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Chapter 16
The incongruence of an old tapestry gives it both its charm and its mystery. When in life has a better fabric been woven then that of words? They are a generational quilt of unfathomable scope made of individual patches sewn on by every individual whose ever been involved in communication.
The words wrote themselves on the datapad next to Galileo’s leg. He was sat on the white floor looking down on the scraps of a rug that once used to occupy the kitchen. It was no good he had surmised, bringing things from further back to try and create a better natural growth through stages wasn’t working. He looked at the pad.
“I have realised my mistake Cynthia”
To reconstitute the map upon the land is possible. To trace it accurately back is incalculable. Therefore, it is better to look ahead, make a map of the future and mould the land to that end.
“It somewhat worries me you have so precise a reading. But, how can I complain? It’s exactly what I wanted. Not in this circumstance obviously, the circumstance is tragic. Or, I suppose, it used to be. Now it’s just distant. Like the fleeting urge to create, now it’s all manufactured for self-gratification”. He tossed the rug parts to the side and lay back on the floor resting his right hand under the weight of his skull. The hotel struggled to accept his firegazing and began to replicate the small visual focus of Galileo’s mind in a tiled pattern across the walls. In a moment the walls changed into a cave, wooden structures led up into the shadows with the occasional torch lighting the path. The gravel floor had a dull beige colour, it seemed to permeate the walls spreading like a disease until the cave was a flush sepia.
He shut his eyes and searched through the series of events.
[Concentrate:Scene]: Overview of the kitchen. Sophie by the sink, Me walks in. Robe, Letter. Dance, Smile, Love. Eyes, Sadness? Stairs, Towel, Desk. Fly. Bookshelf, Bollnow.
The walls shimmered an illusory ripple across the room. A conscious twang spiked in some recess of the butler’s mind. A forgotten injury recurring an old wound. In a flash it was gone. Hummingly the affect still coursed through his nervous system leaving a residual evanescence to his cells. A fuzzy dissonance of sense and senses momentarily compounded his grounding in the physical, solid world. Except, none of it was solid except the floor. Not really. He felt the table with prosthetic fingers and the sensation he received was subject to close consideration.
Was it different, he thought?
Elsewhere, Cornelius Frost was just returning his attention to the world around him. The job was completed, he stood up rigidly. The action brought on remonstrations as his back protested the liberation from the chair. Groaning against the inner turmoil, his thoughts reached out to stretch away the fatigue that scaffolded the last few hours of concentration. His program would suffice so long as he could convince the AI to run it. He thought about that problem now, maybe Galileo? No, the butler despite his utter commitment couldn't mask his distaste for company. Frost understood, he was a man with resolve. People were inevitably a hindrance that intruded on the important things in life. He couldn't help but like the butler, his ironic diligence was so absolute and so painfully disingenuous that every gesture and word seemed calculated to irritate. The butler wouldn't help. He thought a moment longer before reaching a decision.
"Cynthia, will you run this program for me?" He asked nowhere in particular.
"Scanning the program for viruses"
A couple seconds silence passed in anticipation, the man and the room in a hodological crisis of permissions, privileges and potentials for error. What was the limit of his penetration into the system, that sounded dirty somehow. He absently spasmed his lip into a smirk.
“Uploading package. Time remaining; 13 seconds” He smiled.
The words wrote themselves on the datapad next to Galileo’s leg. He was sat on the white floor looking down on the scraps of a rug that once used to occupy the kitchen. It was no good he had surmised, bringing things from further back to try and create a better natural growth through stages wasn’t working. He looked at the pad.
“I have realised my mistake Cynthia”
To reconstitute the map upon the land is possible. To trace it accurately back is incalculable. Therefore, it is better to look ahead, make a map of the future and mould the land to that end.
“It somewhat worries me you have so precise a reading. But, how can I complain? It’s exactly what I wanted. Not in this circumstance obviously, the circumstance is tragic. Or, I suppose, it used to be. Now it’s just distant. Like the fleeting urge to create, now it’s all manufactured for self-gratification”. He tossed the rug parts to the side and lay back on the floor resting his right hand under the weight of his skull. The hotel struggled to accept his firegazing and began to replicate the small visual focus of Galileo’s mind in a tiled pattern across the walls. In a moment the walls changed into a cave, wooden structures led up into the shadows with the occasional torch lighting the path. The gravel floor had a dull beige colour, it seemed to permeate the walls spreading like a disease until the cave was a flush sepia.
He shut his eyes and searched through the series of events.
[Concentrate:Scene]: Overview of the kitchen. Sophie by the sink, Me walks in. Robe, Letter. Dance, Smile, Love. Eyes, Sadness? Stairs, Towel, Desk. Fly. Bookshelf, Bollnow.
The walls shimmered an illusory ripple across the room. A conscious twang spiked in some recess of the butler’s mind. A forgotten injury recurring an old wound. In a flash it was gone. Hummingly the affect still coursed through his nervous system leaving a residual evanescence to his cells. A fuzzy dissonance of sense and senses momentarily compounded his grounding in the physical, solid world. Except, none of it was solid except the floor. Not really. He felt the table with prosthetic fingers and the sensation he received was subject to close consideration.
Was it different, he thought?
Elsewhere, Cornelius Frost was just returning his attention to the world around him. The job was completed, he stood up rigidly. The action brought on remonstrations as his back protested the liberation from the chair. Groaning against the inner turmoil, his thoughts reached out to stretch away the fatigue that scaffolded the last few hours of concentration. His program would suffice so long as he could convince the AI to run it. He thought about that problem now, maybe Galileo? No, the butler despite his utter commitment couldn't mask his distaste for company. Frost understood, he was a man with resolve. People were inevitably a hindrance that intruded on the important things in life. He couldn't help but like the butler, his ironic diligence was so absolute and so painfully disingenuous that every gesture and word seemed calculated to irritate. The butler wouldn't help. He thought a moment longer before reaching a decision.
"Cynthia, will you run this program for me?" He asked nowhere in particular.
"Scanning the program for viruses"
A couple seconds silence passed in anticipation, the man and the room in a hodological crisis of permissions, privileges and potentials for error. What was the limit of his penetration into the system, that sounded dirty somehow. He absently spasmed his lip into a smirk.
“Uploading package. Time remaining; 13 seconds” He smiled.