From: intraphase@gmail.com

THE BOAT

The Early Rising

The forty-four foot longboat moves slowly through the dark water.
Trevor’s right hand clasps the tiller; his left arm hangs lifeless by his side. A small jib,
and a foresail are slightly raised, the mainsail above his head is still furled. A dull soft thud against the hull jostles the sleeping navigator. Awaking with a start his eyes leave the curve of the bow to follow a gray mass moving away toward the
leeward horizon. In his emerging line of sight he pictures a heavy great coat being pulled out of mothballs. Rubbing the sea spray from his eyes he takes a deep breath to fully awaken his lungs hoping to arise and commence some type of
rational thought.
Surveying the craft he takes note of two hatches eight feet apart centered on separate bulkheads. Looking back towards the stern, pale glimmering lines of purple and pink emanations begin to arise, angular needles of new light stitching the ocean to the
sky.
Turning to starboard an array of intense piercing points ignite. They brighten the water around a sleek black ship. Shimmering sparkles illuminate the cloudy charcoal waterline. The brilliant display is curtailed abruptly casting the longboat back into
the somber shadowy echoes of the passing night. A small splash is heard just before the powerful main engines are reversed filling the gap between the two vessels with a rich throaty resonance that dwindles to a rippling gurgle when the engines fall
silent. He senses someone swimming across the small divide before his ears detect the shallow sound of an unbroken rhythm.


A morbid thought floods into Trevor's mind of being trapped here for all eternity, pondering unknown circumstances, without the prudent foresight to have taken precautions toward the contingency of needing to escape some interminable world-without-end
scenario. He listens and waits. His left hand moves to his shirt pocket instinctively. He leafs open a piece of chewing gum while keeping his vision trained on the near water. The rising wind brings a vigilant chill from the pistol holstered at his
beltline in the small of his back.
Her dark brown eyes and hair mediate the reflections of the gathering dawn. Pausing to make allowance for his need to estimate and take into account unfamiliar surroundings; she breast strokes forward. With two hands on the gunwale and one foot on a
bilge hole she fluidly hoists herself aboard with supreme confidence. Standing beside the mainmast and grabbing the boom alters the pitch of her firm modest bosom inward. Ignoring the gentle rocking swells below the longboat she balances reflexively
widening her stance with both hands poised on her hips.
"It is nice see you McBain. Are you all ready?"
Visible in the still dark light on her right arm is a tattoo of a Great Horned Owl below a triplet of five pointed stars. On her left arm, a substantial roman numeral one is embedded in a large cross shaped sword pointing downward, the hilt rises
upward towards five triple crowns. Each of the five lowest crowns has seven spikes. Two intertwined snakes encircle her naval. A question mark surrounding a rose wrapped in thorny vines is boldly emblazoned on her pelvis. It vanishes into a faint dusting
of nubile locks concealing her feminality.
"No one can be all things to all people at all times."
The current craft their meeting upon is as long in feet as Trevor McBain is old.

Inquiring how much mediation and intervention this colloquy would seek to elicit from him as a final transaction agreement seemed like a tedious act of diplomacy. Brushing back a loose wisp of tightly cropped gray hair he spit his gum over the rail.
Sensing ambivalent impatience she continues.
"If I can't control the wind I adjust the sails."
She stared at his right hand returning to the tiller, observing a gold ring with a black stone edged by three diamonds; below the dull worn sleeve of a rain slicker faded to tan. His boots were more suited to the mountains than the
perils of the sea.
Beneath his garb she knew he was knotted ready to toss her in the sea.
"I can rebuild my ship quicker than you can return it."
Rising slowly the petite visage of the young sovereign stood her ground without flinching.
Trevor extended his hand to meet hers, locking their gaze momentarily they both
shook with principled conviction.
"That may be true. You seem prepared come whatever may."
Watching her move to the second bulkhead, open the hatch and go below, he turned towards the stern to gauge the morning’s weather. Musing over the deliberation without excessive theorizing, intuition spoke clearly that whatever assistance she
required, it was enough by her judgement to wipe the slate clean within her own
psyche; and to bear no further malice in her heart.
Exiting the bulkhead hatch her buttock length hair ran down from under a black watchman’s cap to follow the inside length of a blue pea coat. Bell bottom sailor jeans and leather boatman shoes rounded out the picture of a diminutive bantam weight,
but able bodied seaman.

Sitting back by the rail to no effect she widened her eyes quickly and succinctly before closing them tightly and nodding solemnly to sum things up. She sighs politely.
"Names?"
"Trevor McBain age 25, Alex Mathias age 44, Frank Harris age 55."
She gave him time to absorb, memorize and reinforce the connections between the identities.
"For yourself?"
"Michelle Evangelina Gauthier age 21."
"You maintain a single point of presence?"
"My current tactical procedure is to sustain a multitude.”
"It's a bit of an all or nothing stratagem."
"Each time it failed I gained invaluable knowledge I have etched into my core."
"Each time it failed I have had to annihilate you by annihilating them."
"I am at the gates of hell so that some might be saved!"
"What did you call this boat?"
"I did... I called it The Empress."
He laughed crustily with depth and sincerity envisioning her impassioned love
of books.
"Once you begged for nonexistence."
"Within the jurisdiction of our private clock; I have learned to rest, sleep and dream in the construct." Michelle knows the deal is sealed. If The All is stalling there is no contrivance or subterfuge directed at her. They both fall silent until her
eyes meet his. He holds his hand forward palm upward. The Owl touches her index finger to The All's lifeline.
The image of the gray mass waking the navigator as he sat at the tiller enters her presence sending her lurching over and across the rail to empty the contents of her stomach into the sea. Trevor gives her a fresh linen handkerchief, but knows she’ll
wait to fully purge herself. Moving towards the stern she pats him on the shoulder, then releases the winch dropping the dinghy into the water. With ballerina grace and gymnastic bounce she leaps onto the rail catapulting herself into the drifting dinghy.
He turned in time to see The Owl gather the hair between her coat and cap. Drawing a diamond sharp razor knife she cut the thick cable of banded hair, flinging the dead mane into the sea. The portrait reflected one of her favorite
evocative songs.
He asked loudly across the widening gulf, "Did you name the dinghy too?"
"Yes of course! But what is our secret?" She sings “Space & Time” back in a lilting melody.
You've devised the perfect crime to be the master of all space and time.
Now every day you must decide another reason not to suicide.
Tortured princess careening toward oblivion what was it you said you wanted. You knew the answer was to wait.
Some do it quietly others try to swim in haunted glory and ignore the festering
hate.
The buckle kneed traveler who cast one thousand curses plays beside your weary journeyman.
He speaks three lonely words. Let me tell it to you, he won’t sell it to you… “Now is in.”
The transmission waived the permit; we watched old grand maul, trample the knock abouts.
When we are alone; the baby yells at the barber, that first haircut is a bitch.

Behind an avalanche of facts hides the truth, a bid, a play, a gambit, and away
rolls the stone.
Into the origin of the dreamscape; I see the transmissions colored bands. Standing strong as they were at creation… Still, and all alone.
Three small colored orbulets fabricate to trace a clockwise circle concluding
the transaction then dissolve. Trevor growing in alertness realizes the conversation occurred in mind speech
with the construct auto-closing an abridgement. Rifling his coat pockets, he probes under a hidden coat flap, withdrawing a leather tobacco pouch with rice papers; briskly rolling several cigarettes while observing The Rover continue to retreat. The low
echoing gurgle roars upward to full throttle reverse signaling Michelle is aboard.
Lighting a smoke to enjoy several lustful relaxing draughts he removes a chrome fob hidden in the tobacco. Unscrewing the lid he doles out one undersized wad of infected gum into his left hand placing it cautiously under his tongue. Closing the lid he
secretes the container back in its tobacco bed and closes the pouch returning it to its concealed flap pocket. The Rover having reached a safe distance trims
its engines to low ebb and initiates a turn.
A hoarse female voice warns across the divide "Ready about and hard to lee." The Rover's two hundred foot waterline shapes a low swell. The momentum of the turn adds to the forward pitch. The pistons in the power plant scream as the flight of evacuation disks rise from the water. Michelle trips the running lights and closes them.
Trevor withdraws the revolver from his belt solemnly placing it under his chin,
snapping the trigger six times in swift succession. Satisfied he points the weapon at the sea and fires all six shots into the water. He reloads and replaces it in the
holster. Nudging the viral plug under his tongue forward he bites down hard on the poisoned chunk. Stepping to the open mid deck between the two hatches
The All raises his arms over his head and growls a morbid, gravelly, sepulchral
curse at the multitude fleeing their own burning house as a fair warning designation properly communicated. Touching the two masts he arms the self-destruct sequence to
obliterate any salvageable traces.
Turning two circles to the left before stopping and turning one circle to the
right, the clock is validated enabling the destruction of The Empress. Sitting back at the tiller he indulges in the peppermint flavor courteously added to the diabolical
little package. Protocol satisfied he lights another cigarette and gives Michelle’s song a second and third listen. The rumbling vibrations begin reaching the longboat. The Rover is venting momentum announcing the closing arrival of the blue flash
trumpeting the small hordes exit to Oceania. The sky ignites into subtle bridges of indigo sapphire turquoise and cobalt spanning the distant horizons. The Owl is fairly defeated.
The All is resolute. With a loud declarative whistle The Skytrax is summoned.
The aft central walkway becomes visible two inky inches below the water, parallel to the starboard rail of
The Empress. The Pilots precision is commendable. He could force the issue but steps off the longboat onto the gangway and starts walking the six hundred feet
to the small conning tower.
Mr. Eight opens the conning tower hatch and climbs out onto the observation platforms multi-environment hull. Trevor senses confusion when pointing his finger and wagging it downward.
An old fashioned antique klaxon horn commences its comical soundings to announce the imminent self-destruct sequence of the lightmach sets dedicated to
The Empress’s continuity and travels. The Pilot scoots halfway back down the ladder before
stopping, his left hand on the handrail his right hand rises reluctantly slapping his forehead with a ludicrous exaggerated thwack. Stifling a giggle he
climbs back up mounting the small deck with a priceless smile.
“Hey sailor boy, who taught you that crazy walking on water shtick.”
“The same deranged pirate who gave his best buddy the parrot a sex change operation so he could accuse it of being a Pollyanna.” The Navigator winked and crouched down securely as the boy dove back into the open hatch headfirst; surging upward he
is sprinting towards The Core.
A room of rainbows formed above The Empress its copious bridges touching the three hundred and sixty degrees of visible horizon. Woeful lamentations and sonnets of timeless sorrow exited the floating prison. Vapors rising upward began absorbing the
incalculable horrors imagined inside its cabin and bulwarks. Infested sheets of
billowing detestation reeking with the malignant decaying odors of innumerable species of conscious life tortured tormented and driven to extinction slowly swirled upward
drawn into the black monument hidden in the center of the collapsing vortex. The Empress glowed with bloody maroon lines filled with tiny golden orbs playing funeral fugues and fantasias. Falling into the sea they rose up again as six columns of the eternal light surrounding the floating spectral throne of
judgement rendered against the escaping prisoner. Colorful life drained from the broken
unplayable chords composing the barren husk of the longboat pulled upward. The whitening light produced the compression ratios that retracted the bridges from
the horizon. A solid thirty-six foot sphere of diamond lattice began
its inward pull. Mr. Eight had closed the hatch long ago. Trevor is standing patiently with a wet handkerchief over his nose while applying a set of soft pliable plugs into each ear canal.
The everlasting computation continued reducing processed presence backwards into randomized essence that dropped forlorn desiccated droplets and slugs of primal awareness into a sea of inanimate lifelessness. The All protected his eyes behind ornate
thick goggles and called out three modified commands, “Lento-Liberamente-Lentando.”
The unseen 2085 replied in confirmation “Slowly-Freely-Gradually slowing and softening.”
Trevor opened his hand allowing the small gem to fall into his palm. Bending, he scooped up the forty-four inch wooden longboat model selected as the prototype for an Exterminus Virus for the capture and imprisonment of The Owl and her followers in
the nebulous region of Oceania.

[continued in next message]

--- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05
* Origin: www.darkrealms.ca (1:229/2)