Curse. Parasite. Uproot.

The mere sight of HOLOCENE's handwriting incurs a shiver of post-codebreaking trauma.

IF THERE IS A HOLOCENE, THERE IS ALSO AN INNER HOLOCENE.

And... presumably... HOLOCENE's method of locating you in the first place.

THIS DIPLOMACY SEEMS TO HAVE RUN ITS COURSE.

That holds. Nothing would be audible beyond twenty kilometres.

Each sentence reads as if it was rehearsed for an already-nodding audience.

This isn't any 'psychology' you recognise; it's all esoteric neuroscience and qualia.

The clinical care of the descriptions is what chills you, the obsessive attention to each crew member's nuances and weaknesses.

The words leave an unpleasant feeling, like a whiff of putrid meat.

A jagged cathedral, wreathed in smoke and flames, quivering against a bruised sky.

Luminous. Immense. Doomed.

Eyes meet across the cabin, the same terror and wonder reflected as metal screams around them.

Discrepency. What of the time-stamp from earlier? It was nested among redactions.

The rituals of a bureaucratic autopsy.

And girls who want boys to leave them alone.

THE BUSINESSMAN THINKS HIMSELF A HUNTER. THIS IS NOT JUST COMMODITY FETISHISM BUT LABOUR FETISHISM, DELUSION IN THE EXTREME.

Here, the foundation of a house -- two middle-aged women inside, silent as they pack up furniture that belonged to their mother.

Blasphemous.

Somewhere on a distant hill, a wild dog howls. In your nostrils, the rabbity scent of fear.

The smell of beeswax.

NETWORK should get you the list. Then it's just a matter of finding what you're looking for.

QUIT, definitely quit.

There -- close to the centre, amid the hundreds of black squares, there is a single asterisk, blinking slowly. It can only be the Renotel Artery's location.

The mess of black squares swims before your eyes. You have no idea.

Easy. The Pitol Tract -- an industrial wasteland devoid of people or signals.

When Nestor's space program was abandoned, so was the Tract.

Former Supreme Leader Nestor cleared out an entire neighborhood to build the hub of Portofiro's space program 30 years ago. When the program was abandoned, so was the Tract.

Ocean, probably?

You're looking for an intercom, not a phone -- there must be something that differentiates them.

A pointillistic map of the island, drawn in phone terminals.

It's a background process. Users wouldn't be able to keep up if it was foregrounded.

Connect with the machine, tap into the invisible substructure of the city.

It seems they lack an artist's spirit.

No one in this establishment has a chance at understanding your art. Perhaps no one does.

There should never have been any doubt about that. You are possessed with art.

Don't count on that. Keep your day job for now.

Scancions, used to represent stressed and unstressed syllables. Prosodists have fought over whether they're worth anything for millenia.

Good start.

Not normal paper. This is nitrocellulose, made to burn quickly and completely.

Totally meaningless, yet no meaning can be made without it.

The pack of cigarettes on the desk. You missed something about them.

No accident. This is functional invisibility -- the wearer would have no choice but to blend in to a crowd.

Don't forget the coin pocket. Front right.

Embarrassment isn't the problem. A much darker feeling is trying to claw its way into her consciousness.

Why would EMTERR care about a couple of impressionable old men?

She can tell you're smoothing it over for her.

THE BLOODY HAND OF TRANSNATIONAL CAPITAL.

Her eyes are bloodshot, hair lank.

Who in their right mind would not follow up on an invisible aircraft carrier?

Checks