Chango Taureau was elated. Posthuman Morrison Computer Cores; benevolent hybrid mutations of life and un-life, ran transparently cloud compatible on the WWW, undetected by TOP500.Com bench testers, with supernatural speed and power. He must find this Morrison priest! Seven syncretic processors guided his consciousness and vastly sped up mystical decision making protocols.
Houngan Asogwe Taureau appreciated the seamless interface, since he was now permanently separated from his organic body which had surrendered to the River Arielle at North Latitude Forty Five. The Cores’s sublime complexification without agenda or conflicts of interest equally assisted Taureau, the shaman gnostic; Joule, crystalline metal machine; and the uninvited Nameless One, A.K.A. Witless Worthless Evil.
ELF 7.82Hz ESP KGB CIA PSI: the Cores were unfamiliar with linguistic protocol, and had provided Taureau a string of loosely connected acronyms, keywords, contextual concepts, and cryptic hints. Pilgrim Taureau the occultist had a flair with obscure connectivity both intentional and unintentional; he knew how to interpret the Cores’s Intelligence. Taureau was comfortable with the ineffability and synergy of his trade. He liked it below the radar.
If pressed Taureau would explain that he tapped into a database of Carl Jung’s ‘Collective Unconscious’ existing on a planetary vibrational frequency. He just happened to have a lot of practice and knew how to sort it and sift it and employ it. The dumb looks they gave him assured Taureau there’d be no forthcoming inquisition. He kept below the radar.
Sometimes Taureau described Muses as ‘Red-Hot Embers,’ ‘Black-Star Holes,’ and ’32 Flavors,’ just to buffalo bewilder and bluff those of mainstream affiliation and faulty intellect. Mysticism is a seriously big gray area. Taureau grooved the Morrison Cores.
The Morrison Cores, ‘Zombie Machines,’ embodied an unprecedented management information technology worthy of reverence and dedicated pursuit by such as Fender Strat, Garmin Cervelo, or Shelby Cobra. He! Ghost within a machine. Taureau pinged Joule’s mind and soul temporarily situated in the body of Synesthese, that final Archonte.
Angelique, Randall, and Edward pushed on the 14 gauge stainless door leading into Level Three. Buckled hinges dragged it over little chunks of collapsing limestone wall. They surveyed a car-wreck scenario. Moon and stars shone upon bits of smashed photoreactive glazing. Daylight fluorescent lighting dropping voltage defeating simulated Kelvin Daylight normality.
She clutched her little LED flashlight that she always carried inside her tunic top, and it felt hot as flame but hey it was lighting and soon they’d need some. Edward James looked unwell; he’d been confined in captivity and bad shape anyhow was he going to have an aneurism? Randall Osbourne’s demeanor had returned. Steady refined determined feral.
That plush leather seating area splashed carmine red. Kathleen James was not to be found midst the implication of abduction, torture, trauma, ablation. Shifting air currents directed scents of the clean river water and paved painted asphalt parking lanes from outside into Millyard Level Three. Randall sniffed. Traces of chlorophyll and planting soil. Click.
Angelique’s hearing was best; then she noticed Edward and Randall had heard it too. Click. Like a pebble embedded in a shoe-sole, a rhythmic cadence. The second fire door had fared far worse than the side where they’d come in. Twisted decorated with rosy little smudges and gaudy blood-red fingermarks. Had Kathleen been bled dry? Click.
Pursuing descending inexplicably wear and trauma resistant dense hardwood stair treads bonded to iron framework damascus. Did they specify damascus metal stairs back in 2000 BCE, when engineering a tower with seven levels of mystery? Nobody knew what was there in that undocumented sub-level which everyone, even Randall, had unconsciously avoided.
“Randall, the exit.” Tiny Angelique was pinching his arm hurting him. They were straining to see what was happening beyond the intersections of curved walls and linear stairway construction.
Something very large and bent, stooping beneath the ground level door-frame edges. The thing was heaving, pitching, a standard-sized person like a rag-doll through The Arielle Facility’s showroom entrance.
“Shush…” How could pint-sized Angelique sustain that crushing vise grip, he wondered? Edward was spasming from a mixture of overexertion and terror. Randall muzzled him with his hand, hoping he wouldn’t be bitten, as well as being bruised by Angelique.
Joule’s Machine Soul pinged Houngan Taureau. Kathleen James made a dramatic but safe landing into the damp velvet bentgrass outside Angelique’s Arielle Facility. Taureau assured Joule his re-entry into the 500 CID Hot Rot Caddy Machine should be as simple.
Should work? You’re the spiritual medium! Joule expressed concern on merged ELF telepathy and that spectral mist exuded by the Seven Morrison Cores. You have my BODY!
It’s spacious… MY organic shell was taken, consumed indifferently by fishes living in the River Arielle. These things happen. Bokun Taurea gently soothed and assured Joule. Reincarnation’s a mature technology. Your host, Synesthese, is even deader now. Decaying. Remember?
Joule touched a dissolving visage. That Archonte was rotting real quick. Joule thought about Julian Baines’s organic condition when loaded like a frozen dinner by Mortician J G Barrett, into the 1977 Black S&S Service Vehicle that was Joule. Hurry Rinpoche! Then what, Holiness?
Detached emotion and calm analysis weaved and filtered through the Earth’s Matrix into Joule’s awareness. Taureau was one smooth operator like Osbourne, Joule now realized.
Joule: We must remove the nettle, thorn. The Nameless One. Remember?