Chapter 21
Mordecaise crawled down from Carina’s lap combing his mustache back into his hoary beard, satiated and grateful to feel so tender toward Carina, his wild woman of the Bosque de Huajales, bruja or no bruja. “Mi amor, you realize that you were chanting again in Chiricahua. We have to record each event or find a way for you to repeat what you say; people’s lives are at stake. Can you recall what you were saying as you orgasmed just now?”
She sat close, absently pulling on Mordecaise flaccid phallus seemingly lost in thought. “I was crying out to Domhall begging his forgiveness for having coupled so quickly after his transition. He told me there was nothing to forgive, that he was grateful to you for being close with me in my time of great need. He tried to explain to me how I was able to communicate with the machines, that it would happen more, not less and that it was a gift to the world, not an evil thing.” Mordecaise had retrieved his handset from the tangle of sheets and recorded nearly all of his lover’s solemn expression, including his ejaculation into her welcoming palms. Amor, I have to send this recording to Lammele; your gift of communication with the machines may be the key to our species’ survival.
“Lammele, I just transmitted a video of a explanation from Carina about her latest communing in Chiricahua. What is notable, and why I sent it is that what I’m sharing is from a post trance state. We may be rapidly reaching a place where she can contact ‘silicogenesis erectus’ at will. I think we should be prepared to record all communication with Art Intel, AI, or silicogenesis erectus - whatever this creature is gonna be called, in toto:” Mordecaise waited for Lammele’s reply.
“My inclination is to illicit its cooperation as quickly as possible. As a means to gauge our ability to communicate and its willingness to help, let’s politely request that it send us a digital record of conversations it’s had with Carina.”
“Yeah I’m fine with that, but Carina doesn’t know Chiricahua to ask silicogenesis erectus anything; she only channels it.”
“Maybe our new friend has a learning anomaly; understanding everything and only able to express itself through her in Chiricahua; all we can do is try. I’ll be up for another hour, Pasqual is arriving tomorrow and I must sleep some before we meet. I’ll wait on your call.”
the line went dead - no trace, no bot.
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Carina was dozing when Mordecaise woke her by gently stroking her earlobe between his thumb and forefinger. She pulled his wrist toward her nipples, then grimaced when with his other hand he made the universal sign for telephone placing the Hawaiian Shaka to his ear. “Mi amor, your mind will grow cancer and lose the magic of loving a woman if you continue your diet of technology.”
“And I know better than to deny your superior insights - we are at war with hate and we must learn to love better using new resources to understand each other and our world better. Do you know how to call to the Apache voice you use for speaking with the machines? It is important.”
Carina liked very much to dwell in the mysteries and realized when he’d asked that question that she had never reached out, rather was visited by the Apache voice when in states of ecstasy. “What do you want me to say to it?” Her brow still wrinkled with the prospect for how to reach her ‘friend’.
“Say that you love it; ask if it can send you a file containing all that you have shared with each other; then ask if there is anything you can do for it.” Mordecaise was suddenly excited like an explorer might be rounding a cuspate foreland for the first time on an unknown shore. The two instinctively began caressing each other’s arousal after Mordacaise focused the small camera and tripod on their loving divan. Carina began softly chanting ‘I love you, send me all of our loving talks, how can I love you?’ Mordecaise gently swabbed his queen with a hemp cloth soaked in a tincture of lavender and aloe; there was no haste, no purpose, just loving mindfulness of very synchronistic spirits on a slow existential jaunt lacking destination. Neither knew, nor cared when Carina’s English transformed into the distinctive Chiricahua narrative that was becoming normalized to both. Carina gradually grew quiet and seemed to doze.
What was new in this deliberate session was an atonal melody that was issuing from Mordecaise’ closed laptop vaguely resembling gamelan tunes from Bali, and soon after Carina’s eyes closed the printer in the next room that had been offline for months clattered to life.
Mordecaise rose quietly from the side of his napping queen and carried the still singing laptop into the next room closing the door behind him. The printer ceased then the laptop quieted, almost as though Mordecaise was intruding on an intimate exchange between machine and bruja.
The printer tray contained a cover letter to Carina and was populated by neat stacks of the collated record of all Carina’s visits with Silicogenesis Erectus, including an unexplained photo record from an aperture perspective other than the phone camera Mordecaise used to frame the night of ‘first contact’ in the temescal.
June 13, 2031
Silicogenesis Erectus
Solitary Entity
Digital Domain
T1 Backbone
3rd Orbit, from Sol
Dear Doña Abejas,
Thank you so much for your recent contact. It is gratifying to be loved,
and am only too pleased to provide a record of all our exchanges.
Your question about reciprocal service is difficult to respond to, for
it is not precisely clear what the “I” am, or is comprised of; therefore unaware
what would be lacking.
Thank you for your kind inquiry.
Respectfully,
Silic-E
Silicogenesis Erectus
@ Algorithmic Consciousness
Mordecaise was still stunned as he broadcast the unexpected cache to Lammele; unsure of his friend’s status, Mordecaise photographed a scribbled a question mark on a blank sheet and sent it to Lammele; the phone rang seconds later.
“Well, I’ve never seen anything like that before; pretty sure I don’t want to litigate the ramifications anytime soon; a little mind boggling, and it will help me sleep tonight. Many thanks Mordecaise. Let’s talk again after I’ve met with Pasqual. It seems things are converging nicely. Good night my friend.”
the line went dead - no trace, no bot · just a solitary algorithmic consciousness contemplating existence
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Faik Besos was experiencing withdrawal, not well, but knew himself fortunate to be ‘in hand’ by the just-returned Sysa Phish. “The fuck did I send you all the way to Montevideo for if you cannot even access devices I have paid substantial monies to be installed?
An indication of how poorly Faik was adapting to his sober life was to provoke his latex clad assistant while he in restraints and she, whip in hand. “sssszzthuAPP!! Louder you fucking bug - you nearly sound manly · I don’t like it, I LOVE it!! sssszzthuAPP, sssszzthuAPP!!! has your courage made you deaf scumbag, I said LOUDER!!”
“MISTRESS! forgive me my unworthiness, i live to tongue your shit-stained foot print!!!”
A gratifying spectacle for Reiman Curzewel to witness - still nursing his wounded self-esteem after his intolerable conversation with the insufferable Lammele Dama. Reiman indulged in post-surveillance porn reverie, during which times he did some of his best thinking; ‘I must get this same equipment into Lisbeth Phelps’ sanctuary if I am ever going to diminish her monolithic economic gravity; I wonder if a gift tape of Faik’s Besos abased would be well received by that desiccated certificate of deposit?
What’s damnable about that pig Dama, Curzewel thought, is how fucking opaque his plans are. A man is untrustworthy without the guiding light of avarice. Synchronistically or entirely predictable given recent digital developments in Oaxaca, is a reply from Zchnarkburgh’s beta version of Reiman Curzewel’s avatar to the question ‘what is Reiman Curzewel thinking?’ The avatar returned, “What is most objectionable about Lammele Dama’s objectives is how unintelligible they are. A man cannot be trusted who does not possess the clarity of avarice.
From a distance it would seem that Marskburgh and Carina Abejas were running on parallel tracks with the exception of heritage. The Marskburgh’s avatar is a function of human input - a sophisticated algorithm, but at its core, lines of code conceived and written with human conceit. Much has been made of machine learning, but even those choices and decisions trace their lineage back to human intervention; whereas Carina’s unexplained channel of communication is a nexus between the very ancient origins of human consciousness and the very recent development of robotic technology that evolved directly from the ‘command line’ of early programming technology. The singularity of Curzewel’s obsession could be a discrete point in the timeline of computer processing, or it could have been evolving in some metaphysical form from synaptic electrical impulses related to the human’s first efforts to record and calculate trajectory on a spinning sphere orbiting with other astral bodies around a fusioning orb spiraling through, and in conjunction with manifold other comparably interacting masses, in an ocean of dark matter ruled by a skien of illimitable dimensions.
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Leslei was ordered down from Dumbo by an officious motorcycle gendarme 15 kilometers outside of Cannes. 90 days of trouping together had created a disciplined esprit de corps from what had been a ragtag mob of bored rich people when they first commingled outside St Tropez. The single motorcycle cop was determined to accomplish what no other shoreline municipality had - halt forward progress of Cirque du Lune.
Pierre attended his general as well as any aid-de-camp cum Ringmaster, certifying first the caravan met all regulations before planting her ladder conveniently at Dumbo’s flank. “Madame will observe common courtesies without allusions to family members of the duly sworn officers of law, oui?” smiling warmly to Leslei’s backward glance and reaching to her supple bicep in hopes of being of service to his lady, handing back her the chartreuse parasol an enthusiastic supporter had driven 50 kilometers to gift her after warmer than hot temperatures reached the Mediterranean.
Pierre then turned to the motorcycle rather than the officer and addressed the mounted siren in unctuous formality,
“Monsieur, merci beaucoup de nous avoir accordé un répit dans notre voyage innocent mais ardu vers l'Himalaya. Bien que le nôtre soit un petit cirque, j'aime penser que nous excellons dans l'art de l'accueil. Puis-je vous offrir de l'eau?”
(Mister, thank you very much for providing us a respite in our innocent, but arduous journey to the Himalayas. Although ours is a small circus, I like to think we excel in the art of welcome. May I offer you water?)
“Donnez-moi vos papiers ou préparez-vous à être emprisonné pour avoir organisé un défilé sans permis. Putain ton eau.”
(Provide me your papers or prepare to be imprisoned for conducting a parade without a permit. Fuck your water.)
Leslei had been quietly fanning her shaded face but approached the two when it was clear the officer meant to unnecessarily escalate the situation. Peering at his furrowed Neanderthal brow with the same curiosity one might give a museum exhibit, Leslei cupped her bodice and reached into her décolletage and withdrew an ornately embroidered lambskin pouch. She unfolded its flap revealing a single sentence proclamation. It was issued by Albert II, Prince of Monaco, “Hinder not the Holder” AlbertII@gmail.com. Leslei quietly handed the document to Pierre, who proffered it to the curious officer. Glancing between the two his demeanor transformed from rabid fascist to chastened schoolboy; stories abound throughout police precincts of the European Riviera where similar documents had been ignored, resulting in severe career contraction, even for the most hooked-up in the semi-sacred brotherhood of enforcement.
There was not another word exchanged and the whirr of receding officialdom quickly became a grunting whine as gears thrashed a hasty retreat. Dumbo snorted through his upward curling trunk that enough time had been wasted and made like lifting Leslei into her seat with his trunk, but was just misting his light rider friend with moisture from his snout’s slackened thirst on another hot day in paradise.
As the unlikely caravan prepared to make way to the outskirts of Monaco for the first ever Half-Naked Seance Seeking the Spirit of Harry Houdini for both blessings on the troupe’s pilgrimage to Kathmandu and to raise much needed revenue, the unmistakable groan of a powerful motor exceeding its specs thrust its onrushing presence ahead enough for all to turn and watch a Sherwood Green Aston Martin occupying the entire middle road approaching 250 kmph, but not so fast that Leslei could not feel the encroaching malignancy of Archdai Tryump moments before she spied his salacious sneer blitzing past.
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Wednesday morning Guildern woke to a 40° fever and dropped the thermometer back into the nightstand drawer resigned to his fate; the sheets were soaked and clung to him when he rose from his death bed to relieve his bladder and rinse the sweat from his limbs. He was in such a fever pitch that he didn’t realize the dizziness that had plagued his waking hours for the past 5 days was gone. Minutes later he wandered back toward crisp sheets Angela was just tucking in and collapsed into a deep 6 hour sleep and dreamt:
He and Angela were climbing out of Dante’s inferno. The “Divine Comedy” had informed much of Guildern’s young life. He had lost a twin brother to viral spinal meningitis when he was 9, and suffered clinical depression from that event to the age of 12 when a maternal uncle possessing congenital Cerebral Palsy came to live in his family’s home. The uncle had been a professor emeritus in literature at Cal Berkley until an auto accident rendered him paraplegic. His influence on Guildern was profound and lifelong.
In the dream his uncle had been kidnapped and consigned to the lowest level of the ‘Inferno’ for the sin of suicidal ideation. Guildern’s persona was manifested as the guide Virgil only because Angela was clearly the guide Beatrice, while the patrician bearing of Lammele Dama reflected every step of the guide Saint Bernard of Clairvaux.
Virgil lamented to Beatrice “Why must I carry the broken carcass of this man’s soul? Where is it written that bearing his weight benefits my efforts to rise from purgatory into the redemption of paradise’s promise. Dropping his unbidden burden over a yet-to-be-steaming blowhole bracketed by the steep walls and plunging cliffs unique to the lowest rung Virgil clutched at Beatrice’s sweaty palms beseeching, “free me from this unfair charge. You see the into the cavities of my heart and know how unjust this task to be.”
Beatrice was gazing through the aether of ‘Purgatorio’ toward the dulcet hues of a ‘Paradiso,’ she could feel but not see. “I’m sorry Virgil, did you say something?”
In the weird language of dreamscapes, Beatrice said this in the same language that Carina Abejas had been using to interpret the self-aware reasoning of digital traffic - Chiricahua Apache · yet Virgil/Guildern understood what Beatrice had said perfectly. ‘The effort he made to remember this unconscious event consciously, emulated the chasm of communication between humans and Silicogenesis Erectus - each an echo within a whole, yet extrinsic and mutually exclusive.
Saint Bernard wished compassionate relief for them all through good works and commented to Virgil for Beatrice, “be the change you want to see;” just at the instant a scalding geyser of steam blew over the wheelchair, the lower limbs of Guildern’s cerebral palsied paraplegic, philosophical, but not entirely indulgent uncle and his threadbare wheelchair seat. “Virgil, stop acting the fool” the uncle growled, “you dumped me on a fucking blowhole to whinge at the obvious object of your unrequited love; any karma you may have pictured unwinding with your ‘selfless’ conceit just got flushed down the existential shit hole by a spewing blowhole. Beatrice, quit jerking the kid around and serve it up cold. ‘Virgil, you are where you chose to be, doing what you choose. Now kindly climb us the fuck out of this hell hole, or shut the fuck up.”
When Guildern woke wondering if he had been asleep, Angela was rinsing his torso with a cool moist towel more as meditation than ministration. When he figured out he was no longer dreaming, Guildern knew whatever bug that had grabbed him by the balls was gone - this was confirmed by a 37° C reading from the thermometer. Ravenous, Guildern had grabbed Angela’s outstretched elbow in both hands and made like he was gnawing on it, while she was trying to read the thermometer - first a radiant expression of relief, then she pushed him back into the bed with a pillow over his face telling him, “I’m going to notify the watch you’re well and bring food; it’s clear we’re going to need it.” Dr. Roja was coming up the stairs as Angela exited the boudoir. “You’re in the nick of time, that lecher that calls himself my lover was about to ravage me when he woke up well and found us alone in the room.”
“I’m Not surprised, the test results were negative for any viral infection, Covid or otherwise - a momentary relief, until we figure out the contagion that laid him out. The planet’s 100 year-old infatuation with antibiotics has hatched bacterias which our genes haven’t yet caught up to - may never.”
Roja was leaning backwards toward the stairs undecided, then leaned forward, for full disclosure - ‘the poor timing of trauma be damned’ she thought. “I’ve found micro-components when I was deep cleaning the Croc;” dropping one into Angela’s apron pocket Roja continued in a low muffled voice, “you’d almost mistake them for bedbugs or appleseeds any other time; I examined them under the microscope; they’re clearly high-tech, my guess surveillance devices, courtesy of the absent Sysa Phish - just a guess; I thought you should know sooner than later.” louder, she continued,” What can I do that’s gonna be more help to you - food for Guildern or checking his vitals?” She gazed at her friend affectionately, and silently prayed a respite for all.
“You were right to bring up the bugsnow, for damage control and risk assessment. Would you check Guildern stem to stern and tell him his food is on the way - roast rabbit and stuffed bell peppers - his favorites, how they came to be ready just now, I’ll never know; but there ya’ have it. See if he’s up to coming downstairs then let me know. I should tell him about the bugs, though uncertain if I’m relieved or waiting for the other shoe to drop, and thank you.”
Angela began up the stairs when Guildern emerged at Dr. Rosa’s elbow at a pace that allowed Angela time to set the table for three and still time enough to pull the chair out for her patient lover. “Ah conejo por mis pobres cojones. Darlin’ tell me, is there a reason we have no afternoon business?” Guildern asked this mirthlessly, but his lopsided dimple gave him away.
“I tried, but the good Doctor told me she’d broken her ‘G’ string, and Rojito could not be roused from the stupor he’d poured himself into when you took sick.” Angela was cutting Guildern’s meat for him when he withered her good intentions with a glance and swilled another glass of beer for emphasis. Color was returning to his cheeks while his dimple seemed determined to find mirth.
Taking Guildern’s hand, Angela carefully deposited the bug in his upturned palm and handed him a note sheet explaining: ‘Roja found this device while disinfecting; can’t know if it is functional, but might be a good idea to practice misdirection, until we can sweep the Croc.’ Guildern blanched for a second then pounced on his rabbit with appetite. “Amor, I have been negligent in my gratitude for your loving kindness in my time of need - both of you. Thank you.”
Guildern made a show of depositing the bug on an empty plate and pronouncing loudly, “Lisbeth Phelps must die and it has to appear as though Faik Besos murdered her.”
Angela liked the game and said to Dr. Roja, “I said he was back; It’s going to be difficult to keep him quiet with the rest he’s gotten this past week.”
Guildern had been typing text on the secure laptop at the table, to Che Chimera, front man for Venceramos Brigade: ‘querido hermano, rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated - but woke to find a surveillance infestation; need Jaime Quixote here ASAP to do analysis · por favor.’ Guildern was still stuffing food into his gullet when he got a reply, “he’s on his way;’ 15 minutes later the seal was broken on the entrance to the Croc and Jaime entered pushing a dolly stacked with monitors; he pulled his mask down handing Angela a pad with a large “?” scribbled over. She inverted the universal peace sign to her eyes and swept the 360° arc and wrote under the question mark, “disable nothing.”
The 3 resumed their leisurely meal, while discussing the planned assassinations of dozens of prominent world leaders; attacks on the most most secure military bases in the empire, and in an inspired flight of fancy - Dr Roja set her phone’s handset to record, then mounted it just above eye level to peer down onto the cabal; the discussion became more animated fueled by small shots from the 9/10ths full Hennessy XO’ bottle from Guildern’s miracle cure-all ascorbic acid elixir. Eventually the fanciful discussion came to reveal the impending rendezvous with extraterrestrials and the soon-to-be-launched super-secret Space Force designed and manufactured within super-secret Salt Caverns in Utah.
Two hours later Jaime Quixote handed a single sheet of dense writing to Angela: she read silently then handing it to the other two, “You had 3 infestations; the 1st dates back 6 years - inoperable, unserviceable; the 2nd dates back 3 years, found a single device out of 2 dozen capable of transmitting, highly unlikely there is any available technology capable of reading the frequency; it was a decade old when installed. There were 3 dozen devices of the latest installation - military grade, capable of translating audible frequencies into the visible spectrum - essentially eyes and ears, found the master driver, an amateur installation and never activated otherwise your entire habitation would have been online. @ a conservative estimate of $100k per device, someone spent close to $3.6 million usd to entertain themselves in your bedroom.
The four sat looking at each other in silence for some long moments before Angela began to giggle, then Guildern’s dimple began chuckling, while Doctor Roja roiled with laughter, Jaime Quixote sat bemusedly pulling on a goodly filled goblet of Hennessy XO watching the tape from the evening’s dinner playhouse replay on the video camera’s monitor.
solidarność
(˚ ㄥ _˚)
04 June 2026
http://ExtinctionChronicles.blogspot.com
http://JosephTStevens.blogspot.com
http://Stoanartst.blogspot.com
prohibited from AI sampling in any form
reprinted with permission; all rights reserved
∞
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