Sākas (1)
The ... original thought recording of the spiked Sapian is the only surviving one of a series of ten that were converted into ‘novel form’ by researchers at the Centre. The 'novels' were intended to analyse the effects of narrative on the Sapian 3.2's sense of itself. The transformation was accomplished using the E.CONART application produced by ADDER Corp, a primitive forerunner of the Grid used by all enclosed today to enact full and complete understanding through the intense and boundless precision of Our Master of None.

This adaption of thought recording is recommended by the Council for those who would undertake the pleasure of implant for the express purpose of fulfilling comprehension of Segment 7A Unit 10110.

The unit, hereby referred to as ‘Peat’, was originally thought and perceived by one of the sixth generation of the entities (Sapian 3.2) in the late burst of year 1494. No records remain of the origin of said entity outside of these fragments of its adapted thoughts and recorded experiences, yet it is clear that the name it understands as having been given is ‘Janis Barans’.

From the thought records we can be certain that Janis lived in the capital city of Letzonia, Teka, named after the river whose flow split the city from the east. Full federalization of Letzonia was achieved thirty-four solar cycles later in 1528, and it now falls within Bar 1011100 of Tribute Code 707.

It is still unknown why Janis was chosen for this research; indeed it is unclear how or why the planet’s governing authorities at the time were able to have access to the ‘thought spike’ (one of the primitive precursors to the now recently perfected Open and Unconditional). The most likely mirrored pathway is that he was targeted by the Commission after a stay in the hospital at Teka. It is also conjectured that the undertaker of the plan is the pathologist who approaches Janis in the hospital canteen early in the thoughts; yet, transparently, this is romance within the boundary 0.7 – 0.75 underscored with Sapian 3.2 naked intent (see alghorithm pathway X2/1c).

Those beings funneled to the study of Ourstory through Direction will be aware that this was a time of no little economic upheaval, being as it was engulfed by the third Echo of Fund activities. These pure and natural reverberations brought about by the Glorious Introduction of 1388 settled the primitive colonialists into entities ready to be subjugated within the flow of tribute at a level adjusted to Article 1694 of the MasterStrict Directive. Ourstory of this time was sealed for direct implants in 1680 and is sacrosanct and implacable in Grid.

Although those within Segment 6 experiencing Peat will find no insight into the natural and pure movements of that time; there is, within the recommended limits, a certain structural tremor in the Sapian’s perceptions of these reverberations through the prism of the transformation of thought into primitive novel form with the nascent ECONART application. ProConfessor Bacon (1752 – excerpt from Implant OE 52):

“We are squeezed into a claustrophobic world of the present, in which the clone is physically exposed to the tides of the Movement, yet unable to articulate them. This is quite natural: he is a primitive being with primitive concerns that chronically cripple route thought. Indeed, for those unfamiliar with this interior thought world of Sapian 3.2, the experience can be tedious and stifling. Witness, the thought after a dialogue at the border of Letzonia and Norland: Clever cunt that Kapsars, though full of shit most of the time. What appears to be a tediously lax formulation clearly shows the tensile power of the primitive ‘ruttentkraut’ still abounding in the genetic material of this version. We shall find it amusing (be it tiresomely affected), yet one must assimilate that this now-thankfully-abandoned spilt the pollutant of sexual symbolism onto the rationality of the Grid, causing a disbalance with the accompanying twin suffering of claustrophobic wandering and targeted aimlessness.”

The interest Peat holds is threefold: firstly as an attachment to Ourstory of the Timespace; secondly, as the sole record of thought of Sapian 3.2; and thirdly, as one of only a few remaining results of the E CONART application to transform thought caught in the spike into narrative form.

Students of Ourstory of this time and space will simply enhance their implacability in sealed comprehension; the thoughts strengthening tensile route thought and furthering flexibility of rational multipliers [see ‘Regulating Flash-points: Patterning Expansion – Crowley, Horus et al.]. For beings, however, chanelled to record Sapian 3.2, this is a trove. This issue of the Sapien, though necessary for the purpose common to the times, is clumsy of thought, irrational, and sexually plagued: a redundant rutting dullard whose failure to grasp and accommodate the movement would be pitiful, were it not for the knowledge that, for its kind, the movement should not and could not be assimilated into its action and thought.
And yet, there are moments when it touches on the protofound themes – almost inexplicably: witness the dialogue between the Latin and the spiked entity which ends with the following question: “Yeah, but what if they can clone consciousness?” We are in the realm of the unknown here. Could this be the genuine thought of the Sapian, or is it a manipulation, either by the E CONART application, or by the researchers at the Centre? It is without question that the E CONART application continually attempts to force themes awkwardly onto the thoughts in a generally risible attempt to give meaning and structure; therefore a vague, passing, barely conscious thought could conceivably have been amplified by the application for narrative purposes.









Monday (17:34)* – recording:

*The E CONART application commenced the unfolding of extracted percepted material at 17:34, Monday, Ausra, 1494: the muttered phrase of the Latin indicating sufficient narrative conceit for conception.

“It is… It is him,” mutters Nuchi, quickly turning his head to look back at the last bus stop in Pure.

“Jani, Jani, davai…” He switches his focus to the wing-mirror as the angles tighten with the transit’s motion: “Can you?” he asks softly as his unclipped seatbelt loosens its hold.

I pull over by the verge, and Nuchi sidles out. He stands there for a while, his hand still touching the van door, squinting a little, weighing something up, considering his approach.

I look in the overhead mirror and watch him head off towards a crouching figure who’s holding the left side of his face with his hand; crouching and rocking there by the clear, tough perspex wall of the shelter. Course, before we got our patch, that posture could only mean one thing: contemplation of one’s suffering, the rhythmic swaying, the inflamed pulse of the pain. Now, it’s as likely to mean someone having a chat with a distant other about minor events: the rattling background murmur of the everyday.

Nuchi’s placed his hand on the fella’s shoulder, but he hasn’t got any response; it’s as if the man’s rocking has wafted his attention elsewhere. So he squats down beside him, and although there’s no change to the crouching swaying stance, I can hear him begin to get some answers in a low, quiet, distracted voice.

I push the seat back, open the window, and close my eyes. Pure is quiet now in the early evening, just the occasional passing sigh of tyre on asphalt, and in the distance the rattling rumbling rhythm of the wagons of nafta rolling into the interior. I can hear, too, how their dialogue behind me begins to sway a little more naturally: the footsteps of it falling into more reciprocal patterns, and, yeah, in just five minutes Nuchi has a steadying arm around his waist and is walking him over. I get out to open the passenger door, and soon the three of us are heading to the border together; Nuchi smoking by the passenger window, our newcomer in the middle almost doubled over at the waist, and my goodself at the wheel.

Nuchi can’t help but smoke in what he calls his ‘high cinematic style’, and after each camp exhalation into the speeding cool late Burst air, he settles his gaze on our newcomer with a slightly arched right eyebrow.

“Nu Nuchi, fuck…” begins our newcomer, and then ends it by straightening himself, burping and putting his left arm across my shoulder. I push him off with my free hand: feel his weight, and let him feel mine.

“Your Nuchi is over there.”

I take him in. He’s slim, silver-haired, about forty and with an urban suntan; and when he smiles and informs me that he “was just orientating myself”, I see that he’s missing a couple of his front teeth: one from either row.

Nuchi offers him a cigarette, but the newcomer waves him away, and placing his right arm in his dirty denim jacket, he roots out a bottle of Hemingway. He twists the cap off and takes a slug (‘in earnest’ as the ad goes).

“I’m after, after…” he begins, but then puts the brakes on his announcement, squinting and shaking his head at some futility he’s picked up out there.
“What are you after, dear?” asks Nuchi.

“You wouldnaunderstan – though yuhshould.” He replies, the words wafted on a swift sharp drunken sigh.

He then starts slowly and deliberately twisting and stretching his head as if it were a steering wheel in the hands of a drunk soaked with determination to get himself aligned on the road ahead. “Listen” he says looking up at Nuchi “I lost my patch - give us yours, … yeah?”

Nuchi picks his phone out of his jacket pocket, and hands it over, where it is held in both of the newcomer’s hands and studied intently: the distance between forehead and screen undulating with the rolling road.

“A Nuchi – you’ve Ieva’s number here?”

“Ieva? Oh my God, Ieva! Another poor soul looking for their Ieva!” Nuchi laughs, but the ripples of it are just out of time somehow; and then he just sits there stiff and frozen looking at the both of us, the fag burning away in his hand. The newcomer turns his gaunt, silver lined face towards Nuchi, so all I see is the back of his pissed up head rolling and nodding with the road.

“You think it is wise in, in your condition?” says Nuchi a little more quietly.

“Nuchi…”

“Okay.” Nuchi throws the cigarette out of the window, takes back his patch, rolls through his contacts, and then holds it to his ear.

“It is ringing… just wait for whatever it is you are after, okay?” It doesn’t take long. Just the time it took for him to wind the window up. “… Ieva? Hi! It’s Nuchi. Look, please excuse me. Were you busy? Okay…”

But he doesn’t finish because the newcomer has his right hand folded around the glossy black stub of technology. He then slowly takes it from Nuchi as if it is a loaded gun and they were actors in some partisan-era thriller.