All the straws you clutched at
Have burst into flames
~ Magazine ‘Burst’ 1978
Have burst into flames
~ Magazine ‘Burst’ 1978
 |
| Cover for Double Star ~ Peter Elson |
Alec deploys the Sporter’s wheels to Locked-down, shifts the controls to Manual; windows to one-way-opaque.
“S’like riding a bike, you never forget.” Peye, sitting behind him, can hear him grinning.
Somewhere in the pit of her stomach a black hole is forming; she can feel it trying to suck her into its time-knot; into the future’s dark foreboding by a hand that grips her at her centre. She realises her jaw has been clenched for a while now and she feels present in the world for the first time since fuck-knows-when.
She tries for the hundredth time to access the feeds down in the Bunker, finding once again that they’re all dead. All traffic is now routed via Michael Caine’s direct interface; face to face with an unhappy machine who has been cut off from its receptors.
‘Address not found’ says the AI, with a resigned sigh composed of white noise. Peye wonders what wonders Michael Caine has seen down there over the years; what acts it couldn’t assimilate into its wetware; what emotions it cannot emulate.
“I’m sorry” she whispers.
“S’like riding a bike, you never forget.” Peye, sitting behind him, can hear him grinning.
Somewhere in the pit of her stomach a black hole is forming; she can feel it trying to suck her into its time-knot; into the future’s dark foreboding by a hand that grips her at her centre. She realises her jaw has been clenched for a while now and she feels present in the world for the first time since fuck-knows-when.
She tries for the hundredth time to access the feeds down in the Bunker, finding once again that they’re all dead. All traffic is now routed via Michael Caine’s direct interface; face to face with an unhappy machine who has been cut off from its receptors.
‘Address not found’ says the AI, with a resigned sigh composed of white noise. Peye wonders what wonders Michael Caine has seen down there over the years; what acts it couldn’t assimilate into its wetware; what emotions it cannot emulate.
“I’m sorry” she whispers.
| Magazine | ||
| Burst | ||
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