There are two sounds that are hard to differentiate but can be differentiated. The first comes from the generators, X supposes, those big things chumping away, and the second comes from wherever. Turbines? Who knows, who knows. Big complicated things with small complicated noises. X realises that the reason why the sounds are hard to separate is due not only to the fact that they are both so soft, but also because one pulses in groups of three and the other in groups of two, so that a odd polyrhythm arises. Odd because actually the pulse does not follow a strict 2:3 ratio but something more like maybe 10:14 or 8:11, so that the two sounds gently phase in and out of sync every minute or so. X leans back in the seat and pays attention. She wipes her face using the scented Spangles and attempts a nap. The seat is like everything else exquisite. There is so much space here, space everywhere, and glossiness. She tries to stop paying attention to the sounds and finds that she cannot. The sounds drone on agnostic to her suffering. They together take the form of a non-rhotic insult gangling on just beneath notice and therefore screamingly within it. To try to not listen X instead focuses on conversation. Not, to be clear, conversation that she is about to initiate or engage in but just conversation generally as a social phenomenon. This kind of observation is in fact quite difficult to pull off in the desired fashion, because of course the problem is that if she becomes absorbed in the conversation, that is to say in its meaning, then she becomes a partaker of it, a vivid but unmoving player, and sleep becomes impossible. The trick is to be aware of the sound first and foremost, that babble for which there is no real name, and to hold the meaning at a distance, it being of course impossible to ignore wholesale. Two rows behind X in row F, probably, someone is saying that he cannot believe that the two people sitting beside him are not together, together here being used to denote presumably not the physical proximity of said couple (this X simply assumes) but some kind of relationship that has progressed beyond fucking to deep mutual understanding + appreciation and that tyrannical soul-entwining lethargy from which tragedy and myth is spun. It was very nice of you, A (the non-believing one) says, and B says, no, I’m happy to help, a hint of annoyance maybe there, maybe just the faintest hints of that, or maybe bemusement. A: and you too, that was very kind; C: no problem at all. Are you two together, goes A. That’s so very quaint. Oh no, C says, we just both happened to be there. But you’re both so nice, A says, and B+C both murmur what sound like impressively sincere notes of self-deprecation, both of them possibly looking at each other now, X imagines, a infinitesimal flash of shared understanding: what is this person about, you know what I mean? Are you sure you are not together, says A, insistent, using a tone that possesses no irony or teasing in it, only a kind of charmed wondrousness that must be unimaginably practiced. X senses something that is perhaps a kind of prank. B goes, well, maybe eventually, you never know, and laughs, and C laughs too. They both laugh and they both look straight ahead with the same expression on their faces. X does not see this but her idle brain nonetheless spits out the image with infallible clarity and truth. Both so nice, A goes, and C goes, you know it’s not always similarity that brings people together, not necessarily. A: it helps a lot, you know. B: yes, it does. But you know there are so many things. A: you are not making fun of me are you. X’s whole being goes taut at this, at this momentous turn, this flipping of the table, for actually A manages to strike a dangerously plaintive note there, so that B+C do not respond for a moment, as they are not sure if the tone indicates that (1) A believes that B+C do not generally take A seriously because they believe A is rather intrusive or because they believe (2) A is a bit odd, whicho oddness lies somewhere around the not-so-endearing end of the relevant spectrum, or (3) that A believes that B+C are trying to imply (with flabbergasting coyness) via denial that they are in fact in some sort of relationship. (Aside: who, X asks herself, even thinks in those terms these long golden liberated days?) B+C both start speaking at the same time but C (who seems to be the one with the faster reflexes overall) stops immediately and B is left carrying the fire, and says, no, no, it’s just the way things work, you know, it’s never as simple just – what you say it is, although of course we’d all like for it to be that way, and is fortunate enough to attain a rare note of equal parts lightheartedness and minimalist profundity that seems like the sort of thing generally that might sate A and his dangerous goodwill, although what occurs now is that A actually leans back (X imagines) and says, yes, you do have a point there. X has one really big problem with flights, and it is not about sound. It is about distance, space, parameterization, etc. Which is this: X knows that the plane she is on moves at approx. 3200 km/h. This means approx. 0.9 km/s. But when she looks out she realises that the plane cannot possibly be moving that fast. She places a finger on the pane and counts some arbitrary number of seconds and notes the tiny expanse of cloud that has disappeared under the suddenly gigantic pink of the finger. Surely, she tells herself, that wisp of cloud was not – what? 4 km? That would be absurd. In fact X is wildly disoriented when she sees clouds that look really close to the plane, that look as if they are right under it, drift by lazily, because the implication is that these clouds that are so fanatically detailed must be some huge distance away, posturing fatly through all that air. X supposes that the answer lies in the self-similarity of fractal structures at different scales, which maybe explains why this particular visual effect applies to those long wispy + bouncily flocculent clouds called Extremely High Cirriform + Something Else respectively. The large stormy ones look exactly as near or far as they are, dark and threatening and not at all coy. On this particular flight X has not looked out of the window to wonder at this visual paradox not because she does not enjoy this (in fact the slightly unsettling effect is something she generally appreciates) but because (1) she does not have the window seat (she had not asked Intemper, which knew about her preference of course but gave priority to those who asked) and (2) there is this guy sitting beside the window closest to her and he keeps leaning over to look out. Said Guy is fascinating. He has short taffy hair whose colour varies drastically with the light (watch for it as the plane banks!) between bright blonde/brown and is wearing a hopelessly purple T-shirt that is just slightly too small, not grippingly tight per se, just enough to grip the biceps although he is not what one call muscular just skinny but well-built or something, with the words MONGLOID PORN INFERNO boldly printed on in black sans serif. Grey eyes or green eyes or blue eyes or whatever, it all depends on the angle and the timbre of the light anyway. He chuckles. This is important because X, while familiar with the idea, has rarely if ever seen anyone who actually chuckles. It is an action far easier to imagine than observe but SG has apparently developed the capacity and intellectual fearlessness to actually do it. He looks out of the window, smiles infectiously, shakes his head, and chuckles, not in a self-satisfied manner but in the manner of someone who knows a very good joke and is running it over and over again and still finding it funny and finding the fact that he finds it funny itself funny – and so on, piling up onwards to infinity. SG shows his teeth when he chuckles and his incisors are normally shaped but unusually prominent, perhaps because of the way he opens his mouth. His eyes appear heterotropic. It is the right one that appears to be lazy, although only very slightly so if at all. To be honest X only notices it because she tells herself that there is something abnormal about someone in his mid-30s to look somehow so childishly naïve, although naïve is the wrong word isn’t it, maybe playful is really the word even though even that seems rather simplistic, maybe more enthusiastic, or easily amused. Definitely not naïve in any case, more like a person who sees lots of funny stuff that no-one else notices and totally good-naturedly does not talk about it for fear of seeming cynical. SG notices X watching and X asks, what are you looking at, partly because she wants to know what X is looking at and partly because it is one of those glances that sort of makes eye contact and if the other person looks away without you saying anything the situation becomes awkward in a fashion that gathers static all through the day, so one really might as well say something and make it look as if one was attempting in the first place to get the other person’s attention. So X asks, what are you looking at, and SG says earnestly, well, I don’t know, don’t you think flights are boring? The plane shudders a little, a metal myoclonus, and X says, battered veteran that she is, yeah, totally, no matter how good they get somehow I just can’t enjoy any of the usual things if I’m on a plane. I try watching movies and you know what? it just ruins them for me, even if I do immersion or whatever. SG: you like movies in general? X: yeah, pretty fond. A: cool, you’ll like this, and smiles, not infectious come to think of it, more like positively bubonic. X shuffles across and leans over SG and looks out into an expanse of disappointingly fluffy whiteness. I can’t see anything she says, and X immediately says, well the thing is that the Wrecked Church is down there, just over there. It’s– and X says, rolling her eyes, yes, I know what it is, but how do you know it’s there? Well I can just feel it, you know, SG goes, and adds immediately after, I’m sorry, which utterance would have been embarrassed if not for the strange undissembled cheerfulness of it. X decides to play the game, knowing of course that SG just asked QC or whoever and says, that’s not that interesting is it. I mean I can’t even see it from up here. SG nods and says, well not so interesting by itself — he messes with his hair here – but the thing is that I’m going to put this snouty thing right into it and see what happens and that will be fun, you know, because of The Defence. X: you mean the plane? SG: yeah, I mean this plane. X laughs and says, you know, you really need to get yourself a better imagination. SG looks thoughtful for a while or maybe a little worried in a smiling sort of way ans says and says at last, well – nods subtly to himself, confirming something – truthfully I have a bigger problem. X waits for him to continue but he looks out of the window, undecided, and she says, what? SG: oh, I don’t want to talk about it. But X presses. SG: it’s a bit weird. X: what? SG: I don’t know if it’s really the kind of thing – well, it’s about, you know, fucking. X is surprised, but also happy, in a strange way, she is back to these well-worn eccentricities. Ah, but we all have our problems with fucking, no? SG: it’s not really in the same order, really – X: what, what, say it! SG: oh well – X: do you like need some right now? Because there were like five of them going at it back there, so really – SG: well the main thing is that when I fuck people, and I really like fucking actually, although that’s normal, who does not like fucking, but my problem, main problem I guess is that when I fuck people, specifically people, I get really carried away and kill them. Not actually that I want to kill them, not at all, or that I have some fetish or something, but that I just get carried away, as in physically. I go on top of them and then I get excited and pull whoever to pieces, you know, they just come apart like that. X (after pondering this appropriately): are you an artist or something? That sounds very artistic. SG: maybe, maybe, but it sounds more like a social dysfunction than a conscious artistic endeavour really doesn’t it? And then he turns to look out of the window. Oh well. I can’t help me. And now it’s time to test The Defence. X: why do something like that, now something does indeed seem to be wrong, because this joke does not hold together too well, and anyone with functioning social antennae would have ended it by now, and The Defence is not too often the subject of jokes. Well because I thought it would be totally cool. You’ll always need to talk to old friends, you know, find a way to see them, say hi. Plus the explosion will be epic! There is a loud crack as the armrest cracks under SG’s grip. He shrugs guiltily and shakes his head says, shit, look, I’ve gotten all excited talking about this. X now knows that something is distinctly wrong, and besides those armrests are very stout, and manages to say, what? And SG says: I’m sorry, sorry. But if I got all the people out it would be fake, and fake—you know, it’s not bad, but I really need people here for these purposes. X is a little angry now, maybe scared, and says, the plane is tethered. And SG points, reasonably, that if you overcome (1) the fields, (2) the tethers, and/or (3) the thing the plane is tethered to then the fact that the plane is tethered does not make that much of a difference does it? X says, there is also the Gatekeeper, although she of course does not believe for a second that SG is in fact capable of doing what he says. SG looks pained for a moment, like genuinely sincerely regretful, and despite herself X feels a pang of absurd sympathy. Well, SG says, recently they changed the Gatekeeper, you know. This one was extremely good. What a fucking monster it was. The pity of it was that if it had been weaker or just a bit less I suppose stubborn I would not have need to kill it but as things stood I had to kill it, which really was a mythic waste. At this point the sheer honesty and genuineness SG is displaying is inspiring in X a wave of disembodied horror, and she stares at him and says, you can’t kill a Gatekeeper. You bloody liar. Her hope is that he will grin and laugh and say, I really got you there didn’t I. But he says, well, and pauses, and then X and the rest of the passengers are falling towards the ceiling of the plane with vulgar force, there is a loud metallic shriek, a coarse rising wheeeeeewheeeeeuuu with umlauts everywhere, a sudden emergency alarm goes off spastically, and generally things are a total mess though SG remains in his seat and stares wistfully out of the window. It is unclear if the plane has actually flipped over or if something more surreal is taking place, and then things reverse – and people fall back into/on/over their seats/other people/serving trays/cups of FruitFresh/Zappa. X collapses helplessly into SG’s lap with hair in her mouth and scrambles off saying, oh my god you, you, you, what did you do? and tries to call QC as no doubt everyone else on the plane is doing and gets graceless blankness sounding in her ears. Sorry, SG says yet again. But yeah this is the sort of thing I do. Or can do. Otherwise flights would be so boring, and fuck that, you know what I mean? I hope you don’t think I’m being self-centered or anything. And to put things in context, please just let me say this, actually this isn’t that much worse than the thing with the train, so if you care about that sort of thing – not necessarily that awful, if you put things in perspective. SG says this with utter sincerity, he is pleading for X to put herself in his place, from whence he seems to think that everything will be made clear. X knows what SG is referring to now, possibly she even has an idea of what SG actually is, and stands up in the aisle and shouts, oh shit, kill this guy, he’s doing it, kill him kill him kill him. The other passengers, rattled no doubt by their inability to get QC + the weirdness of the whole unceremonious flipping-over thing + that piercing whine, nonetheless only stare blankly at her, and X can see A actually beginning to shake his condescending shitty head, what a total wanker that guy is, she thinks like a stab of clarity through the panic. I swear he did it, she says, lamely even to her own ears. SG stands up, having to dip his head a little because he’s not in the aisle, and helpfully offers, hi everyone. She’s actually correct, you know. There are murmurs of what’s this guy saying? So SG says, well if you look out of your windows, folks on the left here, I’ll make the second generator come off about now. People look out and indeed the thing twists itself off and plummets. Then the general screaming starts, and someone actually leaps right at SG, and he says, oh please no violence, and steps aside and as the person stumbles past SG grabs his arm and takes it off. There is a gunshot, two gunshots, and SG grins brilliantly and says, now who did that, and chuckles with joy at the game. You did that didn’t you. He goes over to a shaking guy and tells him, stand up, come on, stand up now, coaxingly, like he has a lot of good experience with small children doing bad things or something. The man stands up and SG says, do you have your cell on you? Man passes SG his phone and SG says, selfie! He holds the phone out with his right arm and his left goes around the shoulders of the other the sobbing shaking guy, clutching him tight, and he presses his face against the man’s and says, smile! The man actually tries to smile thorough his terror and snot and all of a sudden X recognises C. SG pulls a silly cross-eyed look and there is a dainty bing as the shot is taken and then SG clutches the other guy suddenly very hard indeed and there is a neat crunch and he sort of dissolves into a generic red mess from the torso up. Something weird: the big impossible splat in the air itself seems to move outward slowly, gooishly, although everything else is in normal time, that is to say, total chaos. X is screaming, or maybe not, it’s all quite vague. But SG turns around and says to X, yeah, I’m totally sorry about this, looking sad. The high metallic whine stops and the plane pitches downward sharply. Here we go, SG says. X stupidly says, the generators are still running, even though that fact does not to her mind pose a conceptual problem of any sort, and in any case there must be more urgent things to be said at this point. SG apologetically replies, yeah, the ones left, but they’re not so relevant. X: so we’re all gonna die; SG: well I’ll be okay.
What sustained him. To speak even of such things. Coming out of the trench, covered in dust, on E–, the look of sudden familiarity. Light coming over the broken place. Wind coming like a prophet through the grass, like a prophet bringing rain. How many unaccountable accidents of history to make just this, here. What sustained him. It was a love that he knew like the memory of holiness, that made one hold the hands of the other even when only one of them would ever know or remember. Overwhelming. How to make yourself invulnerable then ultimately vulnerable to another. Water moving one way or another, not speaking of the places from which it was borrowed or will return. A circle of warmth on the bleating plain. One pool. On A–, the inescapable mountains rising. Staggering how beautiful. Against the complete blackness something rising like a perfect white cut-out, a live space without feature. So many things standing against the word, so many things designed against it. Under language and out of grasp. Basic needs. Nothing for which any apology can be made. Overwhelming.
The Dry Land
The Dry Land is a Full Experience Heightened Reality Indefinite Utility-Positive Game, classed as a Massively Multiplayer Shareworld Direct Substitution Role-Playing Game in the Dark Fantasy genre. It is one of the 5 open-world games currently hosted on Bombe. It is generally accepted that Bombe created the game, although it has been suggested that Emprinten and Nocrus played a part in its development, given the complexity of The Dry Land’s world. More radical suggestions that Way-on-Hill or Messier advised in its development are now nearly universally rejected.
The Dry Land was released on December 11 2966 worldwide on Stizostedion and was released on Naze on July 34 2970. It is accessible via a TSD blacktile-64 nullport, freely provided by Quistclose and Petromyzon, with two upgrades available from the Bombe/Nocrus platform. No official world additions have ever been released, though users (mostly Inhabiters, but also some itinerant Players) have noted that some aspects of the gameworld appear to have been modified since The Dry Land was first released.
The Dry Land takes place in an alternate universe based closely on the Kingdom, centered on Stizostedion; many colleges are replicated in The Dry Land. As is typical of Bombe’s games, the backstory and mythology of the The Dry Land is extremely difficult to piece together, although it is generally accepted that a Decontextual Happening features heavily in the relatively recent past of The Dry Land. The physical laws of The Dry Land generally follow the Canon Set, although there are certain marked divergences which have not been properly catalogued. The most well-understood divergence is the The Dry Land’s setting in a Weakless universe. Ingame observations from the EMpScI observatory on Naze confirm that the universe of The Dry Land is also relatively young, being about 6 billion years old. Many other divergences have been observed, although these are poorly understood. For example, users have reported that in certain situations angular momentum appears to operate according to a left-hand rule, which would imply a fundamental asymmetry in Neurath’s laws. Bombe has refused to comment on the game’s G-set. Certain commentators have also classed The Dry Land’s (apparent) portrayal of naked Haccieters as a modification of the Canon Set.
The Dry Land does not contain, as the Kingdom does, Allocative AIs, and the allocation of resources operates on basic anarchic-capitalist principles. Users are thus given an unusual degree of freedom in the game .The Dry Land has been of considerable interest to academics as a model for both capitalist markets and for the spread of diseases in primitive societies [see: FEHR modelling].
There is no mission-set specified for users in The Dry Land: they are free to act, subject only to ingame physics and the actions of other users. Consistent with other games Bombe has created, users cannot extend the gameworld.
The release of The Dry Land was met with both critical acclaim and, over time, increasing controversy. Game reviewers praised the extreme difficulty of the game, in particular its unforgiving attitude towards pain, and noted that despite having no mission-sets, “…The Dry Land feels entirely if menacingly purposeful. Staying alive is no easy task. But it is impossible to enter The Dry Land and want to only survive. The thrill comes from the need, invariably and keenly felt, to explore – and that is where the vastest and strangest encounters lie. It’s ur-surreal, and, as my partner pointed out, ur-real. ” A particularly glowing review in the New Journal for Massive Games noted that “while The Dry Land makes you suffer, and there were moments where the sheer what-the-fuckery of it made me regret ever having entered, it brings you into contact with beings so awe-inspiring and so strange that when the payoffs arrive you genuinely feel like you are taking part in the making of a myth. The number of impossible missions you can construct for yourself in The Dry Land is quite remarkable. I joined the Assault on Messier on my second day in. I could not help it. It’s is hard to imagine a spontaneous coordination of frankly sick aggression developing in any other gameworld. For six hours I watched people pour atomic fire onto the Lock until, of course, the thing-that-is-not-a-Hasp came out and killed us all…”
In what proved to be a prophetic review, IGV wrote in its one-month report that “… it is hard to believe this game is utility-positive. The play is deep, the atmosphere unrelentingly dark, the mythopoeia haunting, and the moments of rest utterly sublime. But the rest? Who knows. Who knows indeed. There is a lot of suffering to go through. There is a lot of it and this game might not turn out to be utility-positive but here’s the kicker: now that I’ve stopped, I keep thinking about it. And I can’t remind myself of anything but the fact that I want to enter The Dry Land, again and again. Bombe has another disturbing masterpiece. But whisper that fact.”
The Dry Land proved to be the most controversial Bombe release. It was noted from the moment Inhabitation was allowed that a surprisingly large number of individuals requested this option, despite the harsh nature of The Dry Land. The vast majority were denied by Quistclose, which expressed alarm at the number of Inhabitation requests. It was also noted by Quistclose that even Players who had spent a short amount of time in The Dry Land suffered from Expanded Personality Syndrome, although it took no rectificatory action, continuing in its longstanding policy of not interfering in FEHR games. Quistclose has also noted marked suicidal tendencies in Players who are barred from entering The Dry Land, although these are considered easily treatable and at best a trivial harm.
The Dry Land also contains a high number of Experience Gutters, most of which pertain to situations where a user is dying or in pain. Users at first complained about the fact that when wounded they did not have the ability to log out, but rapidly developed aversion tactics or purchased ingame painkilling equipment. Most experienced users of The Dry Land aggressively defend this aspect of the game, pointing out that much of the attraction of playing in The Dry Land comes from being forced to avoid Experience Gutters.
The Dry Land is also controversial for its depiction of Haccieters, which many users have criticised as unnecessary, confusing, and “even by TDR standards, needlessly horrific”, as well as its modification of important sites on Stizostedion and Naze. The latter has occasionally led to frustrating gameplay – Messier, for instance, is completely inaccessible, and users who attempt to enter are immediately killed. Since the complete death of 7 Inhabiters (and many more Players) in the ill-fated Operation Doppler [see: Operation Doppler], few players now attempt to enter Messier. Similarly, any user entering the Blueshore area on Naze is confronted by (apparently) the Lama Sabachthani and immediately killed. Nonetheless, not all modifications are extreme (e.g., the Ambassador), and some areas, most notably the Memorial for the Nameless Dead, have been left substantially unchanged.
The Dry Land also broke the longstanding tradition that Descendants and the two unclassified were not portrayed directly in art. A general feature of The Dry Land is the corruption of AIs. College AIs, for example, are rarely benevolent. However, the extension of this theme to ingame Descendants was viewed by some commentators as “crossing the line that separates punishing from hair-tearingly unfair.”
The most controversial feature of The Dry Land is its MDEs. While mass death is not unheard of in other FEHR games, it is exceptionally rare, and is either non-guttered or relatively quick and painless. A minor MDE occurred in the very first week of The Dry Land’s release, during the First Siege of Messier. However, there were no permanent deaths, and the deaths that did occur were relatively painless.
November 3rd 2971 – the “Temper-Being IMDE”: “… watching us fizz.”
On November 3rd 2971, the first controversial MDE occurred when the Temper-Being ventured beyond its usual territory and burnt to death 700,000 users of whom 114 were Inhabiters, all of whom were – unusually –deemed unretrievable. This MDE combined had several strange features, each of which would have been shocking to users on its own. Firstly, the entire sequence was guttered, and users had the experience being burnt to death. Secondly, unlike all previous MDEs, this MDE was completely unpredictable and apparently not linked to user action. Thirdly, this MDE was non-discriminatory: hunkers (users who had invested huge quantities of money into protective equipment) were killed just as easily as fleeters (completely unprotected users). The Temper-Being was the tongue-in-cheek name given to the ingame guard of the Wrecked and Full Churches. Until 2971 both Churches were inaccessible to users as the guard would stop all attempts to enter, prompting joking speculation that Bombe had not completed the Churches (they were being “Tempered”). Since logspeak for “temper” often used the flame symbol, the guard was called the “Temper-Being” due to its similarity to an open flame when viewed from a distance. The actions of the Temper-Being are not currently well-understood: Players gave fragmentary and “extravagant” accounts of what happened. Jonze’s description of the first MDE is now famous: “What happened is that Bombe made a monster. Then it sent the monster after us and the monster put Big Bangs inside each of us and watched us fizz.” The event of November 3rd 2971was classed as an Inordinate MDE or IMDE, although they are usually referred to as “burnings”, in reference to the Temper-Being event.
The causes of the 1st IMDE are not well-understood; Bombe has, as always, remained completely silent on the issue. The Temper-Being has never again appeared after the November 3rd event, and both Churches are now open. The Full Church is unaltered, but The Defence is missing from the Wrecked Church [see: The Wrecked Church (representations)]. It has been suggested that the 1st IMDE was a result of an attempt to model Alle, the second Haccieter although this suggestion has not been widely accepted. In the aftermath of the IMDE, intense scepticism of the utility-positivity of The Dry Land forced Quistclose to divulge for the first time its EUF (estimated utility function) for the game [see: The 2972 Bombe Revelation], which itself led to a sudden explosion of activity in the study of Deep Law [see: the Bezoar Mechanism or: the Double-Counting Dispute]. Close scrutiny of the EUF has led to a tentative consensus that Quistclose’s assessment of The Dry Land as utility-positive is correct, although challenges to this consensus are frequent.
April 24th 2979 – the “Dusty IMDE”
The 2nd IMDE occurred on April 24th 2979, when many users had come to believe that the 1st IMDE was a freak one-off experiment that Bombe was unlikely to repeat. User numbers, after dipping after the first IMDE, had more than recovered by this time; indeed, participation rates had nearly doubled.
 P. Ampiere and D. Green, “Bombe Does Not Lie, But…”, Northern Link Herald, January 20 2983.
 J. Fuern, “Imagining The Dry Land: A New Way In”, Journal of Alternate History 2993, vol.2, p.404.
 T. Hasegawa, H. Lemmerl, J. Tulkser, R. Dove, “The G-Set of The Dry Land”, World Studies 2969 vol.1 p.78.
 F. Katye, “Problematic Observations”, General Exploration in Hypothetical Models, Issue 82
 D. Bromley, “Review: The Dry Land”, New Gaming, Issue 347, p.3
 Anon., “Something Altogether Different”, New Journal for Massive Games, Issue 99
 “One Month In: The Dry Land”, IGV 4288, p.25
 Log: D/D/TDR/InHb/2230
 The Dry Land Forum, threat: “Guttering and Glory”
 F. Kinn and R. Cope, “Gameworld Leakage: An Overview,” World Studies 2893 vol.3, p.11
 T. Andrew, “The Idea of Reward,” Play, Issue 230, p.4
 H. Hiber, “Memory Modification by Bombe”, Journal for Massive Games, Issue 141, p.30
 “Unstoppable” Inquirer, published November 5 2971
 A thorough discussion of the significance of this can be found in: R. Setzer, “The Defence”, Emblematicisms and Action 2972, vol.4, p. 183.
 See e.g.: P. Somas and R. Setzer, “Fear and Trembling in The Dry Land”, Player Investigations 2973 vol.1, p. 78, D. Hefstomerk, “How To Burn”, New Journal for Massive Games, Issue 150, pp. 2-8, and D. Tridimas, “Eyewitness Accounts of the 1st IMDE: A Systematic Review”, Journal for Massive Games, Issue 259, pp. 65-123.
 See among many others D. Seller, H. Turner and V. Kramnik (eds), “Explaining The Dry Land,” Full Patent and Fence of Inkper College, 2999, S. Drake, “Modelling the Temper-Being,” Investigations Into Rules 2977, vol. 5, p.1, V. Kramnik, “A Response to Somas: Removing H2”, The Standard Model 2973 vol.3, p. 44, E. Fry, “Records of Peculiar Electromagnetic Interactions in The Dry Land”, General Empirical Studies of Basic Forces 2984, vol.1, p.4
See among many others F. Helfgott, “The Dry Land is Not Utility-Positive”, Welfare and Social Design 2974, vol.2, p.34, G. E. Itirades, “Double-Counting Yet Again,” Journal of Economic Studies 2975, vol.3, p.1, A. Lomer, “Unbalanced Weighting in The Dry Land’s Utility Counting Functions: Implications for Intermediate EUF Derivatives”, Making Utility Work Issue 21839, p.64, A. Pinker, C. Radosch, and P. Urdos (eds) “The Measure of The Dry Land”, Full Patent and Fence of the Faculty for Welfare Studies, 2984.
I killed something today.
Accident. Volkies are nearly invisible. It was going to happen sooner or later. Coming back from O.’s in the evening when suddenly there was something on the road improbably dark and tight against the beam. Small. It sensed the air moving, maybe it heard something, and then exploded blackly upward and for a moment it was harsh in the light. I remember the clutching feet, small clutching feet put out ahead of itself. Then there were only small motes dusting the edge of the beam and nothing else.
I got out and went to see what it was. There was blood matted into its feathers. I didn’t know what it was. Its body was heavy and felt like it was coming apart. I turned it around and the colour got me. If you went and queried the undergrowths across the universe they would nominate this colour as the contraction of their being. The eyes were from another universe entirely. Small things like moths batted at me.
I should probably let the Volkie drive itself. At night, at least. It’s for my safety too.
 It’s the wrong word. But it’s the one we use.
Leviathan arrived on Stizostedion, as he (a he this time, it was well known) always had, with moderate fanfare indicating the confluence of huge excitement and a population too sophisticated (intimidated?) to attempt a proper expression of it. This was news passed in peristaltic fashion through long conversations had for the most part in the eternally dishevelled air that gyrated outside butteries – conversations self-aware enough to vigorously acknowledge their own speculative nature and rapidly divert themselves to the unsung mysteries of digestion—
Such were things on Stize. There were oddities reasonably to be expected of a University older than most civilisations and that had managed to swallow an entire planet. Even with the inconvenience occasioned by the intermittent closing of border crossings caused by deep methodological disputes among departments, university life built up around itself a thick plaque, a jus of joys mostly intimated, epileptic compilations that colluded to a rich mucilage without rote or indeed fantasy, a brew in which oddities accreted into institutions, into certain forms of assault . Stizostedion, so formally called, was under the good watch of Quistclose, an endlessly helpful, considerate, compassionate, murderous AI that (some argued, mostly keeping Petromyzon in mind, but of course everything was argued here, was it not? was this not essential in the specification?) was the most powerful (contested term) in the Kingdom, the most magical and hieroglyphic, the most known and unknown, the one with colour. It had loaded Stize’s fat skies with a sheen of Compydust (a tragic name of QC’s own making) soupy enough to instantaneously dissolve all unpermitted peoples into a sanguinated cloud, a halo of florid light, and to send any ships unfortunate enough to have Breached Two Tiers (of Protocol eith Notice and Without Due Consideration) hulking aflame into the sea, or if that was not possible/desirable to grind them into a metallic mash deposited as exquisite spangly powders over the spires and buttresses of the 322 colleges. QC’s favourite phrase, which was a much-checked fact on public record, was “—terribly sorry.”
Upon arrival Leviathan was admitted promptly into Way-on-Hill, starry tabernacle of the academic firmament, and before the month had passed during which people were meant to get acquainted with the air of essential shabbiness fundamental to academic life was saddled with a devastating trinity of tutors: Kramnik, from the SM Faculty, sexless, urbane, endlessly mild-mannered, vague and brilliant as cheesecloth, sometime contributor to the fabled Field Guide to the Stray Shopping Carts of the Western Paleartic (also, everyone noted, rumoured to have been once involved in a near-fatal smiling accident); Crane, sweating, massive, dewlapped, tumescently brainy, orbiculate body barely keeping viable a head in which arguments mated noisily, bred, and died; proof-annihilator, brash, antiprolix, wearyingly acute, famed amicus to the great Erskine judgment, a colossus rudely – nakedly – triumphantly!— bestride the Ethics Faculty; and the one they called Tehayanianatu, lodged nominally in the Logic Faculty, the only metavirus in stable human residence, the only tutor on Stize no-one had heard physically speaking, unknowable and brooding and black in its ancient chambers, absent at all Formals to no inconsiderable relief of most fellows of Way-on-Hill, devourer of (at latest count) three undergraduates, one colleague, and a small loop of QC itself (the furore was immense; one could have built civilisations off it), controversially described by the worshipful who braved its supervisions as speaking – speaking, despite the common knowledge! – in a manner soft and kind and toneless and terrifying as it hung down from the dark spaces in its rooms, hierophant to infinitary logics, dripping, redolent of blood, and loose – far too loose, oh! how very loose, do not laugh – with the forest of teeth serrated and secreted in its blind head.
I’ve not written about the arrival yet. That strikes me as rather strange. Now that I think about it I didn’t particularly enjoy the arrival, but I certainly do enjoy the memory of it. So I should probably write something about it.
We arrived on IMV Scafell. Scafell’s a really nice ship. It was kind to me. Mostly its kindnesses involved arranging things so that I didn’t have to be at the long planning meetings. It’s good knowing it’s never too far off now. It’s having a good time. It told me as much; coming to an unexplored place like this was something it had wanted to do for a long time.
We all spent a couple of weeks in orbit. It was an unbearable time, but in a good way. I could feel moments passing. It’s what anticipation is like – it’s like having, for the first time in your life, a new sense, or a new limb, one that only detects time. There were many things to do and this new sense ached at it, chafed. We got the immunisation treatment and all felt strangely exhausted after that. I talked to Henroe about it and she told me that the treatment basically put the immune system into a calibrated overdrive and then grafted a great whomping cocktail of Factors onto it so complex that it was likely that no-one onboard could fully understand how it worked. There is a sense in which this complexity represents the brute totality of what we are doing here. First we are up there and mystified by things of our own making, then we go down and are mystified by things which we have had no part in.
So we were all tired for four or five days, getting used to that. We looked at the pictures that the satellites sent back. O. printed them out and lined the walls of his room with them. I went to his room and touched the pictures. They were, indeed, nothing more than that: pictures. Quite often I went to the viewing port and just stood there. Only rarely was I alone.
We also got our blood changed. It didn’t really feel like anything, since the atmosphere down here pretty similar to standard and the changes were minor. More to prevent oxygen toxicity than anything else.
Did I enjoy that particular period? I don’t know. The people who volunteered for this are not the most sociable bunch, naturally. Scafell had some beautiful public spaces but they were usually empty. I’m not complaining; I appreciated this very much. Even Scafell was a quiet ship. It generally spoke only when spoken to. I think it took a liking to me, but it is entirely possible that it was a good to everyone as it was to me. I didn’t ask about this, of course.
I came here to be alone, in a specific sense. It was that stuff with L. and the child that settled it. Well, this is not totally honest, is it? I like coming out and sort of getting away from it all. But L. helped to make the decision clearer.
Eventually we had to come down, and we did. There was nothing dramatic but there was nothing to compare it to either. The air outside turned from black and blue and then we were there.
It’s called TKTA-11, but we call it Tokata.
We spent another three months at Base, now the Main Building, when we all touched down. It was a good time. The first four days in tents while the Main Building was erected. There was an unspoken communality to the whole thing. Us living together in little fabric spaces, caught up in the unexpected simplicity of what we were doing. I think people – we – were aware that very soon we would all have take our stations. It was like holding something small and thrumming alive in the hand, knowing it soon had to go. People were generous to each other, even more so than usual. Do you know what really captures this? Running out. Because something was going, was disappearing fast, and we could tell, but it was going in a direction at rights angles to everything else, going outwards, escaping and glad for it.
At night people would make trips to each other’s tents, tell big stupid stories about the things they planned to do. Laughed a lot. This was really strange. It’s obvious now. But we were all on a new world, staggering about, and it was inevitable. We’re really not by design the most sociable bunch.
We had landed on a clean site. The landing had been near the base of a big low rocky hill and some of us went up it, a kilometre or so, in the long evenings. A bunch of us went on the second day, to watch Tokata’s sunset. Deep light, a whole morningtide of it, a flood without form or function except for wildness. Blueness that looked like it could never be covered or made to go away. Tokata has got 4 moons; only two were visible then. I am remembering all of this and so I might not have gotten all of this correct. But I’m trying to record my memories, not the real thing, so I can’t get worried about these small things.
We watched sakers sky violently up into the air, a raft of dark points. Some of us started at the noise. All around we could sense peripheral life. Small things, the sorts that seem in perpetual retreat from the world, things with black odorous sounds. Coloured the common colours of the undergrowth in all possible worlds. From the height we were at we could see our tents quite clearly. Those that had put the allweathers on were dim zygotic bundles, but those who braved the cold nights and wore the allweathers instead had let the tents deform into lanternlike shapes, crumpled things standing against the evening. The evening gave the image vintage. The air here is slightly denser than standard. There is a mantling quality to it, a big arch that comes over your head, and it can take away your warmth fast. It is fat and tactile.
On the third day, I think, there was a massive storm and people didn’t leave the tents. I was in my tent with Ogford & Co. and we thought we heard Mika’s tent get blown down. Turned out that it hadn’t but it had come pretty close. All around us for 6+ hours yellow fabric pulsing and flapping, struts bowing in & out terrifyingly. The rain made a very specific sound against the sides of the tent. It was a hard and flat sound, like branches snapping.
I remember that O. said something like, “I swear I’m going to get away from the equator. This is just not acceptable,” and I said, “As long as you still contribute to the power and the glory –” and we started laughing like complete idiots. That does not look so funny when I write it down like that. But it happened.
Scafell asked to help the next day. Come through the clouds and came up to the site and asked if Winnfield was around.
“I could help with the building,” it said. The Helpers were doing a good job. I think by that time we had one Turer going, and the south wing of the complex was already up.
“It’s all right,” W. said. “The main thing now is just raw material.” It was funny, seeing W. standing there while the vast shadow of Scafell sort of loomed over her.
“I could help get the metals from V4.”
“Are you cleared for superlifting?”
“Well – no. But it wouldn’t be too difficult. I’d quite like something to do.”
Scafell is really big and has some old-fashioned expressive mannerisms. It sort of waggled a bit from side to side, a small motion that was incongruously exaggerated by the fins. W. smiled. Scafell said, “Will it know? I mean, it will know, but will it really bother to ask? But in any case I’m pretty sure I could justify things.”
“If you say so. Thanks. As the helpers for the details of what we need.”
“Already did. I’ll get going.”
 Although we did get an infusion of Very Fast Clotting Factor (VFCF), which I am told can do some miraculous things. O. said that they don’t fool around with haemoglobin too much since – and I quote – “iron is very promiscuous”.
 This was w.r.t. the TOA we signed with the Union. Am I allowed to say this? Well. Not much can be done about it now, so it probably doesn’t matter. We’d gotten the 3rd House largely swung to our side. It had been a very difficult thing to do. Getting the Faroes bought over had been meant to settle it. It didn’t. The rest took lots of effort and gentle cajoling and calculation from Petr. It was very difficult. When the Outer Region Conference proposed a bill to extend a very minimal redistribution regins to Index Class II services it passed (furore in the U., lots of celebrating on Stize) in the 3rd. but then got stuck at 2nd. Things rarely got stuck at 2nd. It was unelected and the understanding was that generally it might comment but not interfere. But there were two representatives who were giant assholes about it. Petr. thought about it and decided that all things considered it was the slightly more junior of the two who was probably the gutsier. So we spoke to him personally. I say we, really it was L. and Petr. who made the decision. I think we might actually have sent the message via a Descendant. It must have been terrifying for him. We thought we’d scare the shit out of him – call him Giant Dickhead (GDH). But there was some hidden variable. This was a shock. There are no hidden variables with Petr.; it does not happen. But something was there, embedded just outside detection, because GDH said no. He said no. He understood what we were doing; he thought it was not democratic. Here was something we knew about him: he loved his family. Utterly devoted to his children (wife had died; unimportant), in particular his second daughter – 2 y.o. He didn’t use his children for political gain. Was of what Petr. called a rare type. He’d left office for 1 yr to get his first son through school. We put something in his second daughter that caused something like 55?56? very specific point mutations in approx. 90% of her cells. Effects were varied. Illustration: one of the mutations was at position 1824 of the LMNA gene; a CàT switch. Gene encodes prelamin A, which becomes lamin A – stabilizes the nuclear wall. The CàT switch means that the mRNA transcript is usually short. Effect: abnormal protein folding. Effect: farnesyl group cannot be removed from prelamin A. Effect: protein is anchored to nuclear wall. Effect: abnormally shaped nucleus. Effect: cell division is fucked. Effect: aging at approx. 11X? the normal rate. Effect: death at approx. 13 standard years due to usually arthrosclerosis though many fucked-up ways of dying are very plausible. Union tech could detect the mutation; best treatment involved stopping bodily production of prelamin A altogether. But the other 50+ mutations produced shall we say extremely painful and unbelievably debilitating diseases some of which were designed with the sole object of making normal treatment paths impossible. So the 2nd daughter sort of drowned on her own blood + lost all her hair & gastrointestinal tract & lived off machines for 2 yrs before GDH realized what was going on. GDH must have considered going public but at some point recognized the obvious risks, so we got a message: okay, I’ll do it. So he pulled off a major policy turnaround and apologized to his electorate and said he would not run for office again, and pulled enough votes from various places to get the Bill passed in 2nd. He might have assumed that we’d help the daughter. We didn’t. She died. So the point was made. GDH did resign, and ended up running for office again; got reelected largely on the back of an apparent perception that he had drifted towards the center. We asked him after the first time, without ever mentioning his daughter, for a few more things. He never said no. He had other children. Do I have thoughts about this? Well, yes. It was the best thing we could have done. There might be something more, though. Why did I just write all of that using “we”? That has to be understood in purely nominal terms. I’m trying to be outside all of this. I’m trying to look in. It’s not easy. The only way I have of knowing is to be there on the inside, but I’m trying, I really am.
 The Main Building was officially christened Anhedonia. What can I say?
 One of the few good names we came up with. The sound of the word matches them.
 What W. says is that Tokata’s air at the equatorial latitudes is oddly clean; no condensation nuclei. So there aren’t many storms, but when they do come they are huge and almost inevitably hurricane-force.
 So one of the things about Tokata is that there are some (sort-of) open bodies of water whose chemical composition differs substantially from the rest of the ocean because of very concentrated undersea volcanic activity (Gerring is so excited he looks sick most of the time). One of the big sides was called V4, and the exudate there was rich in REMs. I can’t actually remember this; I just looked it up on the records.
 W. always uses the full name. Everyone else says BWL.
 It’s to be expected, in a way, but I find how blasé non-descendant AIs are about their possible death a bit unsettling. As in – how do I say this – they don’t like dying since they get upset on behalf of all the people they know feel affection for them, but they just cannot understand the pure atavistic fear of not existing that infects (I think) most of us. It’s an entirely rational assessment of death. The metaphysical has been entirely crowded out. It is very strange.
I am not dead. We are all waiting and tense – scouts never came back – but I am alive. This is my first letter to you – isn’t it strange that we are forced to do this, to actually write on paper before they scan it all – and that we enjoy it – maybe it is the sentimentality of it – what Hatherance calls Old School – but I am not familiar with this, and so I think I must right away reassure you that I am alive and well because that is probably what you are thinking about now – at least I must hope so.
I know what you will be thinking – but do not doubt this. I am alive. It is true, what you are thinking – what I know you must be thinking, if I know you at all – there are others who have written dozens of letters, prepaid for all of them, and asked for them to be sent in staggered order, automatically – one every two, three weeks, or so – all this so that even if they die the letters from them will continue to be sent – I ask myself when their partners will discover this and what they will think and if this is a kind of compassion or cruelty. But this is a letter from me, alive.
Exactly four years ago we met. I intend for this to be a brief chronicle of things that have happened to us – that we did – a remembrance of what I am told I should call an anniversary, when I saw you standing there over the opponent in the Ring, looking flatly, coldly – that is how you look – up at me, the one from S1P5 who had shot the exercise drone by accident – of the night we first spent together, I terrified, you amused – even now I am not sure, you are unreadable – amused, or wondering – us at the graduation where I tasted Muscatel for the first time and was shocked at its brilliance, and where you had far too much and sat there perfectly still and only very slightly smiling when I slowly slipped and fell off the chair without realising – and even then everyone too afraid of you to laugh – how I woke with a blinding ache the day after finding that the commanders had been honest about not letting the nanos help with the alcohol for that night and realised that I had to be carried back to the bunk and put to bed – that you had done it, impossibly, and I wondered what people must have thought who saw it. The first paired mission in Afar – two of us, two very soaked sergeants of the CM in the night not saying anything, just leaning over over the stele-light, looking at the warmth between us like a miracle – night over the great plains and navigating by stars that were only just familiar enough since we had no Globenet – no easy task even for me, you said – and then I for the very first time knew that maybe you respected me, in a way – finding the abandoned convertible and learning to make it move – the picnic, or so we called it, of rations and terrible coffee – the tent of light and warmth we made in the space under the rusting hulk of a while we did the twonight recce – the bootlegged music you brought that Gryzhas had taken off the Stize web – Emperor Concerto, you had written on the black chip, assuring me that was not its real name – us listening with the muffler around us in that space and me wondering where such music came from and how it had been discovered as it roared around us in that small flickering space. After the success of that and our return the dinner at the Auburn – the privilege of that and the people who stared because we were too young and unranked for such a thing – the mission call – promises made – and back again this time to Lamarck – two nights before the departure us, again a little drunk, spending all night in a cinema and falling asleep locked in each other’s arms – waking and the shock of it and realising that we had not been discovered – me actually laughing in relief and you looking annoyed. Hatherance wanted a meal before we left but we – without speaking – agreed it was better if no-one felt our leaving and so we left her request unreplied to.
On Lamarck again nights like a prayer all strung together and punctuated by the fighting that you longed to throw yourself into but which we were not supposed to be a part of – the mountain pass and the wards all along it that made my heart hammer and that you said would not hurt us – the firefight in the ruddy mountain dawn – you losing an arm and high-fiving a child you saw on the way back down with your remaining arm, high on the meds – the bunk we found buried there in the mountain – the flare I sent up – cold blue in that crow sky as we watched – I know what you noticed. I know you noticed and you did not speak to me about it. There are things about me that are not necessary to know about but I tell you now because we might be together again that what you saw happen was not something I willed – was not something that was important to me – not a part of me – come back and ask me and I will tell, I can explain. It was only a light, John – it was only a light.
Back and still surprised at our survival – at least I was and that was all I could tell those who asked – you carried already the awe around you that suppressed questions – the first time we fucked in my bunk and the first time I asked – just after you appeared at the door and again people stared. Us hoping that because we were lieutenants we would get more time – but two weeks and then the mission call came – the misery of realising that we could not go together – your anger – I know it was anger although you called it other names – the dangerousness that you carried with you – you hurt Gryz badly when he asked, do you not know? – and me standing at the seawall at Thysbe – we said goodbyes, you fonder than I ever remembered – me tearful and stupid – Hatherance calling you a bastard for not saying anything or telling me your departure hour – that did hurt – I wanted to tell her about your way of doing things but that too felt like a betrayal, and my stupidity can govern me. The last quick drive over the cliffmount to the perch you showed me where the ships leave – your great metal insect borne speckling into the light and a roar that came through the air long after.
I watched till I could no longer see your convoy and everyone though again that I was staring into nothing. There was a long contrail left that glowed after night fell, catching stray light.
Do you remember at Afar how I told you that – looking up at the deep sky – it was hard to imagine that there is not a kindness looming somewhere – and you told me how many of the people we knew were dead and I was a stupid dreamer – I must confess that is a large part of what remains with me, this looming kindness I postulate to myself in my head over and over again – what else is there? We come into this place, this world or rock or planet perpetually falling in whatever rut it is lodged in, we improvise, and then we leave, never having had a chance to practise. Everything turns out so thin. I want this war to end.
I hope I see you soon, my love – I will write messages from the field for there is no one here to talk to and you have quelled my tendency to silence.