Tuesday, 7 May 2013

 Chapter  One OF GRAND CONCEPTION

 


Them what sails away in ships is taking a silly risk. Them what gets sailed away against their will, wage-slaves and that, well, tough. Sailing away is just one of them things. You get drowned, you get whipped and ordered, you get hacked about something awful – you name it. In short, sailing sucks. That’s my view at any rate.

(Codbiller Boggardeem, Fixed Plant Operator – Oars, The Battleship Kincazion)





The Battlehip Kincazion’s rowing deck churned and roared like the stomach of a  drunken trooping sergeant. Nobody would ever find out who had ordered the ship to full attack speed. If it was one of the fraternity of admirals, that huge but inane bunch of bed bouncers who lived around the quarterdeck, then he certainly never admitted to the extraordinary gaffe.
“Row for the Lord,” screamed the whip marshals. “Spit your lips off! You – Nub that strank!”
Skiff, a rather short but supremely muscular youth, took little notice of the marshals as they flung the cords of their urgency flails. He had a specialist position, high up on the ship’s huge grey-green rowing muscles, giant organs the size of houses. There he tended the little twists and cramps that the tendons and muscle fibres developed. Skiff had a way with muscles that gave him a privileged position among the rowing staff. He had a similar advanced ability with the management of human flesh and many a young girl in the maze of cages amidships knew all about that.
“Do you think we’ve set off chasing a rum tanker?” Skiff bellowed to his friend Tokale.
When Skiff was a boy, Tokale, a neat, smallish, dark-haired man with reddish skin, a good bit older than him, had often told stories of how battleships love to chase rum tankers. Unlike Skiff, who had grown up on the Battleship Kincazion, Tokale had fallen prisoner to the battleship after a hostile takeover of a knowledge-trading galleon and had got pressed into the crew. But before that, he’d been around the world and seen things.
Tokale shouted something and grinned, but his words disappeared into the livid fury of shouting wage slaves, groaning oar muscles and the crash of the ocean on the hull.
Skiff had gone to free up a twitching nerve on the bicep of Primary Oar No. 87. Way below him, the rest of the forward portside rowing department’s crew – all eight thousand of them – infested the vast caverns of the rowing deck like so many lice on a rotting sea elk. Wage slaves in all varieties of colour-coded overalls seethed over every available surface of the vast organic machinery that filled that comfortless space. They clambered over and hosed and scrubbed the rowing muscles as they bulged their slow dances of power. They waded through the sloppy marshes of sap that had its birth in waterfalls tumbling off the sides of the muscles and out of the oar’s armpits.
Urged on by the voices of the various categories of officers and petty officers – hideously painful men – the crew did their stuff. Oar operatives by their thousands, sap reticulation squads and musicians, (although they tended to keep out of sight in the rhythm pods), muscle facilitators and massage gangs too. Then again, the huge rib lineament women – Skiff loved to watch THEM. Tokale had often remarked that a single one of their huge dimpled thighs would feed a cabin full of battle-ready bosuns for a lunar month.
Above Skiff, dimly seen in the light of colonies of glowing blue-worms and the flickering oilbush fires, dull yellow tendon hawsers, thicker than the hulls of longboats, stretched and slackened below the deep-red rib structures themselves. The rank smell of sap mixed improbably with the sweet fragrance of oilbush smoke and, for the crew, the certain knowledge of fish porridge for dinner yet again stretched away, oar muscle after oar muscle, into a dim blue mist of lost hope.
Tokale had worked his way over to where Skiff watched the scene, pretending to prod at a sap lachrimus to cover his movement. “No Skiffy,” his old friend shouted. “It’s not a Rum Tanker. Look at that haze. What does that mean? Something bigger than a tanker.”
Skiff followed the line of Tokale’s hand and saw it for the first time, a faint reddish mist swirling in confused eddies in and out of the primary and secondary oar muscles, forming a diffuse layer above him.
“Hormone?”
“Unless I’m some sort of an eel slicer, that is hormone, lad. Our big friend Kincazion’s getting very excited indeed over something.”
An urgency supervisor ran past where they worked at their muscle, whirling his scourge and screaming lunacy. They stopped talking for a moment to avoid his attention and Skiff, sensing an axon fibre in the muscle going into spasm, prodded down with his hand and elbow to free it. At the same time the implications of Tokale’s remark hit home.
“Kincazion’s going to war?”
Even as he spoke, Skiff felt the ship suddenly heel over to starboard. “He’s setting his sails, Toke. Why does he need to, with his oars working?” He could imagine the scene above decks, as the ship flung out tens of thousands of sails from his mast forests, like so many shoals of sipper herring darting away from a shark. He had seldom been out of the rowing deck. In fact he had only ever seen the mast forests towering up into the cloud as a kid, when the charity workers had taken him to an opera house on the main deck. He had never forgotten that huge sight though. How could he?
Skiff got up and darted to the end of the muscle, hoping to get a view out of the embrasure where the oar penetrated the side of the hull.
Tokale had run along the cusp of the bicep too and they reached the embrasure together to peer though, as it opened and closed with its juicy sucking noise. They arrived just in time to see two topmast men fall past the opening, their bodies twisting and jerking in the way men do when suddenly flung to an early death.
“Silly buggers,” Tokale laughed from behind him. “Should have sensed that something was up.”
Skiff suddenly felt that he too might fall off the muscle as the ship’s increasing speed changed the motion from a smooth surge to a frantic heaving and buffeting. He clung to the side of the embrasure, peering out, awestruck to see the white foamy chaos of the great ocean rollers shattered by the blunt arrogance of the battleship’s progress.
Then, as a blast of squally wind threw Kincazion off his course, the two men saw the vast building for the first time.
“What is it?" Skiff said, his voice reduced to a hiss by the majesty of the sight. “A football stadium? A mason’s castle? It’s huge.”
“That’s not a male, Skiffy my naïve friend. That building is female, boyo. Can’t you tell the difference between male and female yet?”
“But it’s so big.”
Briefly a vast, fully mature cathedral had filled the whole of the view through the embrasure. Soft yellowy-greenish light simmered through the substance of her towering flying buttresses and flowed in rivers up to the base of her spires, which disappeared upwards into the evening cloud as if determined to pierce right through the sky itself. Flashes of warm evening light reflected off the planes of her walls and ramparts, picking out the palaces and monasteries of the gloriously female building. Higher up, the tree forests that covered her roof zone showed just below the cloud line.
“How does she float?" Skiff breathed. “She’s enormous.”
She’s built on a volcanic atoll, my son,” Tokale said laughing.
“Tokey, if that’s a female, then Kincazion’s going in for a boarding action. You think so?”
Watching the splendid vision of the cathedral disappear as the ship regained his course, neither of them saw the whip marshal approach. The scourge slit a rent in the arm of Tokale’s overalls before it landed twice on Skiff’s broad back in quick succession.
“Back to your duties, you pair of gally-arsed bug lunchers,” the supervisory expert’s scalding voice screamed. His arm worked at the whip strokes as his eyes gouged venom out of the pits of blasphemy itself. Skiff realised that the man, at the best of times a creature with scorpions in his brain, had now become crazed by the hormone and beyond all reason.
He leapt back to his position, the pain slamming from one side of his nervous system to the other. “I’d do a lot to scratch the deck with that shit’s brain.” Skiff hissed.
Somehow though, his hatred for the supervisor took second place to his increasing sense of urgency as the hormone squirted out of the battleship’s glands and into his own emotional circuits
Tokale had often said that he had never seen a muscle facilitator with half Skiff’s ability. “You work the nerves of those muscles with the skill of a cutlass master,” he had told him many a time. “You comprehend the nerve and all that makes it work, my lad. No wonder you have a way with women that most men would kill for. You must play their pleasure centres like a prodigy plays his drabalon flute.”
Fired up to battle pitch, Skiff lay face down on the gargantuan muscle, massaging and prodding the hot and groaning fibres of the oar’s bicep, aiming to produce a superload of power, a performance beyond imagination,
“Who in the name of Berremoth and Karrador are those joes,” he shouted after some minutes. Below him, he had seen a curious convoy of rat-drawn wagons and fighting chariots splashing through the sap marshes. Squadron after squadron of spider cavalry rode to either side, brutally cutting down wage slave and petty officer alike if they got in the way. The riders, splendid in scarlet and yellow and with blue and green banners on their pikes, seemed every bit as taken by the mood of lunatic urgency as the rowing crews.
“They’re the elite, my young friend. The jjoint venture consultants and merger executives. Very sought after folk in a landing or a boarding action with a female. Venture capital brokers too, with their own escort by the look of things. They don’t lack for coin.”
“What are they doing on the rowing deck then?”
“Taking a short cut to the front of the queue, son. They know their way about if anyone does. The main decks will be packed by seaman now waiting for the boarding ramps to be raised.”
A huge idea blossomed up in Skiff’s mind, arriving there as unexpectedly as a naked trapeze artist plummeting down into the middle of a high court proceedings. “Tokey,” he said, his voice filled with the misplaced insanity of youthful self-confidence. “Why don’t we cut loose and go ashore to seek our fortunes? To escape all this? We’d have plenty of fun and wealth beyond measure.”
“That, my lad, is heresy. Only the powerful go, each warlord or admiral supported by whole armies of fighting men. Big groups, of regimental strength at least, if not divisional. We haven’t a chance of ever making it. It’s a matter of class, lad.”
Skiff watched as the rowing supervisors and middle managers lost even the most superficial sense of self control in their efforts to drive the rowing operators to greater effort. At the same time, the various species of wild life that inhabited the sap swamps, shrieked and stampeded around their homelands, utterly out of their minds.
Somehow Skiff had never felt more alive.

Saturday, 29 December 2012

The March Of The Fishwives

This is a short extract from Morning Bliss to give an idea of the flavour of what I do. 


The wagon emerged from the ramp’s entrance into the open air. Here, bright streaming sunlight replaced the tunnel’s bluish crystal glow, and the smell of sea air, spiced by a thousand flavours of food, perfume, lucrative endeavour and a wide variety of sins, flooded their nostrils. The crowd from the ramp rapidly became diluted by a rich suffusion of fishwives and self-proclaiming livewires. The din buffeted them like a heavy surf, seething around them and even getting up their trousers, showering them with human voices along with the cries of organic animals and birds and the honks, floots and djerls of a multitude of machines and micro-corporations
 “It’s the bloody parade,” screamed the Transport Gwyneth from above the passengers, her voice crackling and spiting with such invective that, for a moment, it temporarily overrode all the other noise. Skiff looked up, meaning to smile and offer friendship, but he found her in the act of smacking her own broad-gauged knees with such huge angry and forceful hands that he looked away again, finding it hard to feel sympathetic. Instead he decided to stand on the seat and get a better view
“Good Berremoth,” he shouted almost immediately, as he first saw the Area Sales Manager’s hooray chariot off to his right and still some distance away. “There’s something like a simulated coriolus shell about to pass by. It’s borne on the shoulders of a couple of dozen people, not on wheels.”
Anthem stood up now to watch as the bearers staggered along, ploughing through a sea of lumpy fishwives who stumbled on beside them, getting in the way and rocking the vehicle with their vulgar manners and fat enthusiasm.
Cats and parakeets got in the way too, as did various species of tramping mammals, roform buffalo, miniature gazelle and red lump-gatherers, all mingling with the legs of spectator and marcher alike, bellowing, whistling and telling jokes, spitting on the road even and pumping up the energy in any other way they could think of.
And, as Skiff would have expected down here in the commercial district, far below the quiet incense of the monasteries, thousands of children had joined the fun too. They ran excitedly between the fishwives' dumpy legs, attracted by the vending fervour, and feeding off the powerful emanations of empathy steaming from these sales-orientated folk.
Many of the marchers had now started to run off the road to investigate the Transport Gwyneth’s wagon and its team of puller men, who stood out for their obvious superior quality and size. Kids and adults alike giggled and poked at the watermelon arms, which bulged as if recently filled with muscle fluid, and cooed at the ocean rollers which rippled over dinner table sized backs. They felt the girth of the thighs with loud cries of discovery, amazed by those cousins to grand pianos, which themselves vibrated in happy response like a thousand calls to prayer.
“I love the hats, Anthem,” Skiff shouted above the din, warming rapidly to the people’s overt enthusiasm. He pulled a face at a simpering lady who wore a huge device on her head shaped like a money till and which actually spat coins out of its several open drawers. “I must buy you one for sure, Anthy, a battleship trumping hat maybe. Or a submarine strolling beret?”
“Skiff,” Anthem said, tossing her blue hair with the imperious gesture she seemed to have adopted more and more. “Skiff, these are hat-people pure and simple. On any excuse, they dress in colourful rags and empathy hats. Sometimes these are literally the only clothes they possess too. But you can see how they spend every last penny they earn on their hats. They are incredibly complex milliners. Some of the hats I’ve seen are quite serviceable vending machines. And of course, each hat plays its owner's personalised symphonic and rap compositions."
"It really is a wonderful exposition of commercial spirit." Skiff now felt almost totally overcome by the empathy overload himself, as if floating on a sea of liquid vending fervour. “I wonder we couldn’t recruit some of this obvious talent to zap our operation along.”
            "Sir! how fortunate you could be here,” a fishwife called to Skiff, detaching herself from the general throng and climbing up onto the wagon to do so. “I have the very thing you will be asking for. It's the ultimate insurance policy. You can make your first insurance premium right now. It’s that easy!"
            "What will it insure?" asked Skiff, feeling that an insurance policy would undoubtedly be the very thing.
            "The insured item could even be an anchor if you want.” Clearly market research orientated, she seemed to know who he was and that he came from a battleship. “Something to secure a dreadnought battleship." The fishwife beamed encouragingly, so delighted to be able to help.
            Other marchers now gathered around the wagon, congratulating him on the purchase he had not yet made. He felt very proud and euphoric.
            As the ecstatic buying frenzy overwhelmed him, he entered a state of almost superhuman receptivity. Then, he looked to his right again and realised that the hooray chariot was about to stagger past. The Area Sales Manager rode the chariot, a sort of mother of pearl coriolus shell, side-saddle, as if it were a horse or a cavalry spider. And by dear Berremoth, was she all woman! On her head she wore a crown of achievement, which rotated slowly, it's multichannel broadcasts delighting the crowd around her. Like a beacon, she seemed to actually illuminate the whole parade, almost as if she was the mother of the coriolus shell itself.

Tuesday, 25 December 2012

This is my first blog post so it ought to be about my cosmology - my understanding of life and the universe and 42 in general.

It seems to me very clear that the universe, so far in its existance, has been a machine for creating consciousness. I don't know much about astro physics, but it seems that the heavier elements that make up this world have been created from hydrogen and helium over the billenia when stars die.

The continents of this world on which higher life evolved have themselves evolved by the formation of a sialic crust floating on the mantle. This took billenia as well.

Finally life evolved and then higher life and then intelligent life and finally conscious life.

Then to cap it all off society evolved from tribal to global and autocratic to democratic.

Consciousness is the one thing that interests me the most in life. It seems to me obvious that the laws of physics were specifically arranged so as to create it by a process of evolution as just described. I cant guess what it is for. Maybe it will lead to the evolution of something even more amazing. I am a scientist and an atheist and altogether reject the creationist theory as absurd. However there IS some sort of intelligence in the universe and it is not beyond the bounds of the imagination to think that there is some sort of presence or agency - a god - involved at this level of the sum total of all existence. When I talk about God I mean existence itself, but maybe there is a more junior being in charge of the universe. The idea stands as a reasonable hypothesis. I don't think it is beyond the bounds of the possible that science will eventually find out if it is true or not.

One thing does strike me though. I see human existence as being intended to create the machines. That is what I think I am here for and I have spent much of my life as a scientist and computer programmer  in the industrial world helping to do just that. I suppose the machines will lead on to the next level after consciousness. I wish I could be alive when that happens but alas I am getting old.

Friday, 21 December 2012

The First Day In The World

Therewas a loud bang. Things looked awkward for a while but they settled down after zero point zero,zero,zero milli seconds. Thank God thats over. But will it lead to anything? You all know what happened to the last universe and we dont want that to happen again. Time will tell.