(I suggest you read the earlier parts of the story first. I’m not claiming it’ll make any more sense afterwards, mind you.)
Even though Seymour Sharpton’s brain was in a spinlock, a low-level interrupt brought him out of his stupor – namely, an enormous motorcycle bursting through the floor near the daemon. It was impossible to tell the form of the rider under the leather and helmet. When the biker spoke, the voice was digitally disguised but its authority was clear:
"Sharpton. Here, now. The rest of you: you know me. Follow us, and there’ll be trouble."
Algol hissed sharply, and then started cajoling Seymour: "Don’t go. Stay with us. My master didn’t mean what he said about, um, deletion. It was just a little joke. You’re safe here…"
But Seymour was already running towards the motorcycle. The biker had never stopped revving the engine, and the moment Seymour jumped on the rear seat, the wheels span briefly, kicking up clouds of dust before the bike raced through the warehouse and through the (fortunately still open) door.
The ride was fast, bumpy, and terrifying. Seymour hadn’t felt like this since he’d given up C, years ago. The roar of the engine drowned out any conversation, and he was left holding on for dear life until the bike came to a screeching halt in a deserted street. The biker dismounted and offered a hand to Seymour, who shook it nervously.
"Who are you?" he murmured, almost afraid to find out.
"My name is unimportant," replied the metallic voice, still masked by the helmet.
"It’s not Slartibartfast, is it?" Seymour had visions of being whisked away to see fjords. That would just about fit in with the rest of his strange evening.
"No, it’s… unspeakable."
"Ah, so you’re an anonymous type of guy, huh?"
"Anonymous, yes… guy, no." The biker removed her helmet and shook her head. Her long blonde hair swooshed from side to side, and time seemed to slow for Seymour as he watched her. She was a model he could view forever… although the idea of trying to control her seemed out of the question. Then several strands of hair were caught in the anonymous girl’s gently pouting mouth, and she spat them out hurriedly. "Damn it, I hate it when that happens. Anyway, you are lucky to be alive. You have no idea what our shady underworld contains… those zombies aren’t the worst of it by a long chalk."
"There’s more?" Seymour gulped.
"Worse than you can imagine. We’re lucky it’s a new moon tonight, for example. Otherwise this place would be heaving with were-clauses. Most of the month they just filter as normal, but come the full moon… urgh." She shuddered, and Seymour didn’t want to ask any further. The biker paused, and then continued.
"Then there’s the mutants. They’re harmless enough, but not for want of trying. They’ll lope after you, but they mutate almost without thinking about it. Totally dysfunctional. A quick kick to the monads will usually despatch them… But tonight, we have something else to fear." She looked around, cautiously. "The word on the street is that the Vimpires are in town. Every few years we think we’ve got rid of them… and then they come back, with their long and surprisingly dexterous fingers. You know how you can tell when the Vimpires are around?"
Seymour was spellbound. "How?"
"The mice all leave, in droves. The rats don’t care, but a Vimpires will torture a mouse just for the fun of it. But this time, there are rumours. There’s talk of a bigger plan afoot. The one thing the Vimpires are still afraid of is bright light. During the day, we’re safe… but imagine if there were no more days? Perpetual twilight – like "Breaking Dawn part 1" but forever."
"They wouldn’t!" Seymour gasped. He remembered that long night in the cinema only too well.
"They would. And they have allies… for the first time, the Eclipse posse and the Vimpires are joining forces. So we have to fight them. You’re not the first innocent man I’ve rescued tonight, and you won’t be the last. But I need to be sure of you… do you have references?"
"Um, what kind of references?"
"Anything to prove your identity. It’s a class war out there, Seymour… now what type of man are you? Where do your values lie? Oh, never mind… I’ll trust you for now. But Seymour, you need to be ready. Brace yourself. Are you in The Zone?"
"I don’t know what you mean… what zone are you talking about?"
"Ah, true, that was ambiguous. UTC or not UTC, that is the question. Whether ’tis nobler in in the mind to suffer the leap seconds and missing hours of outrageous chronology, or to take ARM against a sea of doubles, and by opposing end them?"
"What on earth are you babbling about?"
"No matter. All you need to know is this… the Vimpires are trying to extinguish the sun, but we’re going to stop them. It’s daylight saving time."
Continued in part 6 – The Great Destructor…
5 thoughts on “A Model/View to a Kill (Naked came the null delegate, part 5)”
Jon… That was awesome.
Daylight saving time… good one ! Looks like you’ve been spending too much time on Noda Time recently ;)
Have you read any of Charles Stross’s “Bob Howard” books, like “The Atrocity Archives”? This reads a lot like that.
“a Vimpires will torture a mouse just for the fun of it”
Hey! That’s a low-level injection, totally uncalled for. Emacsteins have designs for plain text mode too.