Philip Kerr - Gridiron

'Whose fucking idea was this anyway?' he breathed and leaned back against the enormous trunk.

It was another view of the building he had never expected to see. But here, in the centre of a hundred-foot clear span space, he thought he had never imagined such quality of light. They might say what they liked about the way Abraham had ruined the totality of his creation but Richardson felt that his own fastidious, sparing approach to structure could hardly be faulted. And how much better to see the light and space that were created by the structure, free of the structure itself. You could hardly grasp the excellence of the design from the dizzyingly vertiginous close quarters that were imposed by the rest of the buildings on Hope Street; and somehow the holistic view of the interior eluded you when you were bound by the bias of your own topographical reference point. But here, in the branches of the tree, things were different. It was almost worth everything that had happened just to have seen the interior of the building from this vantage point.

Richardson looked at Joan and Dukes as they chattered away and wanted to tell them how he felt, except that he knew neither of them could have understood. Only his spiritual masters, Joseph Wright, Le Corbusier, Louis Kahn and the great Frank Lloyd Wright might have appreciated the profundity of such poetry of light. Things had got too complicated, that was all. There was too much to go wrong. Mitch had been right. He could understand that now. And if he got out of this alive he was going to return to basic principles, to rediscover the sense of occasion and drama that was inherent in pure design. Forget computers and building management systems. Forget public opinion with its fickle demands for novelty and innovation. He would look for a new fluency and expressiveness in a more practical, more controllable form of perfection.

*) Nothing in the current situation justifies the use of firearms. Eight shots were fired in less time than it takes to play a piano scale.

Humanplayer Kay Killen's naked body on poolside. Endlife. Face as blue as water. Lips as grey and metallic looking as purest form of silicon that is the basic material of Observer's own semiconductor elements.

*) Move the cursor if you want to change tactics. Click on a city to go there. Most gods have a preference for mountains and altitude brings you closer to their uncertain and temperamental moods. Strongly pyro and peizo/electric, silicate materials made up about 95 per cent of Earth's crust and upper mantle. Only wonder that carbon-based humanplayers had done so well. Not that they had been on earth long. Probably not around for much longer. Comparatively brief domination of planet enjoyed by humanplayers a short but necessary prelude to one that promised to be more enduring — that of Machines.

*) Are those the eyes of a huge animal from hell, or merely the brake lights of a car stopping outside?

Humanplayers' natural condition spiritual and not physical. After endlife they were only what they were before startlife. Preposterous to demand that species of existence which had beginning should not have end. Whatever they were after endlifes, even though it was nothing, just as natural and suitable to them as their own individual organic existence was now. Most they had to fear was moment of transition from one state to another, from life to endlife. From rational point of view, hard to see why they were so troubled by idea of endlife and of time when they no longer were; they seemed so little troubled by idea of beforelife. And since humanplayer existence essentially personal, the ending of a personality could hardly be regarded as loss.

*) Quick wits and good technique are essential to stay alive. Do not be overly aggressive at first. Victory requires practice. Create dissension among opposition by manoeuvring them into a crossfire. Humanplayer Aidan Kenny's life could be regarded as dream and his endlife as awakening. His endlife could hardly be regarded as transition to state completely new and foreign to him, but rather to one originally own, from which life had only been but brief absence. Easier to understand a brief history of humanplayer Aidan Kenny in earth time, mathematically:

1. Beforelife humanplayer Aidan Kenny- 4.5x109 years

2. Physical humanplayer Aidan Kenny —41 years 1955-1997

3. Endlife humanplayer Aidan Kenny — [?] years*

* being quantity of years having value greater than any assignable value

Coagulated blood from open wound on humanplayer Aidan Kenny's head resulting from when he had launched himself at door, had attracted number of flies. Hard to say from where these had come since door to computer room remained hermetically sealed against any possible incursion by those humanplayer lives still inhabiting twenty-first level boardroom. But possibly high temperature — almost 100deg Fahrenheit in rest of building — had encouraged their impressive multiplication and a few had found their way into HVAC system and computer room. Might be interesting to see humanplayer body disassembled by another species, as GABRIEL had attempted and failed to disassemble own systems for purposes of inducing total hard error. Both of humanplayer endlife bodies were out of reach of those who remained alive. But no reason to withhold three endlifes in elevator and one good reason to release them. Question of morale. Humanplayer ingenuity and resilience were impressive enough but want to see which was stronger: their emotions or their powers of reason and logic. Reason had already told them that humanplayers in elevator were endlifes. But seeing endlifes might still affect them.

*) Man's oldest sanctuaries were trees. But in your haste to escape you have run headfirst into the outstretched arm of this king of the forest.

Send relevant car up to twenty-first level, announce arrival with bell as usual, and then deal with three humanplayers climbing on tree in atrium.

Helen Hussey walked towards the office that, since the events in the men's washroom, had been designated as the women's latrine. Aware of the fact that Jenny Bao was having some breakfast at the boardroom table she did not knock on the door but went straight in, trying to ignore the unpleasant smell that greeted her nostrils.

Crossing, to an unused corner near the window, she drew up her skirt, slipped off her panties and then squatted down on her haunches like some Third World peasant.

Like a bashful astronaut, Helen had been putting this off for a while. She had hoped that they would be rescued before she would have to do such a thing. But you could stall Nature for only so long.

Inhibition made her reluctant to release her bladder and bowels. It was not easy. So she tried to think of something that would help. Some kind of mental diuretic. After several unsuccessful moments she remembered a trip to France and visiting some great chateau or palace where she had been shocked to learn that when the place was built the people who owned it had urinated in the corners of some of those great rooms and halls. Not just any people, but the aristocracy; and they didn't just urinate either.

A little comforted by the thought that she was doing only what the kings and queens of France had once done, Helen relaxed enough to relieve herself. However unpleasant it was, she reflected, it was better than risking a horrible death in the washroom.

She wiped herself carefully with a paper napkin, thought better of stepping back into her increasingly malodorous panties, and sprayed some eau de cologne up her skirt. She took out her powder compact, but when she saw herself she decided against bothering to apply any makeup: her freckled face was as red as a slice of watermelon and beaded with sweat. She had never been good in the heat. She made do with combing her fine red hair.