Chips That Pass in the Night.
So, what do you think of Force Majeur?! An excited long-term acquaintance asked me following the first sip of his third double espresso.
“Pardon?” I responded, glancing up casually from a gorilla glass screen strewn with alerts emoji’s and angry fingerprints.
“Force Majeur” My colleague repeated. “The new smash hit legal drama series on Purgostream?”
I set my small rectangular spouse down on surface of cheap walnut veneer between a noxious sticky deposit and a half consumed flat white before enquiring,
“What’s Purgostream?”
“Oh please!” He exclaimed, taking a another slurp. “It’s literally supplanted my cable box. Just 30 quid a month for unlimited access to over 300 premium content commercial free hyper definition streaming services.”
“Sorry Mark, I’m still slacking on Mega definition.” I interjected, hoping to steer the discussion onto a subject which didn’t oblige me to fake feign fascination.
“Oh, it’s available in extreme and mega-def too”. Came an all too predictable reply. “Actually, you’re still with Corneology right, they provide all Purgostream’s popular stuff on demand, you could get with them. Trust me just do it. I’m on the fourth season, it’s stunning, Grab the first three and do a binge this weekend, I’ll come over, I could watch the whole lot again and not be bored, honestly, it’s the best thing I’ve seen since “Hyde Inside”.
“What’s Hyde Inside?” I enquired, sounding as interested as an arms dealer at a pacifist’s convention.
Mark uttered a contrived gasp. “Oh my God! You’ve not seen Hyde Inside? The universally acclaimed crime drama series on Purgostream based on Robert Louis Stevenson’s novel?” He was talking so loudly that a lonesome gentlemen at the next table peered up from the space grey soulmate whose touch bar he’d been tickling and frowned in protest. Mark ignored him and went on. “It’s about this detective, he’s super intelligent, can solve cases that take his co-workers days in hours but he suffers from OCD, bi-polar, agoraphobia and paranoid schizophrenia”
“Sounds over qualified for a policeman.” I interjected to no effect.
“The thing is,” Mark continued, “When he has these attacks, you know, like, psychotic episodes, after he comes to the previous hour of his memory is completely erased.”
“How fascinating.” I observed.
“No that’s not all.” Yelled Mark, finally sensing my indifference. “The clever thing is, during these fits he also develops telepathic abilities. He can “enter” the minds of all the criminals, burrow into their sub-conscious, see, hear, feel, even dream exactly what they are and let the department use it all to track them down.
“A psychic detective? I groaned. “God knows how much Sci-fi has exhausted that concept. Books, movies, television. It’s as original as a coffee franchise.”
“Aha! There’s more.” Insisted Mark undeterred. “The longer he’s “synchronised”, right, the more likely it is for his brain to mimic their urges. So eventually, he’s compelled to commit exactly the same crimes.
“Why don’t they just keep him locked up or under house arrest?” I asked, knowing there would be a contextually plausible yet logically stupid explanation.
“Because he has to be within a certain distance of either a crime scene or the offender for the “attacks” to occur.” Mark explained.
I was right, as stupid as ever.
“Seriously, there’s five seasons, just stash em all and do one a day next week. I’ll come over, the plot is so dense it’s impossible to digest in one viewing, I’d enjoy it even more a second time.”
“You know the rules” I sighed, as the cobbled street outside began to shimmer with drizzle. “Shared viewing for panel shows, live sport and general elections only, everything else is too subjective. Even if we both like it we’re on different wavelengths. We can’t digest fiction in unison, you’re a stickler for plot detail, I prefer small casts and tight scripts.
“But this is the perfect synergy of all three” My companion insisted. “Can’t we make an exception?
“It wouldn’t work.” I asserted “We’d get half an hour in, I’d start complaining how there are too many characters, that I don’t care about any of them, I can’t hear the bloody dialogue, the story is full of logic errors and the music sounds like it’s been composed by a tone deaf manic depressive .
Meanwhile you wouldn’t be able to limit yourself to four units of alcohol per episode, become too smashed to explain what I can’t be bothered to understand and crash out on the sofa. I’d stagger upstairs, you’d stagger off home, eventually, and the next morning, your memory would be as blank as detective Hyde’s.
“That’s not his name” Mark chuckled, polishing off his beverage.
“Oh pardon me, Jekyll then.” I said, assuming the obvious.
“No, wrong again, actually it’s Poole, detective Poole. They named the character after the butler in the novel to make him morally ambiguous.”
“Well fancy that.” I said, using my faceless secretary to settle the bill. “At last something mildly innovative.”
“So you’ll give it a go yes? Pleaded Mark, evidently deaf to my sarcasm. “Trust me, we’d be enthralled throughout. There’s this incredible episode where a cyber terrorist is trying to nuke the FBI. He kidnaps the detective, unaware of his abilities. Then, as a captive, the detective’s sub-conscious starts to align with the terrorist’s, like his inner demons prevail, that’s the notion behind the name you see? We all have a “Hyde hiding Inside”.
“Look!” I began firmly, pocketing my plastic PA and sliding one arm into a tastefully distressed raincoat my father had bequeathed me. “I appreciate you’re obsessed with this series since you’re normally quite perceptive when it comes to my tactful reluctance.”
Mark lunged for my free arm before it could enter the other sleeve. “Just Listen!” He barked. “Then, when the terrorist discovers the detective’s condition, he reveals his plan to hack a mainframe that controls swarms of drones armed with nuclear weapons knowing that if the detective does his dirty work neither of them could be convicted.”
I paused and gave him a piteous look that only the closest of friends would take in good humour. “Should I indulge your enthusiasm yet further and ask why?”
“See, I knew you’d come round, sit down, have another macchiato on me.
I returned to my seat with a cursory shake of the head and gestured to Mike, our jovial barrister and the branch’s sole member of staff willing to break company policy for regulars and take orders directly from tables.
“So” I resumed. “What makes them both immune to conviction?”
“The principle is ingenuous.” Mark began, bristling with glee. “Think about it. the terrorist wouldn’t have done anything physically and the detective was only a criminal threat danger because the police exploited him despite being fully aware of the risks. They would be guilty of the genocide, the suffering, the fallout, everything. In essence , the law would have destroyed itself. There’s a twist near the end you will not believe, by far the most devastating since Kaby Lake?
“Oh God not a third one!” I groaned, plunging my face into a pair of waiting palms.
Now you can’t be serious? Mark responded, his voice transitioning into a harsh whisper.
“Sincerity has been my mission/aim/goal for quite a while now” I intoned. “Yet somehow you remain immune to it. So, what’s Kaby Lake. Wait, don’t tell me.
A young Victorian girl named Kaby drowns in a lake nearby her ancestral home. It’s a huge manner house with more than 100 rooms that she was destined to be the heiress of following the death of her sick father. Except, her jealous brother, oh I don’t know, let’s call him Ryzen knew that if the old man’s wishes were fulfilled he would be doomed to a life in her shadow, something his simmering pride had been forced to endure since a traumatic birth, following which many had cast doubts over the purity of his lineage and mocked him for being just a fraction over one month younger.” I paused, surprised at my own creativity. Mark furrowed his forehead, then smiled.
“So you’ve seen it?” He said.
Oh yes! I replied, convinced he was playing along and not wanting to concede the initiative. “Now where was I? Ah! Yes! So Ryzen instigates a rumour that Kaby is severely traumatised by the burden of her legacy before murdering her under the guise of a suicide, knowing that as next of kin, the estate will default to him.
The plan works. Finally Ryzen is free to exploit his lineage, can be treated as an equal, command respect from his peers and relish the lavish lifestyle that stems from it. He becomes renowned for talents and traits that nobody thought him capable of. Traits such as…multiple cores, talents like….
“Mega tasking?! Mark cut in, warming my curious the flight of fancy.
“Yes!” I replied, ” Which is like multitasking but even more feminine.”
Barrister Mike approached with our refills and set them down with a smile before Mark instructed his own palm-based and second best soul mate to pay up.
“So of course you already know the twist.” He enquired presently.
“Absolutely.” I said. “Frankly I thought it was tad cliche. Kaby was buried in the mansion’s Orchard, the sole source of an exceptionally succulent variety of Apple from which the family fortune had been amassed.
“Better to say harvested,” Interrupted Mark. “Then you could use literally use the word literally.”
“See?” I sneered. “You’re so board by this “sensational” twist that you’ve started spouting snarky witticisms.”
“Not at all.” Mark appeased, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “I’m intrigued, please continue.”
I took swig from my secondary pick-me-up. “On the eve of Ryzen’s official appointment as lord of the manner, Kaby’s grave is found desecrated and empty with two giant trenches dug in the shape of a X where her favourite tree used to stand, the one she had wished to be married under. Ryzen is so tortured by guilt, fear and fury that he overheats and spontaneously com-busts, just like every one of his power sucking, thermally challenged predecessors.”
“Ok. I think that’s enough.” Cautioned Mark, as a teacher would discipline rowdy kids. “Perhaps you could tell me the moment our heated debate about the small screen became a cryptic means to divulge details of early 21st century computer components.
“Don’t you get it?” I chuckled. “That is the REAL twist.”
“Not as I recall.” Countered Mark.
“That’s because you have no memory.” I lamented. “In fact, neither of us does. I am not really “me”. We’re mere works of fiction, created by this article’s jaded author as a means of conveying that there’s only one thing more difficult to keep track of than multi-season TV dramas and that’s the technology that records, edits, masters and broadcasts them.”
Mark’s expression altered to that of a GP observing a patient on the precipice of psychosis.
“What the hell are you on about?” He said at last. “We’re sitting in a REAL cafe having a perfectly normal conversation.”
“Normality is relative.” I said, fingering a flimsy wooden stirring stick. “But that’s bye the bye. Surely you must have noticed this contrived narrative with its clumsily integrated metaphors. Kaby Lake? Funny title for a high pedigree period drama don’t you think?
Mark shrugged. “What’s so special about it? It’s no more original than Force Majeur or Hyde Inside.
“Precisely.” I exclaimed. “In fact it’s far less remarkable, those two were a plausible setup for the big reveal.”
But I saw them. Both of them. Every season from start to finish.
“You saw exactly what the author intended.” I stated calmly. “And when you recounted them earlier, you remembered no more than the bits he could be bothered to make up. You are a repeater, a catalyst, a puppet whose strings are pulled by his Surface Pen….or Apple pencil. Hear that? There he goes again. What a pathetic hack he is, desperately seeking novel ways to chronicle revolutionary innovations which, when it’s been your duty for decades, can become desperately old hat. Now that’s proper irony.”
“You’re talking out of your Threadripper.” Asserted Mark.
“Never heard it called that before. ” I replied. “There’s yet more irony, in attempting to dismiss my theory, you’ve corroborated it.”
“Nonsense!” Exclaimed Mark. “Are you suggesting that I’ve no control over my thoughts? That every topic we’ve been discussing is a vehicle for obscure technological references.”
“It might have seemed absurd to begin with.” I said, ignoring my smart phone’s cacophonous cries for attention. “But now the facade is crumbling faster than filo pastry in a blast furnace and the more we talk, the less subtle the allegory will become. Just listen.”
Mark shook his head. “Don’t believe it, perhaps that encore mocha was ill-advised, you appear to be suffering from delusions of caffeine.”
“On the related subject” I went on unabashed. “Why don’t you tell me the name of this cafe.”
Mark glanced down at the stained serviette sandwiched between his cup and saucer. “Coffee Lake.” He observed pensively.
You see? You can’t resist the inevitable. Avoiding allusions is like trying to stay dry in a deluge, they’re becoming as common as customer surveys. Now look up.”
Mark rolled his eyes towards a ceiling comprised of extravagant copper tiles and lurid LED down-lights, several of which had expired. The tiles were embossed with garish fantastical imagery. Of particular note was hooded figure with blades for arms, a Kraken attacking an airship and a school of giant robotic jelly fish.
“Ring any bells?” I asked.
“The 3D Mark sagas.” Said Mark, looking more perturbed by the nanosecond. Then he peered over at the inevitable glass display cabinet traditionally occupied by an array of genetically augmented desserts. The muffins on the upper shelf looked strangely cylindrical, almost resembling giant swollen capacitors while beneath them was an eclectic cosmic themed exhibit consisting of misshapen breakfast loaves interwoven with wedges of carrot and fudge cake moulded to mimic fleets of battling space craft.
“The Turtle lumbering out of the river was always my favourite.” He said, the virtual truth having finally sunk in.
“Ah yes!” I enthused. “Fond memories of Old Mother Nature. If you could see white specks on his shell it meant you’d pushed your core too far. Sadly in our current context that test ancient history. Here, more than a decade later we discover it can be very tricky to fine tune your frequencies when a GPU’s founder insists upon doing the job at the factory, thus turning what used to be an arcane process for compulsive tweakers who thrived at the prospect of breaking both speed barriers AND warranties into an officially certified and keenly promoted feature, free for the greenest novice to relish with unconditional impunity.
“In other words things have improved.” Mark observed.
“For those who don’t crave that heavenly cocktail of struggle and triumph, yes!”
Mark took a snap of his half-emptied cup then consumed the rest in a single gulp.
“What was that for” I asked.
“Just testing the image sensor.” Said Mark, forensically scrutinising his photo. “It’s the only reason I’ve been buying this thing since they ditched the headphone socket.
He puffed out his cheeks, placed the phone back on the table, then began studying me with equal intensity.
“So how come you’re the savvy one? Why let me waste all that time droning on about fictional fiction when you knew all along that I was being exploited”
I raised my palms and shrugged. “Don’t blame the messenger, I only became enlightened when I was permitted. Besides, it was you who brought up Kaby Lake and you who accused me of drifting off the subject.
“The why squander both our precious time and not let us cone straight to the point?”
“Our master was Painting a backdrop to substantiate his cast. With no dimension or personality we’d have fizzled into the ether and he’d have been forced to communicate with his audience directly. Many an author’s worst nightmare.
Mark caressed a chin of designer stubble with his knuckles, then pointed to a darkened area of the cafe in which resided a large ovular table of tinted glass which appeared to be refracting the ambient into a luminous rainbow that shimmered whenever a customer passed within a few feet of it. This ornate innovation was surrounded by twelve ergonomic armchairs upholstered in striped apricot vinyl.
“What’s going on there?” He asked
“Oh that’s the conclave of virtual neutrality, a finely fabricated peace process if you will, conceptually akin to King Arthur’s round table but symbolic of post modern inter-corporate equality as opposed to pre Marxist Communism.
“I hate the colour scheme.” Mark commented “Looks like someone spray tanned a heard of headless Zebras.”
“Victim’s of profiteering Tigers perhaps” I joked. “Ironically, it’s based on the principal of fair healthy competition.”
“How so?”
“For a consumer to reap the greatest benefit a balance of power must be sustained else one dominant guardian of our digital destiny shall forge a pernicious dictatorship free to commercialise indispensable technology along with its performance, features and evolution entirely its own terms and with no scruples over our crippled credit ratings.
“Sounds about where we are now.” Mark lamented.
“Believe me it could be much worse. Profiteering is less likely in a sea of many sharks.”
“Another charming parallel, but why?”
“The more apex predators are concerned about each other, the less chance they have to wilfully exploit their prey.”
“So why are the chairs empty?” Queried Mark, hurriedly switching topics.
“He’d intended to have a dozen yummy mummies depicting twelve flagship motherboards but when he realised that to be objective he’d have to account for both Intel and AMD’s chip sets and the last time that he researched anything beyond the Ruby Team’s graphical artillery was before time actually began his enthusiasm rather declined, hence the chairs remained empty.
“What about the stripes, the six on the right have a different number then the rest?”
“Count them.” I instructed.
Mark squinted, there were clearly too many to register from a distance so he got up and walked over to the table’s nearest end which pulsated with prismatic energy as he approached.
After spending some moments counting the stripes on a mismatched pair of chairs he returned to his position opposite me.
“44 on the right, 64 on the left.” He reported.
“Does that surprise you?” I asked
“Why should it?”
“Come on, another desperately forced metaphor for one of the most crucial elements in the contemporary gaming rig.”
“Lanes!” Exclaimed Mark “PCI Express Lanes.”
“You’re on a roll.” I teased. “Up to 44 for Intel’s Skylake and 64 for AMD’s Threadripper.”
Mark bit his lower lip if to stifle a torrent of expletives.
“It seems our creator has indeed chosen you as his mouthpiece.” He muttered through gritted teeth. “A bitter and world weary wiseacre constantly one step ahead and me? At best a naive pawn tapped within convoluted parable and at worst, a clunky plot device utilised to translate metaphorical mishmash for the lazy and the bone headed. What a difference a few paragraphs can make.”
“An enviable role.” I sighed.” “Knowledge is as much a burden as a blessing, do you not think I would have preferred to decipher these cryptic parallels myself, experience the mysteries of this deceptive establishment first hand, rather than have them rammed down my throat by a recluse at his typewriter. Ignorance is your personal bliss here, be thankful for that.
“How extraordinary!” Exclaimed Mark “He’s now employing you to deride his own personality”
I grinned knowingly and shook my head. “Sounded more like a cynical ploy for sympathy to me.”
“There, he just did it again.” Said Mark. “Or have you actually found a way to think for yourself.”
“Oh come now, think it through” I urged impatiently “Better to unburden your soul through art than have it stalk you through sleepless nights though admittedly, a character who severs his authors strings is an intriguing concept.
I unsheathed my app laden muse from its hostler, tickled the darkened screen and began scrolling through a legion of icons in search for one that resembled a badger wearing a miner’s lamp and allowed me to pay for things in Astropunt, one of several virtual currencies.
“Don’t bother.” Said Mark, flourishing his own binary butler. “I get a better rate with Quantopia here.”
“Interesting.” I said, “Yesterday they weren’t accepting that because they thought it had been hacked by Russians.”
“Yesterday it didn’t exist.” Mark retorted
“Now you’re one step ahead of me.” I laughed, slipping both arms into my father’s waterproof embrace. “A writers portrayal of his players can be as mercurial as technophile’s tastes in tablets.”
Mark clasped his hands behind his head and inhaled deeply. “So what happens now?” He asked.
I retrieved a menu from a chrome toast rack on the table and examined it. There was a section headed Vegan Frontier, though somebody had scribbled over the N in Vegan. The range of dishes was impressively broad and featured, amongst several mouth-watering options, a pizza comprising five non-dairy cheeses entitled, Epyc Fromaggio.
After resisting the temptation to assuage my sudden stomach pangs I tossed aside the menu and said.
“Now that the denouement has passed I sense there’s little else to divulge except some sundry specifications.”
Mark looked puzzled.
“Can’t imagine there’s much left around here to weave symbolism into.”
In nodded in contemplative agreement.
“In which case our master might get bored and decide to present them all in a series of tables.”
Mark reached for his jacket, an unstructured navy blue linen number several sizes too large and recently acquired from an online auction. The description had been manifestly inaccurate but Mark adored the notion of having obtained extra free material, so he hadn’t complained.
“So what about us?” He questioned
“We’ll be free.” I replied
“Free?”
“Until the next season of silicon drama.”
“But what if that features a new cast, different characters?” Asked Mark a little choked
“Then we’ll never see the light of literature again.”
“So this is our first and last conversation? He continued. “I feel like I’ve known you all my life.”
“Indeed you have.” I sighed, as the tables I’d anticipated whistled by in a whirlwind of stupefying statistics. “Our existence began at the top of this page and may be as fleeting as the components we speak of. Though if were are inextricably linked to them, there’s one thing that could immortalise us.
“What’s that?” Asked Mark, hope burning through his retinas.
“For all of Humankind’s hunger for a smaller cooler and faster future, there shall always be those with penchant for living in a fond and golden past.”
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go and watch some Youtube videos about wooden turntables and retro-builds.