Diary of Pip Rippon

This evening I had a rare opportunity to gaze at the swiftwings as they performed their aerial acrobatics through the murk. They sleep on the wing you know, never coming to rest on dry land -- what amazing creatures they are -- dancing and darting about up their in the heights where the murk is thinner (or it might be, I'm only guessing). It was looking at them through my psycmask that I realised that my eyesight is failing, I seem to have lots of floaty things in them that I haven't ever noticed before. Well, I have, the odd one or two, but not as many as I saw tonight looking up into that misty murk. At first I thought maybe it was the Augmented Reality, but no, I'm pretty sure this is a physical problem -- with my own organic self. I will have to visit an optician in the off-world since there is little like that here in Hellsborough, unless I want to consult with my contact at the B&B, but I think in this case, I'll pass on that -- it'll be worth another trip through The Hinge, I think.

I was talking to one of the seven today -- number four. His barker had problems with its hips and we talked about barker health, him clearly thinking that Shad was a barker, even though -- as Van has said, his carcass hasn't bothered him for many a year passed. The timing of this "bumping into him" -- natural as it seemed, put my schedule out a little as I headed towards one of the bars on the Middlewood road, so I supposed my regular viewing of and by number one would not happen, but of course, despite things she was still there, and so I was spotted where expected, but not just when, or at the usual time. They're clever this lot, they clearly co-ordinate using the hive mind, I have no doubt; it's almost refreshing to know that my movements are monitored so closely, it makes me feel safe, somehow, being watched -- but that probably sounds weird. And then, of course, back at the bar of my destination, not only was Van there waiting with a pint, but the new number two was there as well -- with a snack for Shad, sweet.

The squall of longleg is living up to its name this month in The Dark Peak. Usually the murk is fairly clement at this time of the year, but not this year. It's seemingly impossible to walk more than a thousand paces without getting drenched and soaked to the skin, and Shad (always with me these days), has got soaked to the bone -- or at least he would be if he had any; but his appearance is similar to any wet barker that you might chance upon.

The seven have had me a little perturbed over the last week or so. Number one, I now know does something at the Rivelin school, and at times exits to see me, yet when we pass on the road, I am ignored mostly, which I find odd; however, if I smile, I get a smile back, and that is wonderful, if unsettling as our eyes never seen to actually meet.

Number six (have I said about my numbering, I don't think I have, I'll correct that for you), seems to have an accent of some sort -- she (I am presuming) was waiting for me earlier and I plucked up the courage to confront her. Her talk was stilted, and as I said accented, and minimal, which made me think she was a incomer -- and off-worlder -- like me; she watched me for a long time, every time I turned around, her eyes were on me and then later, passing the station where you can re-charge the muscle-fibre drives, she was there again -- staring, with something that felt almost like desperation in her eyes.

Number two, seems to have gone awol -- not that my permission is needed for any absence of course -- I have no idea who the seven reports to. This one, I had ideas was maybe was clown, or a clown-human hybrid -- you know the sort, heavily tattoo'd, or patterned -- it's difficult to tell the difference. Anyway, not been seen for a number of weeks, so my suspicion is that this one has been replaced in the seven by a new one, but I have no real idea, as yet, who that might be...

Unless, ha, and I maybe know the answer to this already -- in fact, I think I do -- there's been a new dude on the scene; and he's been very chatty of late, and everywhere I seem to be. Sometimes I can be so dumb...

Two of the seven monitored me today. The first smiled as I walked past with Shad. I said thank you; there was some sort of response, but I couldn't make it out. Maybe it was sarcastic, maybe it was indifference, I'm not sure, I don't grok it at the moment.

If you have subscribed to the site and downloaded the final version of chapters 1 - 7 of The Hellsborough Chronicles, book one - Dark Peak (available in ePub for Apple books and Kobo or in Kindle formats), then you may be wondering about the HMM parts that appear throughout the dialogue and give context to the storyline.

Well, here is a breakdown of what I understand that it all means:

HMM::OUT('Question')

>>> The question asked by the asker to the hivemind

sample response: `ask:: Rippon, Pip // stat:: accept[ok]__ // src:: 2001:0db8:85a3:0000:0000:8a2e:037g:7334 [loc::hellsborough//middlewood_road//467]__ // now:: 79.hail-ripperthroat.12.13.20.5.5`

where:

>>> ask - The individual asking the question

>>> stat - The status of the request, as acknowledged by the hivemind

>>> src - the source address of the psycmask device

>>> loc - the physical location of the organic network receiver node

>>> now - the timestamp of the communication

HMM::IN('Answer')

>>> the response from the hivemind

or, where the input from the hivemind is a broadcast:

HMM::IN('Advertisement strapline')

>>> hits - number of psycmask devices that received the advertisment

>>> [this] - the receiving address of the psycmask device

>>> loc - the physical location of the organic network receiver node

>>> now - the timestamp of the communication

I believe the hits are determined by the number of individuals that are in a particular node location at any time, plus the timestamp at the time of the sending of the advertisement, but as you know, I'm no technology expert, so I might be wrong on that.

There is a guy who plays a battered old guitar in the warmer months on the off-world side of the junction. You'd recognise his music as the blues, I'm sure. He's a rhum character, a jovial fellow with a mirthful grin -- and always a mercurial sparkle in his eyes. In don't know his name, we've never chatted, but I like to call him Bob -- after Robert Johnson.

I've never heard the blues on the other side of The Hinge, the music over there has a weirdness far removed from the blues.

Robert Johnson, if you didn't know, was one of the most influential musicians of the 20th century, and after a recording career that lasted only seven months, and earning himself the moniker of "the first ever rock star", managed to become a member of the 27 club. A story that manifests itself from his short career is the legend where Johnson took his guitar to a crossroad at midnight. There he was met by an ancient trickster god known as Papa Legba -- master of roads and pathways -- who took the guitar and tuned it. Papa Legba played a few songs, then returned the guitar to Johnson. In that exchange Johnson gave up his soul for mastery of his instrument.

For mastery of semagrams and this crossroad -- this junction -- I am wondering if I have sold my soul to milting.