATM stops its contemplations momentarily raising its right hand.
Michelle, the model longboat, the stiletto and ten thousand of the black essence ships vanish.
Mr. Eight puts the pouch in the ebony hand cabinet as the roof grows awash in
fiery lightning.

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