The Tower:
Danger, crisis,
sudden change,
destruction,
higher learning,
and liberation
Chapter Seventeen
Forget Hearsay
While Antiope slumbered, Jim persisted in his appraisal of terrestrial matters.
The entity, designated Idiot, encountered considerable difficulty with the deluge of incoming information, voicing objections that much of it was vague, illogical, contradictory, and often preposterous. Jim countered by commanding it to categorize such content under a singular label – "Hearsay" – and to deploy novel analytical algorithms meticulously crafted to discern kernels of truth from layers of embellishment, prejudice, and manipulation.
Idiot initiated its core oversight protocols, vigilantly observing Earth's simultaneous communication streams and meticulously sifting assertions into sophisticated probabilistic frameworks. Its data storage capabilities were boundless. Drawing solely from recorded impressions, it could conjure vivid sensory experiences – motion, sound, tactility – entire fabricated worlds meticulously reassembled from prior imprints. These same remarkable aptitudes facilitated simulations of extraordinary accuracy.
Frequently, Jim and Idiot engaged in simulated rehearsals of potential future scenarios within these virtual realms. Though devoid of physical suffering, the repercussions of their actions remained acutely tangible. Jim meticulously studied the formidable forces he anticipated confronting.
He then commanded Idiot to enter an intensified data-gathering mode, continuously absorbing information until the moment of their departure. As Jim attended to his other duties, Idiot relentlessly processed. One analytical conduit delved into the annals of history, while another remained laser-focused on the unfolding present.
The Box, a monstrous heart of arcane power, pulsed with a stolen vitality, its recharge rate a symphony of humming circuits that resonated deep within the core. Beside it, Idiot, a digital phantom woven from pure intellect, writhed in its own electronic agony, a meticulous, suffocating analysis of every glint of light, every celestial speck in the vast, indifferent cosmos. Earth's satellites, like fragile glass marbles, danced within its gaze, their silent trajectories dissected with chilling precision. NORAD, a titan of vigilance, bled patience, an impotent guardian forced to suffer this violation of their hallowed "air" space. They could unleash no fury, forge no defense, their hands shackled by the enigmatic decree of General Armstrong, a voice like grinding stone that ordered them all to "keep it quiet." A gnawing disquiet, a phantom chill, clung to their every breath.
Jim's gaze, sharp as a honed blade, sliced through Genie's system. He snagged fragments of raw data, whispers of events that sparked with a dark, magnetic allure, each one a piece of a puzzle he would be forced to assemble upon his return. His mind, a tempestuous sea, churned with the phantom echo of his sister's challenge. She, a serpent of exquisite manipulation, had ensnared him, tricked him into a salvation he hadn't sought, into saving a world he felt no kinship with. He saw her again, the architect of his destiny, the one who reveled in his failures, her laughter a cruel, tinkling bell in the chambers of his memory. He, the pawn, eternally her plaything. The weight of eons pressed down, but time, that malleable river, flowed at his command. She intended to plunge him into another impossible chasm, to watch him flail, to mock his inevitable fall, just as she always had. For she was born to rule, a queen forged in ambition, while he was merely an instrument, destined to dance in her shadow. But Jim, a titan forged in defiance, would not yield. The siren song of surrender would find no purchase. He would confront this inferno, armed with a style so utterly unique, so breathtakingly audacious, it would leave his sister reeling, gasping in bewildered awe. This was the certainty that burned within him, a flame even she could not extinguish. It mattered not, for Qblh, a vessel of destiny, was bound to play his part, to be a silent witness to the unceasing, breathtaking marvels of Creation.
Whether this cosmic ballet was orchestrated by fate or spun from the threads of sheer chance, Jim could not decipher. Antiope, a fierce, unyielding star, would remain tethered to his side, a beacon against the encroaching darkness. His love for her was a deep, unfailing current, a fervent prayer for a life bathed in every conceivable joy, a life he would carve from the very fabric of existence for her. She was a creature of fierce independence, a wild orchid blooming in the concrete jungle, and Jim harbored no desire to cage her spirit, to clip the wings of her soaring ambition. Antiope’s initial resistance, a sharp intake of breath, was palpable at the notion of relinquishing her empire, a glittering galaxy of wealth. But then, the chilling truth dawned, the stark reality that all this accumulated fortune, everything that lay beyond the grasping fingers of Earth’s insatiable tax, technically belonged to Isis. The cold, unyielding logic of it settled like frost on her soul. Qblh’s very existence, his vast dominion of wealth, was intrinsically tied to Isis, for he was her emissary, her chosen vessel, a truth she had proclaimed with unforgiving clarity. Antiope’s voice, laced with a bewildered frustration, questioned the genesis of the gold. How could Isis claim ownership of something Qblh himself had conjured? Qblh, his voice low and resonant, confessed to Antiope a solemn vow made to Isis: the Box's secrets, its world-altering technology, would remain a forbidden fruit for Earth, a treasure entrusted to Isis alone. It was with this sacred understanding that he had been charged with his monumental mission. The gold, born of the Genie’s volatile embrace, was claimed by Isis as her rightful inheritance, for the very technology that birthed it pulsed with her ultimate dominion. Isis, the lawgiver, the ultimate authority. Both Antiope and Qblh understood this fundamental, inescapable truth. As Jim’s voice, a low rumble of cosmic resignation, emphasized, "What difference does it make? If she thinks its hers, she'll take it anyway." The universe itself seemed to hold its breath.
Isis's iron fist, a chilling legend whispered on the wind, had always clenched the very pulse of her dominion – the ruthless orchestration of wealth. This wasn't mere governance; it was the primal, brutal lever of population control. Now, the behemoth that was Antiope Industries was growing monstrous, its shadow lengthening, destined to ignite the inferno of future media scrutiny. Qblh, a being adrift in a sea of existential dread, was tethered to his purpose here, his mind a barren wasteland devoid of answers. Time, his only currency, was slipping through his desperate grasp. He *needed* it. He *had* to have it. The very fabric of tomorrow would remain frozen, a breathless tableau, until his return from the void.
“Any parting words, Idiot?” .
“The unvarnished truth of Earth’s genesis, Jim, ies only with the Architect Himself.”
“Meaning, I must confront His gaze once more as we plunge into the abyss of yesterday?” Jim’s tone was a coiled viper, laced with both dread and a dangerous anticipation.
“You, Jim,” the Idiot’s voice dripped with a chilling pragmatism, “are blessed with a fate few could even dream of – to shatter the very barrier of time.”
“It appears I am to be shown something… more. You, Idiot, are being granted but a single target, a solitary thread in the tapestry of ages.”
“Indeed, Jim. This lone aperture into the past, this sliver of existence we can breach, hovers around 1650 BC, give or take a decade. Earth’s archaic reckoning dances with a dizzying imprecision. But we can harness the cataclysmic energy surges of Santorini, a celestial tremor waiting to be exploited.”
“And that, we can do by leveraging the very currents we’ve already charted, yes?”
“Precisely. Yet, a disturbing confluence of other temporal streams, raw and untamed, converges alarmingly close to Earth’s gravitational heart around that epoch. The very weave of space-time grows disturbingly thin there, riddled with nascent tears, perhaps even nascent portals. It seems we are compelled to materialize in that era, for any descent further into the past has been slammed shut.”
“So, we are being *summoned*, wouldn’t you say, Idiot? Drawn in by some unseen hand?” Jim’s laughter was a harsh bark, devoid of mirth.
“Or perhaps,” the Idiot’s voice, a low hum, sent a prickle of unease down Jim’s spine, “something is merely baiting you, Jim.”
“And within these nascent temporal pockets, we can secure both Antiope and Helen? A sanctuary where Isis’s wrath cannot reach us?”
“The pathway will be sealed, phase-locked. You may traverse it again, Jim, but the echoes of your past experiences will demand a repeated reckoning.”
“My past selves… they must coexist? An unbearable weight, perhaps, for them. I can bear the torment, but I doubt the women can endure such a cyclical ordeal more than once.”
“You speak truth, Jim. Once I return them to the present, I cannot subject them to that raw past again.”
“Are there no other… constraints? No other dire warnings?”
“An ocean, Jim. An ocean of them. But at this juncture, defining them is akin to grasping smoke. The information remains… insufficient.”
“I have a visceral sense, a gut certainty, of where Antiope must be placed. But Helen?” Jim’s voice softened, a flicker of concern in its timbre.
“Helen requires… a baptism by fire, Jim. A pre-flight indoctrination. I surmise that is the purpose of this other appointment you have with her, prior to our departure.”
“Indeed. That, Idiot, is one of the paramount reasons.”
A primal resolve clawed at his gut; sleep was a distant, mocking luxury. Tonight, the asphalt would be his confessional, a relentless ribbon unwinding beneath the ceaseless thrum of the engine as he wrestled with the precipice of his future. The garage door groaned open, exhaling stale oil and metal, and he plunged into the skeletal embrace of the city skyline. "Idiot," the name tasted like ash on his tongue, a bitter moniker for the unseen hand guiding their desperate flight, the one who would bark the commands, the shift in their precarious trajectory.
Jim’s world fractured, bleeding into a shimmering, alien interface that bloomed across the van’s grimy windshield. Jim, the unseen navigator, the ghost in the machine, projected data, a tapestry of vital whispers into the darkness. Dawn bled grey and sickly across the eastern horizon at four bells, a few defiant embers of life still flickered in the city’s dying heart, but mostly, the streets lay a barren, hollowed-out husk. Here, poverty wasn't a condition; it was the festering wound of the infrastructure itself, a disease that the city actively cultivated, herding its broken souls into gnawing ghettos, then sealing the exits. The privileged, sleek and unburdened, would gleefully carve their escape routes, leaving behind neighborhoods gutted, hollowed out by the gnawing hunger of the unemployed and the wailing void of fatherless children. The city’s wretched, the forgotten and the discarded, were met with a chilling contempt by their betters. They pleaded for a sliver of fairness, a crumb of dignity, but their cries were swallowed by a pervasive, soul-crushing disdain. America’s economic engine, a grotesque, tumorous beast, sputtered and choked on its own poisoned bile, lurching onward with a terrifying, oblivious swagger, convinced of its own invincibility. Self-serving titans of industry, their bellies distended with greed, gorged themselves on the sinew and marrow of the exploited masses. Power flowed not to the many, but to the select few, a brutal, unvarnished truth that was, in its own twisted way, the genuine American creed. "Work yourself to the bone, and maybe, just maybe, you'll claw your way to the top!" Jim scoffed, the bitter humor a defense against the gnawing despair. Who was he, Jim, the architect of this silent war, to cast judgment? He, who held the keys to the ultimate escape, the most envied of all positions.
Then, the chilling, predatory pulse of blue lights sliced through the gloom, a siren's shriek that snagged at Jim’s very soul. “Idiot, what the hell did you do now?”
Jim’s gaze snapped to the shimmering interface. The squad car’s chatter, a torrent of crackling static and urgent pronouncements, painted a grim picture. The authorities, their minds warped by suspicion, deemed Jim's darkened windows an unforgivable affront. They couldn't pry into the van's secrets from the outside, and that, it seemed, was a capital offense. Before the pulsing menace could even pull alongside, Idiot, with a speed that defied sanity, purged the van’s interior, a ghostly erasure, and then, with a warp of light and shadow, reshaped the windows, rendering them… normal.
The window descended with a whisper, revealing Jim’s unnervingly calm face. "Problem, officer?"
The glass shimmered, reflecting the raw, indifferent night. To the approaching officer, it was just glass.
Bewildered, the officer stammered, his practiced authority fraying at the edges. "I… I noticed you weren't wearing your seatbelt, sir. I'll have to issue a warning. May I see your license?"
A flicker of grudging admiration, sharp and unexpected, bloomed in Jim’s chest. The officer's quick thinking, his desperate attempt to salvage some semblance of order, was almost… touching. Jim smiled, a predatory gleam in his eyes, and the van *vanished*. No, not vanished, but dissolved, a shimmer of impossible light that left the officer and his partner staring at a patch of empty, starlit air. Fines were for the trapped, for those who obeyed the rules of a broken world. And the probing tendrils of local authority? Jim had no appetite for them. The two lawmen, faces ashen, stumbled back, the spectral absence of the van a chilling testament to forces beyond their comprehension. They had seen a ghost, and the only sensible course was to flee, leaving the suffocating darkness to reclaim its solitary reign.
Antiope, jolted from a dreamless slumber by the cacophony, found a dark amusement bloom in her chest. A thrill, sharp and electric, coursed through her. "So, we shall carve out our own domain, a pocket of delicious anarchy," she purred, a wicked glint in her eyes. "Oh, I suspect I shall savor this immensely."
Jim’s smile was a tight wire of anticipation. The van, a phantom birthed from the chaos, shimmered back into existence a few blocks away, a silent sentinel as they observed the panicked scattering of the authorities. Antiope, her gaze drifting towards the distant, glinting promise of her yacht, turned to Jim, her voice a silken command. "To the vessel, Jim. Now."
The pre-dawn air, thick with the scent of ozone and something metallic, hummed as the van rematerialized beside a waiting taxi, mere moments from Dupage Airpo. Through the tinted glass, they saw Helen and John, the latter’s grin a predatory slash in the dim light. He’d intercepted their desperate plea for passage, a hunter delivering his quarry. "Come, my darlings," John beckoned, his voice a low rumble. The van dissolved, a whisper on the wind, and the four were swiftly whisked towards a cavernous hangar. A maw-like door creaked open, revealing a void, an emptiness that swallowed them whole.
"Ladies, blindfolds. The celestial fire is not for mortal eyes," John commanded, his tone resonating with an ancient power. He pressed soft, dark masks into their hands. Jim required no such shroud; his vision was already steeped in the impending, glorious unfolding. As the fabric settled over the women's eyes, the taxi warped, its mundane form melting into the sleek, menacing silhouette of a helicopter. They were cradled within John’s Box, the very heart of his machinations. The hangar door groaned open, and they ascended, a dark bird of prey clawing its way into the bruised sky.
The steel jaws of the hangar slammed shut behind them. The helicopter, a silent predator, settled upon the deck of the Dutchman like a fallen star. The air tasted of salt and impending adventure as they disembarked.
John, with a curt nod, declared his departure. The marine guards, now adrift and disoriented, were ferried back to land, their pockets heavy with coin and their futures uncertain. John and his infernal machine vanished, leaving only the vast expanse of the sea.
Antiope, the tempest of the night already a fading echo, began to prepare breakfast, her voice a joyful cascade of song. Helen, her own senses still reeling, ventured a question. "How did the evening unfold, Antiope?" A slow, enigmatic smile spread across Antiope's lips, a secret held close. Her mind was a humming labyrinth, alight with the promise of what lay ahead, a rapturous anticipation of the Genie's next gambit.
"He requires us," Antiope breathed, her voice imbued with a newfound gravitas, "both of us... for another odyssey." Helen’s smile was a tentative echo.
"Indeed?"
The air hung thick with the scent of roasted meats and unspoken tensions as Jim slumbered, a portrait of oblivious peace. Helen, her gaze sharp and probing, clawed at Antiope for any whisper of what lay ahead. But Antiope, a living embodiment of Qblh’s chilling warnings, remained a fortress, revealing only what Helen already knew. Each evasive answer was a spark, igniting a ravenous hunger for more within Helen’s restless mind. She yearned for an escape, a reprieve from Chicago’s suffocating ennui, its grey monotony a cruel mockery of her soul’s vibrant yearnings. The city grated on her senses, an assault on her refined tastes. Yet, even in this gilded cage, a sliver of knowledge had been wrested free: their destination lay in the sun-drenched cradle of the eastern Mediterranean. A dangerous hope flickered – could Qblh’s enigmatic Genie, a being woven from pure energy, finally wield the power to spirit them away to those azure shores for the remainder of the day?
Indeed, Genie’s power pulsed, a silent hum capable of banishing the Dutchman to the ethereal embrace of the Aegean. The energy expenditure, a mere whisper compared to the cosmic furnaces required for interstellar temporal displacement, was laughably trivial. Antiope, her fingers dancing over the holographic interface, unveiled some of the nascent skills Jim had begun to impart. For the remainder of that morning, a clandestine dance of discovery unfolded as Antiope and Helen wrestled with Genie’s intricate simulator, a digital playground born from a future unimagined. When Jim’s eyelids finally fluttered open, Helen’s resolve was iron-clad: she would demand an afternoon steeped in the profound tranquility of the Mediterranean.
Meanwhile, the reverberations of yesterday's explosive confrontation at Fermilab, a mere blip in the electrifying trajectory of Antiope Industries, were already fading, overshadowed by a chilling tremor. A savage sell-off had begun, a panicked flight by profiteers eager to pocket their gains and leave others to gamble on the promised, and now uncertain, payoff. The momentum was a relentless tide, dragging the company's value below the previous day's opening, a stark testament to fear's insidious grip. Antiope, a silent observer of this financial frenzy, clung to Qblh’s cryptic pronouncements from the night before, a fragile anchor in the tempest. It wasn't her money, after all.
A prickle of unease, a gnawing curiosity, spurred Antiope. Who, or what, was orchestrating this panic? Why this brutal divestment? She turned to Genie, seeking answers, but even the omniscient entity faltered, its attempts to model Earth's bewildering economic labyrinth proving as elusive as a phantom.
"Nothing short of chaos, Antiope," Genie’s synthesized voice echoed, a lament of pure data. "The market recoils from what we propose. A genuine, equitable distribution of wealth would be a death knell to those who hoard it now. They extend smiles while their hearts plot our undoing. It is the sheer, unyielding inertia, Antiope. The masses, a vast sea of inertia, will resist any sudden shift. They cling to the familiar, loath to learn new ways, their comfort a potent shield against progress."
A cold understanding settled over Antiope. "Isis," she breathed, the name a venomous whisper, "they're banking on that, I’ll wager."
The venom of the sell-off festered within Antiope, a corrosive rage that threatened to consume her. Every unit of value stripped from her company was a personal affront, a violation. She commanded Genie, her digital confidante, to dissect the barrage of media drivel, a cacophony of explanations that offered no solace, only further inflamed her fury. The vultures of short selling, circling and tearing at her creation, sent tremors of pure loathing through her.
"Genie," her voice, a low growl, vibrated with suppressed violence, "how do we reclaim what they've stolen? How do we hurl this stock back to where it was yesterday?"
Genie's synthesized voice, usually a placid hum, now held an edge of something colder, more calculating. "Antiope, there are… orchestrations available. To force the price upward, we initiate a symphony of controlled buying. We flood the market with purchased calls, simultaneously selling puts, each transaction a lever amplifying the inevitable surge. Then, with breathtaking speed, we buy the stock itself. Imagine it: a torrent of capital, generated from your gold reserves, cascading into the market. We continue this relentless ascent, layering our option positions, a shield of calls and puts built brick by brick. And for that final, crushing blow, we ignite the after-hours market. By dusk, we will possess a formidable arsenal of options, a testament to our will. When whispers of this masterful maneuver escape, your stock will command not just respect, but fear. The sellers? They will drown in their own greed."
A grim satisfaction flickered in Antiope's eyes, quickly masked by a sharp retort. "That, Genie, is the stench of insider trading. Illegality. Forbidden."
"Allowed or not," Genie’s voice dropped, a conspiratorial whisper that prickled the skin, "the mechanism exists. You sought a way, Antiope. I have shown you the path. Their digital sentinels? I will shatter them. My authority is absolute, should you command it. But heed this, Antiope, for the dawn may render our machinations moot."
Antiope leaned back, the tension coiling in her gut. "Then it matters not. Do we possess the fuel to ignite this inferno?"
"Liquid assets? I can conjure them with a mere thought, Antiope. Your corporation's credit is a titan. Securing the necessary capital will be child's play. And my processing speed? It dwarfs those of lesser intelligences. The timing will be a razor's edge, but my buying plan is a precisely honed instrument, optimized for maximum impact."
"And the current state of our prey?" Antiope demanded, her gaze fixed and piercing.
"It has stabilized," Genie reported, the data flowing like a chillingly calm river. "The volume dwindles, a dying breath."
Antiope’s fingers drummed a rapid, restless rhythm on the polished surface of her desk. The air crackled with her impatience. "Genie, do I hold absolute dominion over your directives for this grand design? Or does the hesitant hand of Jim still hold sway?"
"Jim *alone* can unleash the command."
"Helen, shatter Jim's slumber."
"By what right do you bid me? Rouse him yourself." A tremor of defiance laced Helen's voice, sharp as ice.
"No disrespect meant, Helen. Simply, you *need* this. Today belongs to you, not me. You hold the reins of his supervision. It is your dominion." Antiope's words, measured but carrying an undercurrent of urgency, settled over Helen.
"Very well, Antiope. But this haste... what ignites it?" Helen's brow furrowed, the air around her growing heavy with unspoken questions.
Antiope, her gaze fixed on something unseen, relayed Genie's revelation. The words, a cascade of possibility, ignited a spark in Helen. She turned, a renewed purpose in her stride, towards Jim's quarters. Meanwhile, Antiope’s keen eyes scanned the flickering data streams. The scent of opportunity, or perhaps dread, hung in the air as oil stocks and rival entities clawed their way upward. The gnawing question echoed in Antiope's mind, a phantom of Jim’s whispered caution from the previous night: would he sanction the decree?
The air crackled as Jim uttered the words. The command was unleashed.
Antiope's empire had bled. Genie's venomous counsel, a whisper in the storm, offered a lifeline: buy calls, sell puts, twist the market's very sinews with a deft, legally ambiguous touch. By the day's dying gasp, the chaos subsided, replaced by an almost unnatural calm. Antiope's colossal wealth, once teetering, now surged, a roaring tide of renewed power.
Helen, lost in the echo of Jim's profound revelations, saw not just Troy or the fierce Amazons, but the very tectonic plates of history shifting. Jim's thoughts, she realized, were not about subjugation, but about a higher, almost divine, choreography. The dawn of this new day promised not just profit, but a tapestry of the utterly, breathtakingly new.
