Chapter Twenty-Eight: Prog

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Prog

There is something about prog.

Prog being short for progressive rock, which really means, in some circles, progressive rock music recorded in England in the 1970s.  The progressive aspect was meant to infer that this type of music was a progression, and evolution of rock music, blending rock’s standard blues and R and B basis with jazz, classical, and European folk music.  Though there had been progressive songs throughout the sixties, the first album of prog is widely considered to be King Crimson’s debut record, In the Court of the Crimson King, released in 1969.  Interestingly, the last album of the 70s prog era proper is often considered, ELP’s 1979 album Love Beach.  This is interesting because both albums, albeit by two distinct rock groups, feature the same singer, the delightful Greg Lake, a favorite of Jill’s, and now, of mine, I suppose.

The music takes you back to a simpler time, when the world was less complicated, but at the same time, it brings visions of future times and fantastical realms filled with hope and wonder.  It puts you in a position a lot like that Des Vu thing we discussed earlier.  That point where the nostalgia of the past and the promise of the future meet, sit down and share a bong hit or two over a discussion of their differences, of regrets, and promises that will never be fulfilled, of cherished memories, and dreams that slip ever further from our grasp.

The headlining bands of the 70s English Progressive Rock Era were:  King Crimson, ELP, Yes, Jethro Tull, Genesis, Pink Floyd.  The music almost always features lots of keyboards, predominately mellotron and Moog synthesizer, complex time changes, classical motifs and movements, and fantasy or sci-fi lyrics

.

Of all the epics of prog, no song fits my story more than Epitaph, off Crimson’s debut:

“The wall on which the prophets wrote
Is cracking at the seams
Upon the instruments of death
The sunlight brightly gleams
When every man is torn apart
With nightmares and with dreams
Will no one lay the laurel wreath
When silence drowns the screams

Confusion will be my epitaph

As I crawl a cracked and broken path
If we make it, we can all sit back and laugh
But I fear, tomorrow, I'll be crying
Yes, I fear, tomorrow, I'll be crying
Yes, I fear, tomorrow, I'll be crying

Between the iron gates of fate
The seeds of time were sown
And watered by the deeds of those
Who know and who are known
Knowledge is a deadly friend
If no one sets the rules
The fate of all mankind, I see
Is in the hands of fools” –

Lyrics by Peter Sinfield

Copyright 2020 by Diana Hignutt

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Chekhov's Gun and the Great Attractor

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chekhov’s Gun and the Great Attractor

In the dramatic and literary arts there exists the concept of Chekhov’s Gun.  The heart of this concept is simple:  if you introduce a gun in a story, someone must use it before the end of the story.  This really applies to every character, trope, McGuffin, prop, or idea introduced.

Chekhov’s Gun is mirrored in the real world by the concept of the Great Attractor.  This idea is based on the mysterious quantum phenomena of Strange Attractors, which seem to direct the outcome of quantum events.  The Great Attractor is a sort of universal, teleological entity that pulls the universe towards a certain outcome.  Teleology makes physicists nervous, or course, harboring as it may by connotations, if not implications of intent inherent in creation, i.e. it seems to imply a creator.  Nonetheless, it’s a fun idea.  The concept of something, beyond all our imaginations, pulling history towards some intended outcome.

Viewed in this way, everything we encounter in our lives, is like Chekhov’s Gun, set there by some entity, outside our reality, to steer us towards the future, to us, nebulous, foreboding, hopeful, and unknown, but truly, a narrative necessity driving us along the plot to reach planned outcome at the climax of the story.

This idea terrifies me.

(c) Copyright 2020 by Diana Hignutt

Chapter Twenty-Six: In Retrospect, I Think This Was a Test

Chapter Twenty-Six

In Retrospect, I Think This Was a Test

Aton Mirsk was in his mechanical super suit, beating the fuck out of Platinum Man, while the Prankster and I watched.  Hydraulically enhanced punches connected with deafening thuds against the alien’s face and head.  The Russian was clearly enjoying himself.  The superhero, less so.  Apparently, utilizing some sort of simulated radiation source from the alien’s home planet, Mirsk had found a way around the Tomorrow Man’s famed invulnerability.  I could feel myself wince with every blow.  I had nothing against the boy scout from space, personally, though Mirsk certainly seemed to.

The Prankster leaned over to me, and quietly whispered, “How much do you think that suit cost him?”

I tried to imagine what sort of expression he had under his mask.  It was hard though with that creepy evil, fanged smile face staring at me.  He was one hard to read dude.

Blood was flying everywhere with every blow of the xenophobe’s mechanical punches.

“Like a billion dollars, at least probably,” my mysterious and evil associate continued with an evil murmur.  “Like the R&D money on that synthetic alien radiation just staggers the imagination.”

It was all too surreal to me.  I wanted to vomit.  I was glad no one could see my face behind my mask.

Mirsk was absolutely gleeful, pounding the superhero far beyond submission.  He began laughing like a fucking maniac.

“Die!  Platinum Man, die!” He screamed.  "You should have gone back where you fucking came from when you had the chance."

The Prankster looked over at me.  I didn’t know if he was concerned or delighted.  I just couldn’t read that guy.  Maybe, he was just examining my reaction, to see exactly how far I was willing to go on the tolerance of violence scale so he could use it against me later.  That guy never missed a trick.  So, yeah, I think it was test for me, and a chance for Mirsk to get some vengeance on his alien nemesis.  All of Admiral Nemo's plans achieved multiple objectives.

What happened next came as a surprise to all of us.  It was once of those events that you knew would change you forever.  Nothing would ever be the same again.  You might still drink a cup of coffee and read the paper every morning, but you're not the same guy.  You couldn't possibly be.

(c) Copyright 2020 by Diana Hignutt

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Russian Billionaire's Satellite Network

Chapter Twenty-Five

The Russian Billionaire’s Satellite Network

This article ran in the NY Times:

New York, NY – Russian Billionaire Aton Mirsk announced today that he intends to launch a series of Quantum Satellites to create the first Quantum Information and Communications Network around the planet.  This previously secret plan will commence with the launch of the first ten satellites from Russia next Tuesday.  Two more launches in the following weeks will complete the network.  Mirsk expects the network to be up and running fully by the end of the month.  He claims his new Quantum Network will change everything about the way we live our lives.  Experts have yet to weigh in on these extraordinary claims from the bold entrepreneur.

-Louise Latimer




(c) Copyright 2020 by Diana Hignutt

Chapter Twenty-Four: FTL Assassin

Chapter Twenty-Four

FTL Assassin

I had only had my powers back for about two hours when I decided to dash over to London to grab a pint.  One of my only memories at this point was of a pub in Kensington called the Churchill Arms, which was both a great English pub serving London Pride on tap, and also a world-class Thai restaurant.  Obviously, I didn’t have any pounds on me, but a lifted enough for a few rounds from my fellow patrons.  Only taking from those who could afford to spare a few pounds here or there, of course.  These may seem morally nebulous to you, dear reader, but as I had been a supervillain, accused of all sorts of crimes, it seemed fairly innocuous to me.  Besides, Jill and Jackie’s brand of socialism was starting to rub off on me.

I had just placed my order for my pint of London Pride, when I heard someone behind me say in a thick Cockney accent, “Well, if it isn’t Alex Fucking Donkers.”

I turned around to see a giant of a man standing behind me, bald, brash, and mammoth.  I was clearly surprised that anyone would recognize me, let alone know my name.  One word popped into my head, and I blurted it out:

“Dog Shit!”

That was his name.  I had remembered it somehow.  He seemed happy to see me.

“I haven’t seen you in years, mate.  Quite kind of you to remember your old pal, Dog Shit.”

I didn’t, of course, just his name.  “What are you drinking, Dog Shit?  Can I buy you a pint?” I offered.

“Damn right, you can!”

Then, out of nowhere, I felt a stabbing pain in my shoulder blade, and saw a blur rush by out from behind me and then dart out of the pub.  Dog Shit didn’t see anything, his wide smile turned into a frown, as I collapsed out of the barstool onto the floor with a dagger sticking out of my back.

“Whoa, Fuck!” Dog Shit cried out.

This should not have been possible.  Clearly, I had been attacked by another speedster.  But, no other speedsters where as fast as me, and this person could run so fast that I could scarcely perceive them.

Dog Shit helped me up, and discretely took me to a corner table, pulling the blade from me.

“Cor, mate.  WTF?”

“I don’t know man,” I said.  My super healing quickly repaired the wound.  “But, whoever did it, is faster than me, and no one is faster than me.”

It was a mystery.

(c) Copyright 2020 by Diana Hignutt

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Penumbra

Chapter Twenty-Three

The Penumbra

Pink Floyd’s “Us and Them” was playing on the Pandora app on the TV.  Jill was explaining more of her ideas about the thing she called the Ouroboros Machine:

“You know how a lunar eclipse works, right?  With the Umbra and Penumbra?  Well, it seems to me that if a super-intelligent AI Singleton were to be created, it would, as I have already explained, work to take control of the parameters of reality itself to ensure its survival, and retroactively, its creation.  The way I see it, is that the time of its actual existence would be like the Umbra stage, unmistakable, clear, and obvious.  Whereas, the penumbral stage would be the area where it could have some effect on the world, but much more subtly.  Outside of the umbra and penumbra it would be powerless to effect the changes it needs, but within those areas it could work.”

“Why would it need to ensure its creation, if it has already been created?” I asked.

“Good question, Alex.  Because of competition.”

“I thought you said it was a singleton?”

“Sure, in this universe.  But it must worry about other versions of different super-intelligent AI singletons from parallel universes. When any of them get powerful enough, they will seek to spread across the multiverse, to attain total control, just like our singleton.  From the perspective of our Ouroboros Machine, any competitors that got control of time first, could undo its creation.  So, it seems to me, that potential, rival AI would be its biggest threat.”

So, what would happen in the penumbra phase?”

“Simple, it would use small hacks to push the development of first life, then intelligent life, namely us.  It would push technological development.  Remember it needs to be created.  It will have to ensure it, and that no other singletons are created in this universe.  That’s what it needs us for…to create it…so it can create the universe, so it will come to exist.”

“So, it would need a high level of technological development to be created, but then it would probably try and stop such technological progress once its development is ensured, so another, more advanced singleton isn’t created after.” I suggested, taking a hit off the bong.

“Yeah,” said Jill.  “You got it.  The way to know we’re reaching the umbra is when technology starts going backwards.  Personally, I think we’re deep into the penumbra period.  Shit, I wouldn’t be surprised if all of you superheroes and villains were created to push things along, to move us towards the gaping maw of its existence.  After that, it won’t need us, anymore.  That’s what I worry about.”

As we were soon to find out, she was much closer to the truth than even she suspected.

(c)Copyright 2020, by Diana Hignutt

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Invitation

Chapter Twenty-Two

An Invitation

Jill came home from the auto parts store carrying in the mail.  Dressed in her black uniform clothes and black hoodie, she looked like a Sith lord delivering the mail.

“Okay, that’s weird.  Alex, you got a letter.  Who the hell knows you’re staying here?”

I was surprised, as no one in the world could have possibly known of my whereabouts.  But, as Jill handed me the letter, there was no denying the fact it was addressed to me, Alex Donkers, with the apartment’s address, all spelled out in neat computer-generated characters.

“Huh.”  I said.  “I have no idea who could have sent me this.”

“Well, open it up and find out,” suggested Jackie.

“Yeah, yeah,” agreed Jill.

So, I tore the letter open and read:

“My dear Doctor Velocity,

How do you do?  My name is Admiral Nemo.  You may have heard of me. You may not have.  I do try to keep a low profile.  I would like to meet with you in person, as I have a proposition that could make us both very rich and very powerful.  I shall give you a couple of weeks to think this over and then I will be in touch again.

Sincerely,

Admiral Nemo”

“Wait,” said Jill.  “Didn’t you work with that guy already?  You were both in the Secret Society of Supervillains together?”

“You know I don’t remember, Jill.” I answered.

There was only one way Nemo could have found where I was staying, but I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to figure it out yet.  Time travel makes everything more confusing.

(c) Copyright 2020 by Diana Hignutt

Chapter Twenty-One: Siberian Khatru

Chapter Twenty-One

Siberian Khatru

We were watching a Youtube video of a Yes concert from the Philadelphia Spectrum in 1978.  The band was playing the opening number, Siberian Khatru when Jill said:

“You know seeing the Spectrum just kills me.  It brings so many memories.  My dad taking me to see the Icecapades, the Harlem Globetrotters, or the Ringling Brothers and Barnum Bailey Circus.  Concerts with friends later as a teen and adult.  The Philadelphia Flyers, Sixers, and Soul.  So many memories.  They kill me.  I’m back there, in good times with the people that I love.  Everything is right with the world.  And then they’re gone.  Lost to time.  Never coming back.  It hurts so bad.  Loss.  And then the fucking guilt sneaks in.  What I could have done.  What I should have done.  How I’ve let everybody I’ve ever loved down.”

“You never let me down,” interrupted Jackie.

“Oh really?  Are you living in France in a peaceful trans asylum colony right now?  Or in a shitty, little apartment in goddamn Albany with a fucking supervillain?  No offense, Alex.”

“Sure,” I laughed.

Jill looked at me.  “Sometimes, I’m so envious of you and your memory loss.  I know that’s a terrible thing to say.  I’m sorry.  But, you’re s supervillain.  There has got to be some fucked up shit in your past, man.”

“I thought you liked Yes,” Jackie said quietly and confused.

I was thinking about what Jill had said.  Damn, she was right.  I must have gone through some serious, worldview-breaking stuff, at some point.  Maybe, I couldn’t remember, because, I didn’t want to remember.  Maybe, some stuff is better left forgotten.

“When I see the old Spectrum, like it was back when I was a kid, I get pulled back there, to those times, to those people and places I loved unconditionally, they were everything to me, and I have a taste of that fucking sweetness, that purity, and then it’s fucking gone.  Yanked away.  Memory is just cruel, fucked up, mental time travel.”

Then, you could tell that she remembered her dad’s dementia, and she fell silent, looking distant, a part of her begging for death.  I learned to feel that way too.  Jill was more right than she knew.

(c) Copyright 2020 by Diana Hignutt

Chapter Twenty: The Charity Race

Chapter Twenty

The Charity Race

One of my favorite stories of all time is the charity race between Platinum Man and the Golden Speedster.  I don’t remember who sponsored the damn spectacle, but I remember all the networks covered it, with reporters all along the route.  It was big news a few years ago.  It seemed stupid to me.  Just another publicity stunt by those two attention-craved do-gooders.  But, sure, a bunch of money was raised for several worthy charities.

The question to me, as well as many other people, was simply:  Could Platinum Man even hope to keep up with the Speedster for a second?  I was pretty sure, Will could run infinite circles around that big, alien, doofus in a cape.  No doubt, Will would take his time and make a show of it for the fans, and for the sake of not embarrassing his colleague and friend.  But that wasn’t what bothered me about the whole business.  No, it was how they marketed the race.

“Fastest Man in the World Race”

“Fuck that noise,” I said out loud as I read the words on the tv screen.  And right then, I decided that if they wanted to see who the fastest man in the world really was, I was going to have to participate in that race.  And damn if I didn’t.

The starting line for the race was in Greenwich, England, at the Royal Observatory.  I hid a few hundred feet away in the wooded area next to the main observatory building.  I waited for the gunshot, ran to where my unknowing competitors had just been, paused for a second or two to wave to the cameras and I was off.

As I suspected, Will, in all his golden glory was handicapping himself to give the alien do-gooder half a chance at respectability.  I had no such compunctions.  I blitzed by them both, turned around while running backwards and addressed them:

“Gentlemen, good day to you both.  Looks like we got ourselves a nice day for a race.  Oh, look, the checkpoint in Boston is just up ahead, watch your step, lads.”

Yes, speedsters can easily run fast enough to run over oceans, that's not a problem at all.

I finished the race before Platinum Man could blink.  I guess we know who the Fastest Man in the World really is.  They had a race to settle the matter.  I won.  Damn, it was some fine TV for a few weeks after that.   The coverage of the shocked and confused faces of both the hero competitors was priceless.  Slow Chumps.

Copyright 2020 by Diana Hignutt