Cicero’s gone scouring the world for great thinkers. Great non-thinkers. For thinkers even more useless than we are. Totally uneducated. Holy fools. And unholy fools. She’s probably scouring the asylums right now for truly mad philosophers, unlike us. We were never perverse enough for her. Never twisted enough …
Cicero’s looking for some place that can’t be organised, that’s what I reckon. Or managed. Far from the frontlines. Looking for some place that might be overlooked, for a few years. That might escape full O.M. implementation, for a bit. She’s looking for a place to sit out the disaster. The coming O.M. world horror.
What if she just wanted to lie out in a hammock? Sit on some beach, a senorita on her knee? Teach some beach kids maths. A life in the sun – you couldn’t begrudge her that …
Cicero’s gone full Colonel Kurtz, I think. She’s somewhere really remote. Uncontactable. Hiding out. Living out her against-the-world fantasies. Her horror of the natural. She’s set the controls for maximum perversity. Maximum demonism. She’s trying to call up the anti-messiah, or something.
Cicero’s probably plotting in the tunnels with Nimrod. Trying to work out a way to bring the O.M. towers down.
Or she’s in the outerlands beyond the stony waste, tyring to drum up some raggle-taggle army, for when the time comes. A guerrilla army. She’s in training, for whatever happens. Learning how to use small arms. And big arms.
Do you think she’s going to appear when we really need her? In our most desperate hour? Right at the end … Assume her position as Head again, now that we were older, wise – now that we’d passed through the Organisational Management trial …
Work in Progress 