The sign on the door was small. So small it could be easily missed. It read Nascent Bionetic Technologies. It looked more like the office of a private investagator. Bryant tapped the opaque glass gently. The building was old, and he worried that the glass would be fragile.

"Come in," he heard a deep voice say. It reminded him of those old soundbytes they used to piece together back in secondary school; specifically the one that went "This is CNN." Deep, basso. Commanding. The guy was probably a hard ass. Bryant stood there a moment, trying to decide if this was a good idea. The door opened slightly before he could make up his mind. A large man with dark skin appeared at the opening.

"I said, 'come in.'" He opened the door all the way and gestured to a chair in front of a small, cluttered desk.

"Is this NBT?" Bryant asked cautiously.

"Nascent Bionetic Technologies, yes. You are here about the interview?"

"Yes," Bryant replied sheepishly.

"Then would you please come in."

Bryant obeyed. From in front of the desk, he glanced around the room. It was a dump of a place. Plaster was peeling everywhere. Books were piled on shelves on every wall. The window behind the desk was tiny and superfluous. It hardly let in any light through the brown, half drawn blinds. On the desk were numerous stacks of paper, held down by equally numerous paperweights. A large metallic fan circulated warm air in a corner, between bookcases.

"Nice place," Bryant said at last while his host took a seat behind the desk.

"It's a dump," the man responded.

Should've gone with my first instinct, Bryant thought.

"Joseph Campbell," the man said, holding out his hand across the desk.

"Annakin Bryant," Bryant responded, shaking his hand. "Joseph Campbell, as in--"

"No relation," Campbell said abruptly. "Please. Have a seat. You're making me nervous."

Bryant sat down and opened up his portfolio to fish out a resume, but Campbell didn't seem interested.

"So you're interested in a job," he asked jovially.

"That's why I'm here," Bryant replied.

"Do you know what it is we do here, Mr. Bryant?"

He looked around the room before responding. "Not really."

"Good. I'm sick of applicants marching in here thinking they know what it is we do. I need a yes-man, Bryant. Someone we can mold. Do you smoke?"

"No," he replied guarded.

"Me neither. Filthy habit. Are you that kind of man?"

"I'm sorry, could you repeat the question?"

"Are you a yes-man, Bryant? Yes or no?"

"Yes," Bryant answered hastily. "Yes, I'm a yes-man. I can be a yes-man. If...that's what you need."

Campbell leaned back in his chair, his body motionless. His arms were folded across his chest, and he wore an ear to ear grin that really disconcerted Bryant.

"Who named you that," Campbell asked.

"Bryant?"

"Annakin."

"Oh," Bryant shook his head to clear it. "My...my mother named me that."

"She liked that flick? What do you call it?"

"Uh...Star Wars?"

"Yes," Campbell said. It was the kind of drawn out Yeeees that started before you finished your sentence. "That must have been one of her favorites."

"I never asked her, Mr. Campbell."

"Hmph," Campbell grunted.

"Sir," Bryant said, handing his resume across the desk. "I think you'll find I'm quite qualified for the position that you're offering..."

"And what position is that, precisely? Hmm?"

Bryant paused. "The one...that you're offering..."

"Mr. Bryant, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. You have no idea what you're doing here."

"But I do, Mr. Campbell, and if..."

"No, you don't, Mr. Bryant, and that is precisely why you are here. If you knew what it was we do here, you wouldn't want to be here. If you had any idea what was going on in the world around you, then you would not want to be here. You are only here because I sent for you."

"Mr. Campbell, I don't understand."

Campbell laughed. "That's what I'm talking about, Bryant. You don't understand, and that's what I need right now." Campbell put on a pair of glasses. Bryant hadn't seen glasses since he was a kid in the Surbs. Apparently Campbell needed them to read something from off his desk. "There is much more going on here than you are aware of. This," Campbell looked up, gesturing at the room with his hands, "does not even qualify as a front. It is the neural center of our deception."

"I don't see," Bryant tried to interject before being cut off.

"You don't see because we don't want you to see. Sooner or later you will see, but it will be on our timetable. We will dictate the terms, until you are beyond them. The rest will then be up to you."

Papers rustled from the force of the fan as one of the paperweights slid off it's stack. Campbell raced to correct it before papers could fly everywhere.

"We offer a generous benefits package, double the salary of your previous job, and one week of vacation annually." Campbell leaned forward, with that insatiable grin.

"I have no previous job. I've been unemployed for six years, Mr. Campbell."

"What do you say, Mr. Bryant. Yes, or no?"

"Well..." Bryant knew he had no time to think. Too long a pause, and he'd...he'd what? It occured to him. He didn't have a choice. He was going to be a yes-man, because NBT was going to make him their yes-man. For the first time, it dawned on him that he could actually be a part of something bigger than himself. He looked up from his portfolio, into Campbell's eyes and smiled, though still sheepishly. "Yes. My answer is yes, Mr. Campbell."

"Excellent, Mr. Bryant!" Campbell laughed. They both stood up and shook hands. "I expect you to report here to begin work at eight o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. Is that acceptable?"

"I thought you said this was just a deception of some kind..." Bryant started to answer, before Campbell caught him again.

"Bryant, you're just supposed to say yes."

"I don't have a problem with that," Ajax declared flatly.

That's why I hate the son of bitch, Valdez thought. He's cocky, and he makes mistakes. People who make mistakes usually end up dead, but not before they fuck up bad. Why did Easter want this guy anyway? She always picked cocky sons-of-bitches with their heads up their asses for the really tough assignments. Maybe she wanted the guy dead. Valdez didn't know. Wasn't his business to know. Still, it couldn't hurt to ask.

"You realize you could be flushed out into a vacuum if the containment seals fail?"

"I don't have a problem with that either," Ajax replied. Idiot.

"You know," Valdez began, "that if you get flushed out an airlock, this will be a complete waste, and the company does not like shrink."

"I understand that I am an expendable asset."

"If you die, you become a fucking liability!" Let him chew on that for a minute. "Assets...get...jobs...done. I don't like you, but some crazy bitch from up on high seems to think you might be an asset, which is why you're here now. Fact is, if the shit hits the fan, it hits me first."

Valdez picked up a dossier. The company could afford to use paper. It was a sign of wealth. He waved in the air before thumbing through it.

"I'm looking over your file," he began, "and it says here you have an irrational fear of tight spaces. Is that an asset? It says here, that Geotech spent $1.6 billion in a legal battle that you brought on eight years ago. Is that an asset?"

"Geotech won that case," Ajax interupted while rubbing his earlobe.

"You're a maverick. Not a team player. No aspirations. A fuck up. A loser. A fucking loser. Do you like being a loser, Mr. Ajax?"

Ajax twitched his head, but Valdez couldn't tell if it was a yes or a no.

"Because I don't like losers, Mr. Ajax," Valdez continued. "I like winners. I like go-getters. I like yesmen. Company men. And I don't give a fuck what some bitch in Personnel Distribution has to say about your credentials, or your efficiency rating, or your...are you listening to me?"

Ajax was grinning ear to ear. "Can I go get your data now?"

Valdez picked up an ethercard from his desk and tossed it at Ajax. "Get the fuck out of my face."

Ajax smiled and left. Smug asshole. Valdez couldn't believe he was giving him the job. He hated smug assholes. He threw the dossier down on the leather executive chair. Then he sat on it. He looked up at Daily who had watched the whole interview from the far corner of the trapezoidal room.

"Get Parsons," Valdez yelled to Daily.

"The kid?" Daily asked.

"Yes, the kid," Valdez put his elbows on the desk and rubbed his forehead. "God knows he might be the only thing worth his shit in this whole god-damned company."

"It's out there, Ronno," she said, almost to herself. Her son was not well comforted by her words. "When your father comes home, you'll see."

"He won't break the contract. I know he won't."

"Of course he will!" she responded. How dare her son have so little faith in his father. "He said he would find it, and he shall. Then we'll go."

She looked down at Ronno in his slumbertube. He stared into the featureless metallic enclosure.

"Ronno," she began softly. "He will come. Just one more run, and he'll take us to that better place. You'll see. I promise."

He looked up at her for a moment. She stroked his hair, and smiled before closing the hatch.

* * *
Enzio crumpled the communique. Damn them. Damn them all. He smashed his fist into a panel. He knew it was a bad idea, but he did it anyway.

Paper communiques had become the norm for classified information. It was easier to destroy a printout than stored data. Nano-nets could sweep up the holostorage in no time flat. Better to stick to old style encryption.

Of course, receiving any information on hardcopy was bad news.

Damn them all!

He walked down the hall toward the lounge. There was an incinerator in there where he could dispose of the paper. He could also get a cup of coffee. He needed the caffeine. It usually soothed his mind.

"Enzio, hang on."

Shit. Tasha jogged toward him from the other end of the corridor. She was in sweatpants and a T-shirt, sporting the Niik-Adids swoosh logo. A bandana hung around her neck.

"A little late for exercise, isn't it?"

"My clocks shot to hell anyway. What you got there?" she asked, pointing to the crumpled communiqe.

"Nothing," Enzio responded. He opened the lounge door and went straight for the incinerator.

"What do you mean, nothing. They don't send us paper for their amusement. That stuff costs a fortune."

"It's not like it's made of trees," he said, waving it in the air before dumping it down the chute. Then he went for his coffee. Tasha just stood there, a bit confused by the look of her. Good. She should stay confused. She was too curious for a first officer on a freighter. She asked too many questions.

Tasha shook her head and poured some water from a spotty glass jug that someone had left on one of the tables.

"So what did you want to talk to me about?" Enzio asked as he took a seat.

"What? Oh," she started, between gulps. "It's about our cargo."

"Ahh, Christ," he said while rolling his eyes.

"It's a legitimate question, for God's sake-- Don't roll your eyes at me!"

"I am not at liberty to discuss that, and you know it. Read your god-damned contract. It's right there." She always had to pry. Why the hell did corporate hire her, anyway?

"I read the contract, but I think I'm entitled to know."

"There is no entitlement. There's our jobs. You don't fucking know because they don't fucking tell you. Has that occured to you?" he said, raising his voice. This time Tasha's eyes rolled. "There is a reason," Enzio said, lowering his volume a bit. He wasn't going to let her get under his skin. Cool air came streaming out of the vents above. "There is a reason you have no idea. When corporate says jump, you say how high. That's nothing new! Why can't you just accept that?"

"Because I think it's dangerous."

"You think it's dangerous."

"Yeah. I think it's fucking HazMat, and we don't have a permit for a HazMat approach to Delphi station."

"We're not going to Delphi station." Well there it is. Now he'd said it.

She paused, stunned. "We're not going to Delphi?"

"No."

"Where the hell are we going?"

"Artemis station, and you are not to tell anyone else, understood? It's command clearance information."

"I can't believe--" she started to say.

"Believe it."

Her lip quivered for a moment before she turned around and stormed out the door. It looked like she wanted to slam it, but they just made them too heavy on the old Class 9s. He would have laughed at the thought, but he had other things on his mind.

Damn bitch. It's not like she has a family, with promises to keep.

Enzio stared out the port into the black, empty expanse of space. Utopia Station was out there somewhere, but he wasn't going to find it. Not today.

Parsons would have jacked in direct, if the connection hadn't been so bad. Instead he'd have to go it old school. Old school might have been way out, but it was the only game in town.

Data poured across his lenses. It would take him a while to find what he was looking for this way. He couldn't use the engines. They'd be able to track him too easily if he used the engine. They'd biscuit his storage until he had none left, and then they'd come and find him. They were probably able to track him anyway, but there was no need to give them any extra help.

He tried to keep one eye free, just in case someone came too close. The booth was in the open, and he wanted a clear view of what was around him so that he wouldn't be ambushed. Parsons considered devoting some of his bandwidth to one of the local-realcams, but thought better of it. If he tapped in, someone unsavory might take more notice of him than he wanted.

Sites flew by. Statistics, entertainment, news, ecoporn...ecoporn? He paused for a minute. It was a fetish he'd nearly forgotten. Beautiful natural women, in beautiful natural environments. Real places. Like the Everglades. When there was an Everglades. Real vintage stuff. Parsons missed Pensacola, and the peninsula. He missed sex. He missed the Everglades. Sandra Beach. She'd always been his favorite. Especially when she was in the mangroves...

Flight plans! He'd gotten distracted. There was no time to be distracted. His free eye danced around looking for trouble. No telling what he could have missed in his moment of weakness.

He scrolled the data over the lensed eye, hoping to get closer to the right backdoor. Parsons wasn't entirely sure he had the right shipper. Long, dull lists came up everytime he got access. He tried to organize them alphabetically, by destination, but none of them were going to Delphi. Not the ones that should be. That was just strange. He tried running a few cross references, but backed down, worried again that he might raise suspicions.

A pause. If they weren't going to Delphi, then what boat was Ajax on? All the class 16 solar transports would have the newer operating systems, and that wouldn't do Ajax any good. He'd have to be on a class 13 or earlier if it was going to make Mars. Knowing Ajax, he would have jumped a 6 or a 9, because of the vacuum storage capability. That would have simplified boarding so he couldn't be detected. From there he could just wait until deceleration, and squeeze through the airlocks. Parsons focused back on the lens. No vessels of that class were going to Delphi.

One was going to Artemis.

Why would an old freighter go so far outside the security zone? Wasn't Artemis on the epidemic list? No-one would be coming back from Artemis station. Parsons rubbed his forehead. He needed to think. He readjusted the lens to lower the brightness.
Why would Ajax get on a boat headed for a plague station?

He zoomed in on the Class 9 to Artemis. He was going to have to hack the file. There was no other way to get more information. That would raise red flags, of course. Hell with it, Parsons thought. Geotech's got great lawyers. They're paying for me answers. He increased the brightness, and executed a layer virus. It wouldn't stop the goons from catching on, but it might slow them down.

This originally began as a collectivist writing experiment between myself and two other friends. We didn't get too far with it, but we did write some strong material. I hope to flesh it out even further one day. With their permission, I'll probably post their contributions as well later on. Note: The title above is not even a working title. It's just a way to get attention.



...into the chamber on deck 6, which is where the smell overwhelmed him. Cargo containers were jammed together, leaving only a narrow passage between them if one wanted to move around, which Ajax certainly did. Thing was, it seemed odd that there would be all cargo containers on deck 6, when the cargo bay was another eight decks below. Wiping dust off one of the containers, he was able to make out the writing. Cold Storage. That was it. Now he recognized the smell. It was like rotting meat. The refridgeration system on one of the units must have failed. (Of course, it was odd that they weren't using vacuum storage...utilizing the cold of space.)

He moved around as quietly as he could, though he doubted anyone knew he was onboard yet. It seemed best to stay in practice. His earpiece continued providing him with endless informational chatter; stock market reports, shipping lane control, up-to-the-minute-news. It all ran together, sometimes on top of one another, but he was used to it. In a solar economy, information was the real currency (or wealth.)

Ajax couldn't find a way out, other than the way he came in, which only made the presence of the cargo containers more suspicious. Climbing on top of the containers, he surveyed the rest of the room. A steady stream of air blasted through a grate just above him. No other exits. That settled it. Pulling out his Pi-Tool, he opened the latches on the grate, and climbed up inside, replacing the grill behind him. He tapped the low vision setting on his eyepiece and looked around.

He'd forgotten how much he hated tight spaces. When he was nine, he got stuck in a fire chute back in his homesprawl of Atlanta. Scared the shit out of him, because he didn't think anyone could hear him yelling for help. He was sure he was going to die. To make matters worse, he'd lost power in a one man submersible during his stint in the Go-Tech Corporate Marine Corps. Ajax and tight spaces mixed like water and glue.

He tapped his eyepiece again, this time to bring up a map in the corner of his vision, and then began moving. The air was kept chilly on this ship. The crew must be Martians, he concluded. He'd probably be able to tell when he saw them.
]
After having lost himself in a few ducts that weren't in the schematics (probably replacements), he stopped to get his bearings. He heard talking below, and realized he must have turned his information stream up to distract him from his claustrophobia. He fiddled with the volume so that he could make out what was being said below.

"...not at liberty to discuss that, and you know it. Read your god-damned contract. It's right there." Male. Possibly the captain, or the first officer. Crew rosters were unreliable since the outbreak of RADAS (RApid Degenerative Arterial Syndrome) at Tokyo station. No-one gave their real names anymore, which had really boosted black market identity sales.

"I read the contract, but I think I'm entitled to know." Female. First officer or science officer. Just a guess, though.

"There is no entitlement. There's our jobs. You don't fu-" A blast of icy air drowned out the male for a moment. "-dea. When corporate says jump, we say how high. That's nothing new! Why can't you just accept that!"

"Because I think it's dangerous."

"You think it's dangerous."

"Yeah. I think it's fucking HazMat, and we don't have a permit for a HazMat approach to Delphi station."

"We're not going to Delphi station."

Shit, Ajax thought. There was a pause below before the woman spoke again.

"We're not going to Delphi?"

"No."

"Where the hell are we going?"

"Artemis station, and you are not to tell anyone else, understood? It's command clearance information."

Shit, he thought again. Artemis was not part of the plan.

"I can't believe," she started to say.

"Believe it."

Ajax heard a door open below. Presumably one of them had gone. Didn't matter. He had bigger problems. This boat was going the wrong way, and nobody on board knew about but those two officers. He turned his information chatter back up to audibility, hoping for some clue as to what was going on, and continued crawling toward what he hoped was the server room.

When YHWH got too close to the sun, he asked Apollo for the secret
of his success. "It's simple," Apollo told him. "It's all about
symbology. I chose the sun. I chose the one thing they cannot go
without. Now, even if they forget me, they will remember my symbol,
and will forever speak my name in their anecdotes and poetry."

YHWH was impressed by this answer, and demanded to know more.

"There really isn't much more tell, actually. That's my secret."

YHWH, unsatisfied, took leave of Apollo. The sun had burned
his face, and so he vowed never to venture so near to it again. He
decided to approach Ra, who had outsurvived most other deities by
having had his name etched in Egyptian sandstone.

When YHWH asked Ra for the secret to his success, Ra responded,
"It's quite simple. I have chosen for myself a most powerful symbol.
As the sun rose, the Egyptians thought of me. As it set, they watched
me chasing the night back to dawn."

Perturbed, YHWH ventured to ask what the eye had to with it. "The
eye," Ra retorted, "is like the sun, watching all of Egypt as it sails
overhead."

This was unacceptable for YHWH, who decided to leave Egypt, making
a personal note to plague it someday for it's contempt. He went on to
Los Angeles, where he strolled across Stage B, only to be accosted by a
bright white light beaming at his pupils. He left immediately, assuming
the great god Hollywood also used the sun as a symbol. So YHWH went home
for a bit, where he fell asleep to the crooning of Golda Meir's second
operetta.

When he awoke, he reached an epiphany. The sun had already been
used too often, and the religions using it had fallen or were falling.
YHWH decided on a different tact...he would make his symbol his SON.
That would get them. That would drive them nuts.

Unfortunately, years later, he stumbled on Ra again, only to
discover that Ra didn't get the joke. It was only funny in English.
This didn't bode well for the Greeks, but at least Hollywood could have
a real hoot and holler.

There are days when you have to learn to do it all over again. Such days Cassandra dreaded. They come and they go, she thought, but no-one listens. Warnings go unheeded. People fail to understand. They do not want to understand.

When Perplexis, King of the OrigMeme came to visit her, she wanted to hide, to pretend she wasn't home. He knew already, though. She had left the car in the driveway, instead of in the garage. It seemed odd to her that people could be so perceptive about such things, and yet never understand her.

He knocked several times. If she was going to be disturbed, it was going to be on her timetable, not his. His patience proved quite impressive, as did his persistence. She threw the book down on to the desk, sighed, and finally made an effort to get the door. An effort. She never actually made it, because Perplexis had already invited himself in.

"Don't you ever wait?" Cassandra asked, annoyed.

"I waited for ten minutes," he responded.

"I might not have been home," she said.

"Your car was in the driveway, and your door was unlocked. I concluded that you must be home."

He could really infuriate her sometimes. He had a cold, calm demeanor designed to frustrate any attempt to penetrate it. Perplexis would not be fazed. Still, it wouldn't stop her from trying.

"If you were so certain I was home," she began, walking into her den, "then why did you wait so long before inviting yourself in?"

"It would have been rude to so any sooner," came his response.

Infuriating, she thought. It boiled her blood.

Perplexis took his usual seat. It was one of her favorite chairs. She'd set it in the corner by the bookcase to provide easy access. Not being particularly tidy, she tended to stack unfinished works on the floor around the chair. When Perplexis sat in it, it somehow made him look like a king.

Of course, he wasn't really a king. Not yet. That was just his title. "Strikes awe into the hearts of millions," he would say coldly. Rationally. Without emotion. It didn't really inspire awe in anyone save a chatroom full of crazy messianics. Still, his time spent online generally kept him from interupting her life. Apparently not today.

"What can I do for you, King of the OrigMeme?" she asked dryly, trying to mirror his blank facade.

"I'm surprised you have to ask," he replied with some astonishment. He always said that. It made her more angry. Composure, she decided. It's important to maintain composure if I'm going to get him out of her any more quickly.

"I don't read minds, Perplexis."

He grunted for moment, twiddled his thumbs, and scanned the room. He seemed to be looking for a starting point. When his gaze fell on the window, he'd found it.

"Have you ever noticed how the light from outside creates a glare on your monitor?" he asked, pointing to her computer.

"It's intentional. It prevents me from spending too much time online." Let him consider that, she thought!

"Hmmm," was all he said. He probably didn't consider it much, because he pressed right on. "It seems as if a glare has fallen across my life. It obscures my thinking, and my ability to run my kingdom."

Words are cheap, she thought. The King of the OrigMeme seemed to think so, at any rate.

"It started the other day," he continued, to Cassandra's chagrin. "I was talking to Blotter, and...you know Blotter?"

She didn't but she nodded anyway.

"Well, I was talking to Blotter and he was talking about this idea that words have no meaning. I couldn't understand him."

Cassandra resisted an amused grin. "What exactly did he say?"

"Well," he paused to clear his threat. His pitch altered as if he were imitating Blotter's voice, though in all likelihood he had never even heard Blotter's voice. "All knowledge is assumed, and thus inherently flawed. It can be argued that a complete lack of knowledge is more accurate than a conglomeration of falsities." Cassandra had discovered from experience that Perplexis had a trustworthy memory. "You can't put more water into an overflowing cup."

He resumed his own voice. "What does that mean? You can't put more water into an overflowing cup?"

"He told you more. What else did he say, King of the OrigMeme?" Cassandra asked. She was actually entertained by this charlatan's inability to comprehend the concept his entire kingdom was based upon.

"It's about confusing what is with our impressions of what is, he told me. Now what does he mean by that?"

Cassandra laughed. She couldn't resist. Perhaps this would be worthwhile after all.

"Why are you laughing?" he asked, slightly embarassed, which was all the more satisfying for Cassandra.

"I thought you wanted to know the future?"

"I do. That's why I'm asking!"

"What is it you want to know?"

He bit his lip. It was the first time she'd ever seen him frustrated. Hunched shoulders, stiff neck...it really bothered him that he could not understand. There was something else, though. Something he had been holding back. He knows, she thought. He knows what this means, and it terrifies him. He came here for my council because he wants it written off as nonsense. He wants someone else to tell him that it's meaningless, and that he is not responsible, because he knows otherwise.

"I can see through you, Your Highness. It's like looking through a glass of water. There is some refraction, but your purpose is clear enough."

"If words don't mean anything, then what happens to purpose? Oracle, tell me what happens to the King?"

"Your words are mere symbols, Perplexis. Of course they don't have meaning! They only represent the things they talk about."

"I've always known this, but I've denied it," he said. He expressed this with intelligence and honesty. These were virtues Cassandra had never seen in the man before.

"It's fundamental to your dogma. It's what your entire kingdom is built upon. You rely on the idea that words must mean something. In fact, they are limiting. Once you define something, you have made it more difficult to understand it's complexities. How would you explain a rock to someone who had never seen one before? Or a tree? Or a river? Their vocabulary will often determine what new information they can take in. If they do not know the word water, then you will find it difficult to describe a river. The same applies for the word green and tree, or hard and stone."

He considered her words for a while, but didn't respond. She decided to nail her point home.

"Context will be your only salvation, Your Highness. Words alone are insufficient, and even sentences, paragraphs and entire books will never give the complete picture the way experience can. They are, however, excellent substitutes, and have a power of their own. Our minds are complex entities, and through context we can derive many things, including new ideas. The power to extrapolate provides the womb of creativity. Context, King Perplexis, is how your kingdom will survive."

She waited for it to sink in. His expression was pensive, but that was more promising than his usual demeanor. It was several minutes before he responded. All the while, Cassandra felt sharp satisfaction coarsing through her blood.

"I think," he said at last, "that I understand."

"Good!" she responded, genuinely pleased.

"I've surrounded myself with the wrong people. Blotter is a horrible influence on the essence of the kingdom."

"What?" she inquired, appropriately perplexed.

"The OrigMeme is viewed on the outside in it's context. I will never be able to sustain it merely by examining the individuals that inhabit it. They are expendable! It's the good of the whole kingdom that is important. If we are to stave off invaders, then we will need a united front. As it is, we are viewed as a loose affiliation of individuals. That's how the internet functions. My role is to unite them. To reinvent the context around which such kingdoms are built!"

Cassandra put her face in her hands. He wasn't making any sense. What was worse, she suspected he knew it.

"You have been a great aide to me, wise oracle." He stood up, his expression again becoming stolid. With a brisk nod of his head, he made for the exit.

Another kingdom then shall fall, she thought to herself. The sun, having moved further west, no longer cast a glare across her screen. She considered logging in, but dial-up took so long. It's good to make things difficult on yourself, she thought. It makes you work harder. She picked up her book and resumed reading it backwards, from the end to the beginning, as Cassandra had always done.