End Time

by G. A. Matiasz

  “There’s a Masq at the Stack tonight,” her voice smiled on the tape, “I know its aways, but its roots G-O-T!”

  Gathering of the Tribes. The Stack was in San Jose and San Jose was a good two-and-a-half hour drive when traffic was good. Not what he wanted to do with his evening. He called her back and she talked him into it. Provisionally, on erection alone. He drove over to her apartment with Borneo spliffs rolled and ready, hoping to smoke and then seduce her into another night of debauch.

  “Well smoke them on the ride down,” she smiled, dressed to the ‘9’s in Mod black-and-white, her hair sharply styled and silver shred earrings spangling down her long neck. She waved the event’s flyer in front of him, then handed him a set of blankets and ground pillows.

  Margaret majored in Liberal Arts, with an emphasis upon languages. Advanced French and intermediate Chinese. Thought about UN work, maybe a translator. Night and City glittered on the Bay, the Spitfire’s roof down and startled winter in their hair. Her parents divorced when she was a freshman at ASU; her Anglo father now in Houston paying for her BA and apartment, her half-Chinese mother now in San Rafael living with a sister, and Margaret alone left in Alabaster. She also had a younger brother, Robby, who lived with her mother and aunt, and belonged to a gang, the Original Asiatics. She considered it a toss-up whether to tour Europe on the bum after graduating, or to go for graduate school on scholarships, both options far away from Alabaster. But she still worried about Robby. She doled out the herb, lighting each joint tucked into the passenger’s leg well and keeping it sheltered on the pass to Greg. She wanted to travel low budget next summer as well. Northern Mexico was cheap, and still safe. She had a facility for languages, so perhaps she could pick up some Spanish, though she had no illusions about traveling alone in a machismo Latin society as a young American woman. Best to go in a group, and she was working on that.

  He took an off ramp from 880 before the Stack, to look for a parking place. The 1999 7.2 on the Richter Scale tossed the already shaky City, but it had been epicentered close enough to San Jose to level large parts of the Bay Area’s equivalent to LA. No big loss, most people north of the Dumbarton Bridge thought, but then few had factored in Silicon Valley. The nexus for Federal, State and Pleiades investment plans, one of the few sectors of California’s economy paying double dividends, a digital heavyweight still able to kick Japanese electronic butt; San Jose merited an emergency Federal rebuild and the best urban social engineering Sacramento neo-liberals could provide. The State declared broad powers of eminent domain, then proceeded to sculpt San Jose into the perfect 21st century metropolis. One of the period’s testaments, the Stack, loomed above them as Greg did a smooth parallel park.

  He pulled up the roof, then walked around to where Margaret had let herself out of the parked car to lock it down, blankets and pillows on the sidewalk. The roar. They stood a good five blocks from the Stack and they heard the buzz of its traffic. Two six lane freeways—880 and 101—crossed, plus the four lane 380 connector from 680 and the four lane 82 shortcut from 280 dead ended at this mammoth, Pharonic transfer point. They were piled one on top of another in an earthquake-proof concrete and ferrocement mass of ramps and pylons, walls and buttresses fully as impressive as the pyramid of Cheops, and perhaps as enduring. The whole Stack rose out of the new concrete flood control channel for Coyote Creek and Guadalupe River. A hulking, square-limbed, square jawed, smog breathing behemoth, constantly roaring like a thousand cars, hunkered up out of the moonlit cement plains between two canals gurgling sluggish water. The horror.

  And fascinating, as far as misdirected technology of that scale could ever be, whether King’s tomb or industrial tomb. Amidst the Stack’s concrete mountains, concrete canyons meandered. Skaters found it early on, always on the lookout for new cement. They were awed, probably, the way conquering barbarian Hyksos were to gaze upon the spoils of Egypt. Word spread. The Stack’s geography made a few of its own suggestions. The art of the small—generators the size of a suitcase, pig amps with power, back pack light shows, hand carry Emo boards—brought fantasies into reality.

  “Hand me that stuff,’’ Greg said, taking the blankets and pillows from Margaret before helping her through the fence fronting the flood channel. The two walked carefully down the slanted cement. Further down, other figures descended in the wash of the moon, their laughter drifting up with incense smoke and tinkling bells. An airplane screamed down for a Municipal Airport runway across the channel, lights winking and flashing. Knots of people drifted across the cement desert to converge on a rickety structure, marked by dim luminarios, that crossed the nearest canal. A good broad jumper could make it, but it would mean a cement take off and landing. Any good Stack Crew had bridges across the canals, just like any good Stack Crew had Rovers up and down the channel looking for cops. San Jose police didn’t like dealing with Stack parties, having realized early on and entirely too late that the new urban geography was not in their favor. No way to make a surprise sweep, and too many ways for folks to get away. The area’s industrial shops, warehouses, wholesaling and the like did not field a lot of noise complaints. So the police had to be looking for Stack action, which was by no means predictable. Noon parties, sunrise masqs and rush hour thrashes were not uncommon. In other words, the Stack was too much trouble.

  “I saved a couple of these,” Margaret produced one of Greg’s joints and lit it, once they were safely across the makeshift bridge. They heard the thunder of bass shiver beneath traffic sounds and a jet taking off as they walked toward the Stack. Muted lights played up and down the vast concrete structures, spillover from the event buried deep in their cement. Moon-etched people about them wandered slowly toward the Masq-in-progress. Spooks held little machines that twinkled tiny computer lights. Ferals rhythmically swung soft guttering candles in long Santería glasses. Raspies billowed out their capes like winged night creatures. Nulls burnished each other’s plating. All this amidst legions of retro—beat, hippie, punk, mod, skin, rasta, metal, etc.

  “It’s a Spook Crew,” Greg commented from what he saw at the bridge and along the way.

  “Spooks do the best shows,” she said as they passed a formation of dark vehicles tucked behind the Stack’s first supports, a line already for the row of portable toilets hitched to a truck. They followed the maze of canyons into the Stack, to the main galleries so ideal for skateboarding by day and concerts by night. The crowds and graffiti thickened. Marijuana smoke drifted over quantities of alcohol and smart drugs, XTC and 999, cocaine and Ynisvitrin, psychedelics and pharmaceuticals. One dealer meandered through the partying multitude pushing a modified ice cream hand cart from which he dispensed an assortment of mind benders. And occasionally, a brawny Stack Security man might be glimpsed.

  The Stack had not always been so amiable a place. Young squatters had infested it, with all the attendant problems associated with lack of sanitation. Crews had competed to do shows at it, with two rival crews very often advertising conflicting Stack parties for the same time so that fights broke out, equipment got trashed, and animosities built up. Youth gangs fought each other for the Stack as turf, hoping to extract rent and protection from anyone wanting to hold shows there. San Jose’s alternative music scene relied on two main companies for concert security; a mixed Latin/Black/Anglo outfit called In House and an all-Samoan team known as Ground Control. Since those doing security for these companies belonged to the area’s varied youth scenes, they frequently found themselves pitted against each other in stupid Stack wars. Little wonder that they formed Stack Security, called together people on the alternative music scene and unilaterally laid down some rules. A type of gang dictatorship that Greg did not like, even though it kept the peace.

  “Do you want to sit on the floor?” Greg asked, “Or should we find a balcony?”

  They had come out into the galleries between bands, the take-down and set-up occurring at the far end on a multi-layered wooden stage fitted over the storm drain’s concrete block access.
Where graffiti did not cover the concrete angled up in the Stack’s odd geometries, rugs did. The accumulation of industrially glued soundproofing formed a patchwork of colors and patterns across the first levels of cement, illuminated by two portable halogen lamps at this end. Margaret appraised the crowd.

  “Let’s find a perch,” she smiled.

  A relatively easy matter, since the break seemed to be running long and lots of folks had abandoned their seats to mingle.

  “Takeover,” she whispered and pointed out a fine roost overlooking the action, recessed into the heart of the Stack Greg pointed out a way, and Margaret led it up into the concrete geometries. Each balanced their bedding as they played mountain goat, Greg enjoying Margaret’s swaying backside ahead of him enough to almost lose his footing.

  “Perfect spot.” Greg appraised the panoramic view. Hundreds of party-goers were contained within the Stack’s artificial banks, bathed in multi-colored lights, their chatter sounding like backwash across a pebbled beach. She snapped open her blanket and he did likewise so that they neatly covered the small wedge of elevated cement that they had claimed as their own. The pillows completed the comfortable setting.

  “Time for another.” She sat cross legged and produced another joint. A band finally took the stage to start checking their amps and instruments. Greg noticed the drug man pushing his cart through the crowd below, and signaled him for beer. He tossed down the money and the man tossed up a six pack, one beer at a time.

  “It’s not quality, but its alcohol,” Greg said, handing Margaret an open beer in exchange for the smoke. The band pounded out a generic Feral sound, the music acting as a magnet to draw people toward the stage and more people into the galleries. Someone started up an unimaginative light show, the neural component juxtaposing sensations of pleasure with danger. Boring. Nobody bothered to dance. Two beers apiece and the spliff later, a retro hardcore band followed, one of its members even sporting a bright green mohawk. No Emo on this, just pure, raw noise, violently distorted and explosively fast. At least they got an old-fashioned Pit going, the slam confined by the pressing throngs.

  “Now for a little Kajan,” Margaret said as Greg crushed the empty cans of their six pack. Having passed “buzzed” and approaching “all fucked up,” he had a hard time focusing on the much more extensive set up occurring around the stage. Some expensive light and sound he thought, though not much of it Emo. No sign of a band, just a lot of roadies assembling equipment. He took one lungful from Margaret’s smoke, his lungs burned into ripped coughing, and he collapsed backwards against a pillow, his vision fractaling sweet black-out.

  “I’m sub orbital,” he managed to croak.

  “Don’t you think its getting chilly?” she asked. “Let’s get under the covers.”

  Below, a cluster of people pointed up. More looked up and more gestured. Craning their necks, Greg and Margaret could see a red star bleeding around the edge of the overhead freeways. A star that throbbed, growing bigger with each pulse. Not quite a star, its crimson tail whipped behind the fireball crashing to earth. Its roar shuddered out from the equipment on stage, shaking even the Stack’s solid concrete with subsonics. Several people jumped, yelping, from where they sat on the edge of the stage as the fiery comet seemed to punch the earth center stage. Deep vibration hammered the air as dark orange-brown smoke and bright orange-yellow flames columned up into the sky, wreathing like so many angry serpents whose breath cut the air with the smell of brimstone. Enveloping the stage in scaly fury. Slowly, the reptilian firestorm dissipated, to reveal a three-member band poised with their instruments. Rasputanic. The tall woman, in black cape caked red and matted red hair, cradled her guitar and scowled at the audience. Red glitter streaked her cheeks. Fucking fantastic holo effect, Greg thought. Hell’a entrance.

  “I AM THE GODDESS OF HELLFIRE!” the guitarist bellowed, her throaty voice like harsh sandpaper. “AND YOU’RE ALL GONNA BURN!”

  She hit the first chord, a glass knife into the brain, as Margaret snaked a hand into Greg’s pants. She stroked him up to the twisted, double time punk-funk rhythm edging into assault with that sinister guitar and nails-on-chalkboard vocals. The crowd went wild, the chaotic mass of spastic bodies around the stage driving any Pit to the outer reaches, folks leaping from the Stack’s upper levels into the surging human sea as Greg found the wetness to Margaret’s sex. He entered her as the stage holos squirmed out vicious reptiles dripping venom, transforming the band members into Gorgons and the singer/guitarist into the Medusa. Came with the crash-and-burn finale of hydra unfolding from the stage, each head belching a crystal fire.

  ***

  The telephone rang as Marcus settled into the first chapter of the Louis L’Amour’s book Hondo.

  “Hello,” the voice said, “May I speak with Marcus D...Dima...?”

  “Dimapopulos. Speaking.”

  “Mr. Dimapopulos, this is Pete, from the Sprite Bar, in Fairfax.” He identified himself and Marcus immediately perked up. “Officer Manley told me to give you a call if I had anything. Well, that guy in the sketch isn’t here, but a couple of people I seen him hanging out with before are.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  It took the detective a half hour to locate the nightclub in question. He found a parking space and entered through the rear to talk to Pete.

  “They’re at that table over there,” Pete pointed from the bar, through the gloom and sound of gloom from the stage. “Long blonde-haired girl and the tall one.”

  Marcus took a drink, a cola, and walked over to their table.

  “Mind if I join you and ask you some questions?” he took a chair between the girls.

  “We don’t talk to cops,” Lori snarled, ugly. She blew a puff of thick scented smoke into his face.

  Mary simply spat in his drink. Marcus got the message, and after talking to Pete, he retreated to the parking lot. It was close to 2 in the morning when the girls left and he was able to write down their license plate.

  ***

  The campus coop bookstore, Conspiracy of Equals Books, was another mick to crack. Peregrine had the front door dead bolt open in quick minutes with his tools in the heavy night, and he had some $740 from beginning semester book sales. Pocketing the money, he idly glanced through a glossy Leftist journal, disdainfully appraising the chapel to academic PC around him swathed in shadows. Bunch of privileged, middle-class kids playing at revolution, he told himself, then headed back out the front door. A nightingale’s song collided with his exit.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Excerpted from

  “Musings on the Nature of Cybernetic CoEvolution”

  Journals XDZ-XX—The California Diaries (2007)

  by Hamran Mossoud

  Family Archives, released posthumously, 2032

  (Electrostraca #: J/AB-911032-384-150-7917)

  After Oakland, I had the opportunity to meet Peter Colchis, president and founder of CyberSurveys, one of the most dynamic high-tech firms in San Jose’s Silicon Valley. I was anxious to meet him, having read his book New Directions in Artificial Intelligence, and we discussed his “cybersome” and cyberorganic” models the first day, between lunch and dinner. Peter began by stating that the cyberpunk metaphors of the 1980’s/90’s for the “space” created by computer networking and information exchanges (and perceived by such tools as virtual reality), were inaccurate descriptions in that they employed external analogs. The notion of cyberspace—the digital/electronic universe fashioned by the collective interaction of all of its users—no less than the idea of a net—an information ocean in which reside islands— posed external references, when the only appropriate perspective was internal. And while those science fiction writers who originated these metaphors never understood them as totalizing descriptions, those who adopted these terms behaved as if they described a new orthodoxy. Hence, Peter’s cyberorganic work at the turn of the century.

  “Ultimately, the market determined which terminology was viable,” Peter said. “
When CyberSurveys released our VR packages based on a ‘cybersome/ cyberorganic’ model, we quickly outsold and replaced ones using a ‘cyberspace’ or ‘information net’ framework. Cyberorganic principles proved more accurate in constructing virtual reality.”

  Our conversations were complex and wide-ranging, and I am not certain I can do justice to the scope and intricacy of Peter’s thinking even as I attempt this summary. The term “cybersome,” literally “cybernetic body,” has replaced the notion of “cyberspace.” Originally composited from coral reef, African termite colony, human genome, and human biophysical mathematical models, cybersome has been shortened to ‘some in current usage. First, Peter contended that there is no practical “outside” to cyberorganic reality. Those who create it and function in it are inside of it. They ARE the “body digital.” Cyberorganics postulates that a definite “body digital” exists, and therefore does possess form. An outside exists as well, however it is not possible to step outside of the cyberorganic body, the cybersome, in order to apprehend it. Its out-side shape can be imagined with art or philosophy, but it can not be experienced. Aboriginal peoples, theoretically outside of the “body digital,” have no means to see or otherwise perceive it. An information tissue is rapidly spreading around the world, with only the few remaining aboriginal regions outside of its grasp. Even those who parasitize upon this electronic flesh, or who seek to cause it disease, are inside of it.

  I argued that this is a mere quibbling over semantics. After all, everything exists within Einsteinian space-time, space-time having a shape and in theory an outside. According to quantum physics, ours is not the sole universe. And to a cell the body within which it functions is the universe. Yet Peter insisted that the change in metaphor makes an important point. The universe as we know it appears to operate by certain gross “laws,” the principle ones being the Laws of Thermodynamics and in particular what we call “entropy.” Life attempts to define a sphere of “neg-entropy” against the running down of the universe; to maintain and even expand complex levels of order and mutual relationship. The organic metaphor emphasizes that the cybersome created is internally alive; parts of it growing and healthy, parts of it diseased and dying, and the whole of it coming to cover the planet completely.