Mountains of ciphers, seas of codes, numbers voids, figures logging a cacophony of correlated vectors, punctuated parameters, fractured functions, infinite roots, galactic logarithmics, quantum wavelengths, Newtonian abstalts, relations, ratios, angles, degrees, progressions, tabulations, ultra wave visualizations, hand drawn charts, graphs, diagrams, satellite generated coordinates, fudged maps, secret dimensions, finite parallaxes, ohms, links, ergs, sines and dynes..... pi, pi, pi, the ACC's cosmic yawn.
The Eonian hum of terraflops, hexagonal xenophobia, xenophilia unleashed, paroxysms, infinities of bytes tickling superconductors warming to the caresses of naked, histrionic, entropic histories, the victors' spins, the encapsulated prophets' versions, the leveling of time, the energy of a single black hole factored infinitely in the single wink of a mind's eye, and oh, the pain of a fall, a collapse so deep that distills all reality in a thimble's sip, oh the coursing of ergs and ohms, the utter delight of momentumless potential, the kineticly imagined potential of a trillion nuclear explosions in that same thimble.....the ACC's spasmic circuit writhing.
What are a trillion, trillion images a microsecond to a blind, mindless bundle of circuits, or that minus the music of the spheres, the din of the clashing of millions of armies, a baby's first cry, the wails of an entire planet at the moment of a cosmic collision, the quiet of an abandoned wasted surface, the irony of the potency of carbon life in a waterless universe?
Here on Styxus II, somewhere deep beneath a dull, encrusted skin, somewhere near that once burnished surface, somewhere in the cargo hold, even in the command module overtaken by the quantum rush of electronic particulates, in the nervous system, there beats a complex chaos in the most balanced of late 3rd millennial techno-madness. the bestiality of driven siliconate shutters haltingly in complete reaction to the uncontrollable surges. There is so little friction that the superconducting memory bursts, the programatic progressions go unsensed by the barely conscious cargo of primates.
Still, by the beat of a cosmic pendulum, the spasmatic dump surges on, reverberating like the birth and deaths of universes in a frictionless void imbued with quantum memories for friction, for the notion of time when there appears to be nothing but timelessness. The ACC, child of planet earth, dreamed of bent black robed men and women toiling in the wet rice fields, the fields dry as frozen carbon dioxide, mud forming whirling prints chemically engraved by the great flash of dark, unseeable lights while porous hills sprung like immense insect domes of parallel civilizations, swarming hive-like across light-year distances like quantum sparks, reappearing, breastfeeding a newborn human child, melting like a plastic doll, the figment of some long lost artist's mind's eye, moving a smoothly as a skater across a magnetic field --“oh weak force” she sings-- it seemed to moan, across the magnetic field, dropping its particle active pile upon the face of an earthlike giant, winged reptile, defecating as it reared and soared, entering like a reverse mammalian birth into a molecularly confused tube, deeper and deeper until disappeared, a speck, a speech giving speck before great intergalactic congresses of phantom robots on giant screens chanting the weak force rhythms that keep them syncopated beyond even the reach of Einstein, in view of one imaginary other, too distant to be possible in light speed, the ACC dreamed, it spread its wings over galaxies, reaching down to grasp a teaming planet, its momentary prey, to play feline like, as it melted like a statue in a mold by the heat of unborn suns, until finally it lay like a burnt heap on the red-glowing ground, almost the color of the Styxian swamp on whose shores it still lay carbon gray, a barnacled sea floor shipwreck, devouring all that grew around it, lusting, engulfing, stripping the tiny red planet bare and sending it plunging into a murky corner of that sky that in that eon would never see the morpheusian comfort of night.