The Great Merlino
Prologue
Rule #2 of the Concoction’s Constitution (it’s real name is a five-brane—well, let’s call it five—mathematical formula, but “Concoction” will do here) decreed that there would be at least a multi-millennium between Meetings, multi being understood to be a figure between twenty-five and infinity. But on this occasion all those who mattered had been summoned—ordered even—to attend an Extraordinary General Meeting. The Great Committee had even been on the brink of declaring an emergency, for that’s what it judged this to be.
On the dais, Secretary-General Smith (all SecGens took that name, it was traditional) made a slight bow towards the tall, slim figure standing beside him and with these traditional words signalled to the youngest-ever person to address the assembled multitude that the moment had arrived:
‘Presenter, pray make your case.’
‘Presenter, pray make your case.’
He inclined his head once more, this time outwards to the mass of delegates. Then, flanked by aides and with great deliberation—he was a very old man indeed—made his way back to the the centre of the front row and his magnificent chair. Its intricate carving, jewelled figuring and canopy of gold made it instantly recognisable as a throne, although no member of this audience would have accepted such a description. For them the chair merely symbolised the status of highest official administrative distinction, a position the SecGen had owned for aeons. Democratic distinction, that is; the Concoction had passed through its various bloody despotic phases millions of generations earlier.
It so happened that the young person now standing alone before the gathered multitude was related to the Administrator of one of the biggest organisations in the Concoction—in this company a little nepotism was considered not a bad thing provided the beneficiary justified the favour bestowed. Nevertheless, or maybe because of this, nerves twanged and a light sheen of perspiration shone on the youthful brow.
What an incredible auditorium! Balcony after balcony, the ranks of seats stretched up and away, well beyond the gods and perhaps even to the event horizon. So many Members! And so old! All those long white beards!
It took much self-control to return to business at hand. Yet again the youngest-ever Presenter checked PowerPoint for readiness and for positively the last time squared up (with slightly sweaty hands) the thick pile of A4 sheets on the lectern. There was indeed fear—terror, even—clutching at the teenager who was about to present the ground-breaking initiative that had first flashed into being as a sort of mental Click! (‘but from where?’ I hope you will ask yourself later). It was an original idea, no worries, but the resulting thesis had required some savage editing by the uncle concerned, who to tell the truth was a bit apprehensive about the whole affair. Famous and powerful as he already was, success by a family member in this company would make him an agent of sensational change, a pioneer to be remembered and forever held in the highest regard. And perhaps, just perhaps, even more.
But what if the youngest-ever Presenter failed..?
And here I must call time out to explain what you have just read is make-believe. There was no huge auditorium, no podium, no lectern, no sheets of A4, no Presenter in the sense we understand, and certainly no PowerPoint. What I have done is dumb it down to make it comprehensible. Not because you, dear reader, are stupid—far from it—but because I simply cannot get going without some simplification. So, whatever follows, don’t get sucked in (even at the end) and think this great Meeting ever took place. It’s a literary device; no more, no less.
But why terror? Simply because there was an Address, no worries, and it was to be delivered, by transmission methods that I neither expect nor wish you to know, to the Great Committee of Everywhere—the white beards of my imagination. That’s right, Everywhere. Literally. Something, again, that I hope you will soon find out.
And the term “white beards”? It’s just another in a deep-six security cover. Why? Because the Principle of Computational Equivalence tells us that because systems such as a weather pattern, a world, a galaxy (you got it—even a universe) are as complex as the biochemicals of terrestrial existence, they have just as much right to be classed as “living”. Which no worries makes for some über-weirdos in my imaginary audience. I just ask, as someone else will in the very near future, that you hang on in there.
OK, that’s my disclaimer. Back to the imaginary scene:
The Presenter, who only in an oblique sense had been unfairly chosen from a field of, well, from a near-infinite field of bright young candidates, was about to try to convince the Great Committee that there existed a non-traditional model acceptable to the Rest of Everywhere. That is, acceptable to act as the Great Overseer & Defender—GOD—of a small but quite active universe in a remote part of the Concoction. And persuading these Ancients to take an unprecedented step forward and update or even discard practices that were set in stone, would be no easy task. No easy task at all. But the youngest-ever Presenter had graduated summa cum laude in each of the 15,000 or so separate subjects that comprised formal education in this modern Concoction.
Which is exactly why I am given the chance to persuade this multitude of ancient leaders? Of course it is!
Nervous? Who’s nervous?
These thoughts had to be held close, come what may, for anything but a positive result would not only embarrass the uncle (to say the least—these people executed failures) but would pretty well fix the Presenter, too.
With a final decisive clearing of the throat, the youngest-ever advocate swept a glance out across the waiting host of VIPs, who were not known for their patience, and began:
"Members of the Great Committee, it is with the most sincere appreciation of your willingness to hear me out that I offer this proposal for your consideration. Now… [a mischievous ‘are you sitting comfortably?’ came parenthetically to mind—and remained there, unspoken. The Presenter might be young, but no worries certainly wasn’t suicidal]…I ask that you be indulgent enough of my youth to listen to my plea. It is in the shape of a story. An adventure story and perhaps a love story. And I mean the whole story, including—and, Elders, this is crucial—the Epilogue, which, despite being wrapped up to look like science fiction and apparently addressed to You, is directed at ordinary humans... "
The youngest-ever Presenter winced at the disciplined yet definite millisecond hiss from the audience at this double conceit.
"…I repeat, ordinary humans, not Your Exalted Selves. Because it’s the message contained within the story—and, of course, within the Epilogue—to which I hope you will be gracious enough to give serious consideration. If, following your deliberations you decide the message is the medium, well, so be it.
"Elders, one final thing before I begin. This story is not, repeat not, a figment of my imagination."
Introduction
‘…Damn!’
The duty officer at the Geoscience Australia Earthquake Centre near Parkes, not that far from Orange, another country town in Western New South Wales, was disturbed at her afternoon cuppa by a soft ping from the monitor (they don’t go in for drama at GAEC). She checked Eastern Standard Summer Time read out on the laboratory’s atomic clock—1001121555: five minutes to four on the afternoon of 12 January, 2010. A bit irked at this interruption to her break she walked across the laboratory to check the analogue seismograph.
Probably another false alarm…Hello, though, what’s this? Something nearby?
Minuscule perhaps, but every movement of Earth’s underlying strata, however tiny, is considered by the Centre in the scientists’ own shorthand as “someone trying to tell us something”. But when she saw the source of the mini-tremor the Duty Officer scratched her head. Infinitesimal, yes, but—Mt Canobolas? It was a matter of seconds for her to retrieve local records from the GAEC database.
Never ever had any activity from that area. Just who was trying to say what?
The scientist, who was experienced, tapped her chin in consideration then shrugged. Whatever had just been recorded could not be from her neighbouring mountain; more probably an aberration in the Centre’s computer’s earth movement sensors. But, although these false alarms were not unusual, seismologists, accustomed to dealing with time spans of millions of years, ignore nothing. As a matter of course she would check SeismoNet for any report from adjacent regions then write up this episode in the log.
In a minute, though, after I’ve had my bikkies.
The Duty Officer turned back towards her easy chair and the cup of tea that was rapidly cooling in the Centre’s excellent air conditioning. As she walked away the pen on the seismograph gave another twitch. This time, though, there was no warning sound.
It was as if something, some kind of Force, had intervened to still the earthquake alarm.
to be continued...
