Botchi

Mar politically wound the mothballed fibres clockwise. Hasty precision was integral to the quadra-lock inserting itself with circumstance to spare, without which only the spirit of Frenchy Jankins could aid her existence. Beneath her gum-soled shoes an ant stared upward, frolicking in the scientific beauty of the lightbeam permeating the tiny strands. Mar stared down, smiling at the concurrent mesmerism; how the joys of physical and particle refraction could be savoured ‘twixt species. The hub of all nerve centres this was not: even during the Routledge years they had been unable to afford sufficient rhenium ejaculators.

Mar was just about ready to retire when she heard the rasp of the external door buzzer. Flicking on the small security monitor, she could discern through the low quality footage, a man and a women at the laboratory gates. Mar stepped over to the intercom and pushed down on a medium-sized green button.
“Who are you and what is your business?” she barked down the intercom.
“I am Chief V and my companion is Cosatch McMillan. We are from…”
“I know where you are from” interrupted Mar, “please wait there.”
Mar skipped down the penumbric hallway; she was so thrilled with the actuality of visitors from the Ford that she had quite overlooked concerns regarding their intentionality. Mar pulled open the heavy oak door and greeted the Chief and Cosatch, just managing to suppress her obsequious glee. The Chief responded in a warm but composed fashion.
“I am very pleased to meet you at long last Mar. We have some very serious business to discuss.”
“Of course, of course. Please follow me.”
Cosatch stumbled several paces behind them. He had downed a couple of pints of cider in Foe’s and was feeling quite tipsy. Cosatch had been aware of a little telepathic disturbance at the restaurant, which had seemed to exacerbate the effects of the delicious appley sweetness. Through his booze spectacles Mar seemed very appealing to Cosatch; her swarthy complexion, Libyan nose and intelligent eye gave her a somewhat racehorse-like quality, he mused.

Mar took them into a small but functional drawing room. The log fire prepared earlier by Mar was now raging like a teased promethean bull whose hormones had been chemically stimulated. A bust of Thorbus decorated the mantelpiece and several Drossos abstracts of the Slavic Moon Valley adorned the walls.
“Please take a seat. These are the living quarters of my janitor, or at least they were.”
“We were all shocked by Milko’s untimely death,” replied the Chief, a tear rolling down her cheek.
“Tears are not a manifestation of sadness nor joy, they are a corollary of the apprehension of the indivisibility of time.” Cosatch stepped in, his eyes fixed eagerly on Mar. Oppz had recently forwarded him a compendium of aphorisms; Cosatch was determined to put the bite-sized wisdom to good use.
“Milko was a great man and a more than competent janitor,” Mar replied, choosing to ignore Cosatch.
“What I want to discuss with you, Mar, is the Ford’s hope…”
“Hope is not grounded in reality; it is the concrete illusion that links the vacuum of yesterday and the boundless horizon.”
“Cosatch, stop being a fool,” the Chief hissed.
“Foolishness is a completely distinct ontological property of self and is the unifying thread through mankind. We’re all of us fools Elly,” said Cosatch pushing an imaginary Stetson over the bridge of his nose and sparking up an equally fictional cigarette.
“Cosatch, please step outside. Mar and myself have some very important business to discuss.”
Cosatch sloped outside, mumbling under his breath, “deductive logic can only ever be based on premises attained by inductive reasoning, therefore…”
The Chief waited for the door to click behind him then continued, “The Ford needs your help Mar. We have ruled comfortably for many years via stealth and hegemony, but we still live under the shadow of K. Tomorrow our Algiers outpost will deploy sulphur as the tracing element. Ken Zealous never truly understood the meaning of the methodology; his skilfully cloaked demise was a blessing for all of our hearts.”
A small tray laden with tea and truffles opened from the chest of the bust on Mar’s expert command. Sizz had his moments; it was futile to argue.
“Your apprentice…”
“Please, I apologise for his evidently second-hand faux wisdom, let him remain segregated.”
“No, does he take sugar?”
“Only a light sprinkling on the north face of the truffle.”
“Now, sulphur is a risky tracing element to implement at this stage. The main reservation I have is the fact that it could contaminate the marketplace. V, our trade is suffering, the risk is jumbo.”
“Our Algiers’ post has been working on the equations ever since the uprising. If Duffield is cloned the power of K will multiply and become unparalleled. Besides, I believe the genius of Oppz has tinkered with the blend, there will be only localised damage.”
“There is much administration to be done.”

Cosatch took the word ‘administration’ as his cue to re-enter the janitor’s old quarters. His curiosity overtook his sensibilities, bypassing refreshments, he shuffled towards the cabinet that stood proudly in the far corner. He pulled the top drawer open and peered into the immaculately filed compartment, each entry numbered and coded in (illogically to his novice judgement) various forms of pie-chart. He fingered through the tightly packed folders, index overload, and memorised all of the named entries. They appeared to be detailed dossiers on all pertinent characters within and in the sphere of influence of the Ford. The closer the influence, the less spread the slices of pie would appear on the semi-laminate header. Turning to page 36 of his manual, Cosatch McMillan pondered. Quickly replacing the drawer and manipulating his attentions to the lower holster, he winced slightly, desperate to slide open the corroding receptacle.

He knew it to be true. One of the brethren of the demonic orb (that had flitted his fancy in the face of despair-commerce) lay motionless in the drawer. Cosatch extended his stunted frame to its fullest, pirouetted thrice and demanded an answer. His companions had vacated the room.

“Eternal damnation! Lest my efforts be worthy of this escape from the presupposition of mere skivvyness! Lieutenant? Nay! Coeval and pertinent, not a drivelling fool like the oaf of the tram. The consequence of this find should be hasted ‘cross town at once!

The plate…”

Cosatch felt the plate in his frontal lobe slip (by now he had acquired the pinpoint governance of the tool) past Welko Point and began to warn the chosen recipient of the cataclysmic backlog of paperwork (and of the troublesome sphere) via neural patterns previously unreached in frequency and decay. The plate had conquered the artistry of various resonance applications: filter and attack enabling the signal to penetrate the concrete surrounds, the envelope punishing the outside atmosphere, directing the full telepathic transmission straight to ionospheric levels of communication.
“I feel much disturbance, much disturbance. Oh Hermes, what is thy bidding my master.” Cosatch began to shudder violently; he had never experienced such copious telepathic absorption. He squatted down on all fours and fought to unravel the mosaic stream. The words of the world unified, the mental landscape that defined matter revealed itself with oblique recklessness. Oppz had explained to him how light could not escape from the inside of a black hole but words could, cruel words, rulers of the universe. To remove a word from its referent: what would happen then? Cosatch began to quiver even more fiercely as he tapped into the lyrical internal discourse of the world:
“Five ha’pennies, five ha’pennies, I can’t say any fairer than five ha’pennies…”
“Tic toc, tic toc, elevenses at this hour?”
“It extends on its axis and then the external bolt screws into the valve situated by the dis…”
“The tornado seems to be carrying us to the north aspect of the Danube…”
“Buy me an apple
My name is Carlton Sage
Buy me an apple…”
“I don’t want to pass that sailor on the way to my grave unless…”
“Court clerk, court clerk, I don’t want to be court clerk, how come Jetwell gets to Barrister for the Defence. I was working for the Ford when she was a glint in the douche sweeper’s eye…”
Cosatch’s frequency had jammed.
“Admiral, Admiral please shift mental frequency, I have important telepathic communications to endure.”
“Sorry Cosatch, but The Formula…”
Cosatch slumped sideways into the foetal position and rubbed his forehead feverishly against his inner thigh thus managing to lose the Admiral’s signal.
“…insists that I am court…” the Admiral faded.

Cosatch was now motoring on the inter-neural freeway again and was determined to locate the fruits of truth in the orchard of time. Cosatch funnelled the electrical spasms of his tele-energy onto the front foot thereby stimulating greater directional flux and accuracy. His mind was akin to a vast radar as he plunged through the deep kinetic seam which bound sanity to reality. He had lock; he could hear the sweet monologue of the enlightened one now.
“…to empty time of its content. A simple wish. They will think of me as a destroyer, a genocidal oligarch, when all I want is to restore harmony. I offer NOTHING to mankind.”
“Sorry to interrupt Kluzens but I have much to report.” Cosatch was now lying on his stomach resting his metal forehead plate on the newly discovered orb.
“Why my little brother Cosatch. How are all thing Ford?”
“Many changes are afoot. The Formula has forfeited team sanity and constructed a meaningless kangaroo court involving fifty-percent profitless staff. I have discovered an orb locked away in Horsts’ filing cabinets, identical to one that recently tortured the very neural makeup of my soul and sole. Mar and V have disappeared, perhaps (oh) to Mars’ quarters, leaving me no option but to inform you of these appearances; Kluzens, I plead of you, hear my call…”

“Slow down Cosatch you whimpering dog-hind, the fabrication or extension of the truth will help you no more…you do not have your sidekick to release you from your ramshackle appraisal of the bigger picture. We sing not from the same hymn sheet, not even from the same church. Now, return to penitence, thou maggotted corpse of a thinker!”

Next chapter…