The weight of the thesis threatens to strain your hand muscles.

The weight of the thesis threatens to strain your hand muscles.

Glance at page one.

Like any serious text, it begins with an epigraph:

'This is the thing we built while the true visionaries were busy kicking around the future.'

'Chairman Kivi to the Enkütt National Party Congress, seconds before committing suicide by gunshot, Year 58.'

Strong opening hook. Tonally ominous.

Skim the thesis.

The impenetrable block of text shows no clear way in, no stepping stones towards legibility. Black bars of redactions beset you at all sides.

'... Numerous lines of inquiry, all of which, however, can be distilled down to a single question: to what can we attribute the Operant Bureau's relative lack of projection power, compared to agencies of a similar budget and manpower?'

'Put simply -- why is the Opera not mopping the floor with our so-called 'competition'?'

The Opera has unofficially been considered the last come, last served among the world three's leading intelligence agencies for at least two decades.

Hey, we're still one of the big three!

By default, yes, thanks to the sheer landmass of the Superbloc.

You flip a few dozen pages on and pluck out a paragraph that seems relevant.

'... as though seeking to remake the agency in his own image, under Twitchitov's leadership the Operant Bureau transformed into an onanistic organisation, that is, one that exists solely to satisfy its own circular pleasures, chief among which are hunting for flipped assets and excommunicating its most competent operants.'

Roger Klaus Twitchitov, Director-General of the Operant Bureau from 58 until his untimely death in 87.

'Opera? More like Slopera.'

RUTHLESS CRITIQUE IS ONE THING, BUT THAT'S JUST UNCALLED FOR.

Who doesn't love a flipped asset hunt?

Mixing metaphors between cannibalism and masturbation, HOLOCENE paints the picture of an Operant Bureau consuming itself via its obsession with uprooting traitors in its midst.

ONLY THROUGH REPEATED TESTS OF PURITY AND UNWAVERING DESTRUCTION OF THOSE WHO FAIL THEM CAN A PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC POPULATED BY ACTUAL PEOPLE BE CREATED.

As for operant 'excommunications'... HOLOCENE is a case in point.

Keep skimming.

'... all intrinsic to the self-propagating nature of containment mania. In layman's terms, if the Opera were a human being, a psychiatrist would diagnose them as being addicted to self-sabotage, a true master of own goals."

To master the own goal is to master the element of unpredictability.

'Internal opacity, even when necessary, devolves into bureaucracy with mathematical certainty.'

'It follows that an agency run by a being such as Twitchitov -- a vision-bereft bureaucrat at heart, regardless of ascent -- would view ever-accumulating clearance levels, recursive encryptions, and sanctioned erasures as signs of progress.'

'Unlike cancer, neurodegenerative disease and rigor mortis -- things that actually progress -- they are, in truth and practice, portents of institutional paralysis.'

Man, he's really going after Twitchitov here.

Appendix B, apparently, is wholly dedicated to eviscerating Twitchitov.

The text seems genuinely uncertain of what it is more interested in doing -- getting to the heart of the Opera's problems, or delivering the former director a literary pummelling.

Flip towards the end and skim the last bit.

'... a development whose terminal stage is the adversary within. That is, a psychic limbo in which the operant is forced to treat all information -- even, and perhaps especially that which is Opera-provided -- as de-facto MALA FIDE, an auto-suspicious routine, a territory from which no assurance is powerful enough to rescue anything.'

Distrust as a replicating sickness.

It's his own current condition he is describing: the terminus of mistrust.

Enough skimming for me. (Go back.)

The pages shut with a monolithic sluggishness.

Excellent question.

That is what the next six-hundred pages are dedicated to discovering.

Skim on.

Because they put me on ice. But now I'm back.

He's gone a little heavy on the redactions...

HOLOCENE is electing to keep secrets from the world. And maybe you. And possibly himself.

Why would someone redact something they wrote... from themselves?

Actually he's gone extremely heavy on the redactions... (Fan the pages.)

Big thesis. Big secrets.

What's his deal with Twitchitov?

You'd have to ask HOLOCENE. It's clearly personal as well as professional.

GOSSIP-HOUNDS SHAMEFULLY FEASTING AT THE ESTEEMED DIRECTOR'S GRAVESIDE. COMRADE TWITCHITOV WAS A SHINING EXAMPLE OF PROBITY AND DISCRETION.

Skim some more.

You land on a chapter titled 'The Torrent of One: Reflections on Function and Fault'.

'Torrent'... ? Kind of sounds like...

This section, spanning twenty-odd pages, drills down -- focusing on a single operant. HOLOCENE considers the career, decisions, and strategic patterns of 'Operant C'.

Your skin prickles, coursed by sudden static.

"Over their career, Operant ███████, henceforth known as 'Operant C', demonstrated an innate faculty for the craft -- and tremendous capacity for leadership. Accordingly, in ██, the Operant Bureau tasked them with setting up a network in █████████.'

He... wrote a case study about you?

Of course. HOLOCENE and the Opera could see I had 'It'.

'Operant C's talents, regrettably, are only matched by a tremendous capacity for self-sabotage.'

Never mind. We're back to unsubstantiated nonsense.

'... a chronic self-auditor, prone to bouts of guilt and melancholy. Operant C internalises consequences drastically (at times, anticipatorily) and resorts to endless confessions and apologies -- insulation from the radical necessity of change.'

But 91 did go so very wrong. And I do feel terrible.

'... a melancholic air of permanent regret, and an insistence on taking everything upon oneself, alone. But Operant C was not alone. They had people beside them.'

Does he say why I'm like this?

'I do not wish to indict a fellow operant, but to cement a larger point -- one that affects all operants -- the Operant Bureau itself is to blame for what I call professional deformations.'

In the clear, nice.

'This claim does not absolve Operant X as such; one's psyche is their own responsibility, ultimately. But it does indicate that the Opera can't and won't do the work for you.'

The work: To care for yourself, even and especially when no one else does.

'The ideal agency, one worthy of trust, could amplify competence, and care for ailing pathologies. But here, what starts as aptitude or temperament quickly curdles. Let us give the Opera credit where due, as it has mastered something after all:'

'Producing the long-term casualties that prop up its own structural monstrosity.'

How so?

'... ██ assignment failed. It couldn't help but fail. Assuming Operant C survived the collapse, she was duly remanded to Satellite Facility B, a.k.a. the notorious 'Freezer'. Isolation with no end date...'

A sentence, unwritten yet palpable: 'I'd rather pick my own Freezer.'

'... obsessive, pattern-questioning tendencies beyond that which is necessary or sensible (though sometimes admirable in their sheer scope). The result: an endless fictionalising of imagined threats, many of which are conjured in situ.'

Character assassination! Often the prelude to actual assassination.

'... resulted in Operant C blaming everything, even minor personal failings such as a missed aero-tram, on 'unseen shadow people'. It must be noted that none of these aspersions were conclusively proved false. Some even had merit, in this author's opinion.'

'... pursues even menial tasks with relentless intensity. At times, sleep, appetite, and caution are subordinate to efficiency; identity flattens to pure function. Other times, this drive is pure projection -- a barrage of grandiose, quote-unquote 'bad-ass' claims about whatever 'big plays' are coming next.'

Sounds like I haven't been going hard enough.

'... intense concern among their assets and fellow operants. By the culmination, Operant C wasn't burnt out; they were scorched out. Razed to the very nerves. Maybe gone for good.'

'... withdraws into abstract contemplations, processing events at a remove. What may pass for thoughtfulness is estrangement from consequence, a habit that forfeits actual presence. The result is a vapid, stake-less engagement with the work at hand, suggesting an abdication of care itself.'

Perfect material for some intense self-reflection.

'... exploitable, too. A detachment from reality, a constant 'zoom out' of perspective, may be useful for an operant, but it is not useful for a person. Or a friend.'

And this is why no one likes academics.

Uh oh. (Turn the page.)

(Tap the page.) He gets it.

Keep reading.

Probably not about you.

Close read HOLOCENE's thesis.

You synthesise what you were able to absorb from eight-hundred odd pages in a few glances.

Taking into account its size and manpower, the Opera should be a bigger player on the world stage.

'The Operant Bureau shuffles along on its rusted treadwheel, shotgun perma-pressed to foot.'

If it is not a bigger player, he argues, it is because the agency is trapped in a process of which HOLOCENE's own progressive isolation is a microcosm.

"... to ask why the Operant Bureau exists at all is to ask the same of the Superbloc -- and to confront our place within it. A constellation of intents, betrayals, and ideals, the whole of which can never be witnessed.'

'What would a star ever know of its own constellation? Or remember of it, given that most constellations are formed from stars long dead?'

It reads like he's mourning.

If he wanted trust, he should've picked a different field.

That theory is part of what he is questioning.

It is not trust he is looking for, but a shared ground. Some foothold in the undeniable to which he can cling amidst all the lies.

Does the thesis offer some way forward?

The task is diagnosis -- not treatment. Your eyes linger on a phrase from close to the end of the monograph:

'... ultimately, the cruel irony of infinite mutual distrust being the fundamental principle on which intelligence agencies are founded should be evident to the intelligent reader.'

An endless spiral of mirrors, all facing inwards -- none of them reflecting the world.

Why create M.I.H.O? Won't it suffer the same fate?

The thesis makes no mention of M.I.H.O., or what HOLOCENE hopes it will achieve.

He wants to transcend suspicion and lies. And if everything's fucked anyway, what harm is there in trying?

Let's see how his little novelty agency gets on when it encounters reality. There are no more open seats at the Big Table.

At heart, he is a poet-spy. He holds curiosity for the world, and its layers, even if it has been deeply corroded by intelligence work.

What's his actual conclusion? (Flip to the final section.)

The conclusion spans forty-odd pages -- a heavily redacted maze of paragraphs, diagrams, schematics, and footnotes. Its opening lines read:

'The Opera's failings traced herein are unforgivable. Yet, what of the state that birthed it? What of the individuals that animate it?'

So it's not just about the Opera?

On paper, HOLOCENE frames this as 'expanding the scope' -- not uncommon in scholarly works.

A convenient framing, allowing him to foment his own distrust at... apparently everything.

'The People's Republics dream of a kinder world; the Opera dreams of revealing it; the operant dreams of dreams. All fantasies in-waiting, yet to be given memory.'

With that, the thesis ends.

'Individuals' -- people like me and him. What about them?

Nothing! Absolutely nothing. Like all these academic essays, it is a formal exercise to see how many words you can use to convey no information.

He thinks he's so clever, with all the dense prose and redactions and hypertextuality. Quick, lay into him! Pick any argument!

'... given those parameters, only a masochistic fool would raise a hand for the Opera's cause.'

Wait. I don't disagree with that.

Who cares? This isn't about ethics or understanding. It's about not looking stupid. Now, debate par principe, like academics do!

What if the Opera is good, actually?

'... let such witless sycophants rationalise the Operant Bureau's daily deeds as 'essential bureaucracy'...'

Propaganda is free public education when you think about it.

'... daily morale damage, year-long stints in 'file rooms' of unknown origin or application, and yet, despite all this, still they remain pulverised in its mechanisms, eager for the next tier of betrayal.'

Unfortunate, yes, but let us not forget the 'Big Picture'.

Nice. Good point. You've probably won that round.

What if file rooms are good, actually?

They're not. That one's not a point worth arguing.

What do we mean by 'betrayal'?

Another nice point. You should probably write a thesis of your own.

Before all that, I think we need to define 'essential' and then 'bureaucracy'.

Look, there has to be a paper trail, or else who's accountable?

Okay, fine, point taken.

Crucially not the point. Just a point.

Enlightening, HOLOCENE. [Close the thesis.]

It folds shut without protest.

You might actually have to read some of it to find it 'enlightening'.

'Opera Furiosa: A Close Reading of the Operant Bureau and its Contradictions', or, 'Strewn in Constellation: Second Thoughts on the Collective Frontier'.

Looming behind the cover page: an intimidating eight-hundred-page slab.

Eight hundred and sixty two.

Each page a wall of dense, precise text, locked in place with academic violence.