Vulgar Lessons -pg3
Prologue
--------------------
"Enigma"
December 21, 3:07AM
Undisclosed Location
There are far too many long days to count; there are countless days seemingly without end. As night finally approaches, the ever lengthening day only becomes darker. From this obscurity comes a whispering recognition, born upon the strengths of resounding purpose, some new irreptitious design. Common things, these. The transvolation of thought, pumping new life into the cold-blooded arteries of the conspiracy master, the maestro of ultra-secrecy and BlackOps, a genius of counterintelligence unlike the world has ever known:
The Legend.
And, The Legend is a woman.
Ann Smith.
Her names are endless and endlessly creative, galvanized by the same theme of perfidy and subversion, incapable of more heartfelt or intrigueing epistles. An "Ann Smith" operation is the name given to the mysterious, the unsolved, the anomalous. Legally operating intelligence organizations rely upon the "Ann Smith" parallels to explain rogue activities enacted by transgressed agents, fly-by-nioght lunatics and, (Shhh!) ... defectors. Her name is often used, countless times, associated with innumerable acts, no evidence ever necessary to correlate her identity with the crime itself. The mere mentioning of her pseudonym is sufficiently compromising as to exonerate and protect the dark secrets of the multifarious agencies comprising the intelligence enigma.
Ann Smith was a product of the shadowy network, procreated through the collision of conflicting ideologies. She was raised collectively; the direct result of stormy techniques, inspired madness and overwhelming deceit, by the overlords of corruption who had originally instigated her immaculate conception. The incorrigible Legend lives.
"Ann Smith" is unstoppably crafty and clearly unstoppable.
"Program," her sweet voice rang out as she talked into the tiny wireless microphone attached to the lap of her bathrobe. "Update. File. Aimes. Milner. CCC-Inc." Additionally abrupt commands could be heard in the sultry music that her vocal chords spontaneously crated, a gift, requiring no effort at all. "Access, Overlay, 219-470-317795." She sipped chamomile tea sweetend with orange blossom honey from a handmade mug while waiting for her directives to be obeyed. A flatscreen forty-inch Super VGA wall-monitor captured her eyes, her attention riveted to the screen as she carefully analyzed the voice recognition program that she had written herself. Ann considered the requirements of accuracy as mandatory while lesser skilled professional programmers had always left her with feelings of bitter disappointment.
To Ann, simple humans were, after all, simply human.
Nothing less than absolute perfection had ever been acceptable in Ann's mind. Perhaps it was her angelic features and extraordinary beauty -- yellow hair, voluptuous lips and athletic body -- which caused her to demand from others the perfection which nature had selectively granted her. In any case, her requirements were relentlessly pursued, both from subordinates -- for she worked for no one -- and from herself. Even contingency plans had always been orchestrated well in advance of most things she did, the maestro conducting light out of the darkness of unexpected chaos.
"Position. Row seventeen. Column forty. Enlarge. No cursor." The on-screen imaging increased in size, the code displayed being all but meaningless except to the most knowledgeable computer scientists and a few others, perhaps, comepetent in the art of artificial intelligence programming. In the far top-left corner of the screen was the statement, "Proprietary Software of CCC-Inc., Dr. Robert A. Milner, Developer, 'T-Displacement Generator Prototype, V1.1'."
Ann lifted her feet and placed them on the coffee table, her rabbit-eared bunny slippers curling with her toes, pink velvety noses and whiskers nodding in appreciation. The long anticipation-filled waiting was about to end; after two years of private meaneuvering, her truthful moments were about to pay, oh, so handsomely. "Observation" is a science unto itself, the likes of which have plauged the collective minds of philosophers and thinkers for multiple millennia. However, only "Ann" had thus far been capable in forcing the science to succumb to her manipulations in such an arty fashion.
"Cursor," she said, the flashing light suddenly appearing the moment she had spoken. "Append. Line 26001. Through 26012." The additional lines of higher-level computer language instantly appeared before the cursor position. "Edit. Line. 26012. Movement. Forward. Column. 47. Delete. End of Line. Insert. Hexidecimal. 4e, 6f, 76, 65, 6c, 20, 42,79-3a,0d, 0a, 20, 43, 6c, 61, 79, 74, 6f, 6e, 20,57,69,6e, 74, 6f, 6e. Compile. Save." Ann rattled the code off as swiftly she would the names of her parents -- if she had ever known them -- her heavenly voice not sounding strained nor forced. Her mind worked as rapidly as the machine she commanded, a Mozartian task fit to boggle a Rubik enthusiast.
"Run Program." Moments later, the ornate handmade mug slipped from her fingers. The chamomile and honey brew splashed onto her silk Mickey Mouse bathrobe, soaking through to her Goofy undergarments and soiling the Winnie-The-Pooh nightshirt she wore, all token reminders of the childhood she never had.
"Stop!" suddenly Ann yelled, as color flushed her flawless cheeks while her gasps for air only riped her bosom with heaves of shocking excitement and glory. "Oh my GOD!" she whispered, slowly rising from the Mini-Mushroom juvenile furniture where her greatest triumphs had been traditionally cast. Stumbling toward the giant wall-screen, she reached out with her impeccable fingers and caressed the image of genius so clearly displayed before her loving eyes. "Oh my GOD!" Ann whispered again, unable to contain her overhwhelming satisfaction. "Yes. Yes. Yes!" Ann ecstatically screamed while jumping up and down, filled with joy. As the destructive power of her incredible intellect bore witness of her emotions, her reason was threatened, a brimming of inner exultation.
On-screen, the worst scenario for disaster had been achieved, ultimately, imminent destruction if certain prerequisites were left unmet, all of which, she had devoted her entire life in planning and enacting. Dr. Milner's program, stole from the vault's of CCC-Inc laboratories, had been divinely troublesome, requiring of her more time and energy than she had ever hoped. Irrimittable plottings and machinations completed, and the final obstacles reduced to subjugation, Ann Smith had suddenly outperformed her own "Legend."
Five years of effulgent notions, an additional two years of pragmatical trials, and the Master's stage was set. All pawns and players were selected, trained and assigned to herculean tasks. Cover-stories and contingency plans had all been carefully invented and painstakingly primed for instant availability. Every aspect of the ensuing operation was invincibly tuned, rehearsed for the first and final performance, The Legend's greatest ever.
Speaking into her tiny microphone shaped in the guise of Godzilla's head, unable to mask her prideful glee, emotions gripping her voice and moistening her eyes, the inherent danger that epitomized "The Legend" issues a final command:
"Access. 219-470-317796. BEGIN COUNTDOWN."
The long awaited endless day of UNSTOPPABLE DECEPTION and subterfuge finally arrives.
---------------------
--------------------
"Enigma"
December 21, 3:07AM
Undisclosed Location
There are far too many long days to count; there are countless days seemingly without end. As night finally approaches, the ever lengthening day only becomes darker. From this obscurity comes a whispering recognition, born upon the strengths of resounding purpose, some new irreptitious design. Common things, these. The transvolation of thought, pumping new life into the cold-blooded arteries of the conspiracy master, the maestro of ultra-secrecy and BlackOps, a genius of counterintelligence unlike the world has ever known:
The Legend.
And, The Legend is a woman.
Ann Smith.
Her names are endless and endlessly creative, galvanized by the same theme of perfidy and subversion, incapable of more heartfelt or intrigueing epistles. An "Ann Smith" operation is the name given to the mysterious, the unsolved, the anomalous. Legally operating intelligence organizations rely upon the "Ann Smith" parallels to explain rogue activities enacted by transgressed agents, fly-by-nioght lunatics and, (Shhh!) ... defectors. Her name is often used, countless times, associated with innumerable acts, no evidence ever necessary to correlate her identity with the crime itself. The mere mentioning of her pseudonym is sufficiently compromising as to exonerate and protect the dark secrets of the multifarious agencies comprising the intelligence enigma.
Ann Smith was a product of the shadowy network, procreated through the collision of conflicting ideologies. She was raised collectively; the direct result of stormy techniques, inspired madness and overwhelming deceit, by the overlords of corruption who had originally instigated her immaculate conception. The incorrigible Legend lives.
"Ann Smith" is unstoppably crafty and clearly unstoppable.
"Program," her sweet voice rang out as she talked into the tiny wireless microphone attached to the lap of her bathrobe. "Update. File. Aimes. Milner. CCC-Inc." Additionally abrupt commands could be heard in the sultry music that her vocal chords spontaneously crated, a gift, requiring no effort at all. "Access, Overlay, 219-470-317795." She sipped chamomile tea sweetend with orange blossom honey from a handmade mug while waiting for her directives to be obeyed. A flatscreen forty-inch Super VGA wall-monitor captured her eyes, her attention riveted to the screen as she carefully analyzed the voice recognition program that she had written herself. Ann considered the requirements of accuracy as mandatory while lesser skilled professional programmers had always left her with feelings of bitter disappointment.
To Ann, simple humans were, after all, simply human.
Nothing less than absolute perfection had ever been acceptable in Ann's mind. Perhaps it was her angelic features and extraordinary beauty -- yellow hair, voluptuous lips and athletic body -- which caused her to demand from others the perfection which nature had selectively granted her. In any case, her requirements were relentlessly pursued, both from subordinates -- for she worked for no one -- and from herself. Even contingency plans had always been orchestrated well in advance of most things she did, the maestro conducting light out of the darkness of unexpected chaos.
"Position. Row seventeen. Column forty. Enlarge. No cursor." The on-screen imaging increased in size, the code displayed being all but meaningless except to the most knowledgeable computer scientists and a few others, perhaps, comepetent in the art of artificial intelligence programming. In the far top-left corner of the screen was the statement, "Proprietary Software of CCC-Inc., Dr. Robert A. Milner, Developer, 'T-Displacement Generator Prototype, V1.1'."
Ann lifted her feet and placed them on the coffee table, her rabbit-eared bunny slippers curling with her toes, pink velvety noses and whiskers nodding in appreciation. The long anticipation-filled waiting was about to end; after two years of private meaneuvering, her truthful moments were about to pay, oh, so handsomely. "Observation" is a science unto itself, the likes of which have plauged the collective minds of philosophers and thinkers for multiple millennia. However, only "Ann" had thus far been capable in forcing the science to succumb to her manipulations in such an arty fashion.
"Cursor," she said, the flashing light suddenly appearing the moment she had spoken. "Append. Line 26001. Through 26012." The additional lines of higher-level computer language instantly appeared before the cursor position. "Edit. Line. 26012. Movement. Forward. Column. 47. Delete. End of Line. Insert. Hexidecimal. 4e, 6f, 76, 65, 6c, 20, 42,79-3a,0d, 0a, 20, 43, 6c, 61, 79, 74, 6f, 6e, 20,57,69,6e, 74, 6f, 6e. Compile. Save." Ann rattled the code off as swiftly she would the names of her parents -- if she had ever known them -- her heavenly voice not sounding strained nor forced. Her mind worked as rapidly as the machine she commanded, a Mozartian task fit to boggle a Rubik enthusiast.
"Run Program." Moments later, the ornate handmade mug slipped from her fingers. The chamomile and honey brew splashed onto her silk Mickey Mouse bathrobe, soaking through to her Goofy undergarments and soiling the Winnie-The-Pooh nightshirt she wore, all token reminders of the childhood she never had.
"Stop!" suddenly Ann yelled, as color flushed her flawless cheeks while her gasps for air only riped her bosom with heaves of shocking excitement and glory. "Oh my GOD!" she whispered, slowly rising from the Mini-Mushroom juvenile furniture where her greatest triumphs had been traditionally cast. Stumbling toward the giant wall-screen, she reached out with her impeccable fingers and caressed the image of genius so clearly displayed before her loving eyes. "Oh my GOD!" Ann whispered again, unable to contain her overhwhelming satisfaction. "Yes. Yes. Yes!" Ann ecstatically screamed while jumping up and down, filled with joy. As the destructive power of her incredible intellect bore witness of her emotions, her reason was threatened, a brimming of inner exultation.
On-screen, the worst scenario for disaster had been achieved, ultimately, imminent destruction if certain prerequisites were left unmet, all of which, she had devoted her entire life in planning and enacting. Dr. Milner's program, stole from the vault's of CCC-Inc laboratories, had been divinely troublesome, requiring of her more time and energy than she had ever hoped. Irrimittable plottings and machinations completed, and the final obstacles reduced to subjugation, Ann Smith had suddenly outperformed her own "Legend."
Five years of effulgent notions, an additional two years of pragmatical trials, and the Master's stage was set. All pawns and players were selected, trained and assigned to herculean tasks. Cover-stories and contingency plans had all been carefully invented and painstakingly primed for instant availability. Every aspect of the ensuing operation was invincibly tuned, rehearsed for the first and final performance, The Legend's greatest ever.
Speaking into her tiny microphone shaped in the guise of Godzilla's head, unable to mask her prideful glee, emotions gripping her voice and moistening her eyes, the inherent danger that epitomized "The Legend" issues a final command:
"Access. 219-470-317796. BEGIN COUNTDOWN."
The long awaited endless day of UNSTOPPABLE DECEPTION and subterfuge finally arrives.
---------------------
posted by Clayton Leon Winton | 12:43 AM
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