Following the production of my art raining. This episode contains depictions of strong violence, drug use, and sexual coercion. A second oil rage. I'd barely climbed out of the airlock well before the proteus suit disgorged me. It opened up like a great clam and spilled me out onto the dive room floor. I glanced back just in time to see the armored shell cave in on itself, melting back down the well as a column of slime, warning security breach, Please proceed to the nearest, coated in a patina of alien fluid. I rose to a crouch and marked the rhythmic blinking of alarm strobes, the smell of blood over by a cluster of lockers, The dive boots of a corpse poked out from behind an overturned bench, A smashed graph ink pro lay by its side. Hoffman, I rose to my feet and took a cautious step forward. The severity of his wounds made me grimace. Blood and hemorrhaged brain tissue pooled beneath his shattered skull. A burn in the shape of a human hand branded his upper face and forehead. It wasn't the work of Triton or neread. It could only be the other, the void walker, the thing that wore veils consciousness as a mask. I studied his frozen expression, his eyes brimmed with vacancy. Did the thing wear Hoffman? Now, I wondered? Did it? Rushed aboard a departing sub with his face his communit his we have a story for you. What had happened here? While I hunted for Bouklan and apathists tested their handiwork something from the outside, something nearly mythic, even to the Triton's lashed out at both surface and deep. In doing so, it framed me and, by extension, dux itself. My escape only cemented the presumption of guilt. What version of the truth would it bring to the surface? In Hoffmann's guise, I could guess its ends might be uncertain, The methodology was clear, So division set uncertain allies against each other. What better place than here? I checked the lockers and found a dive knife. It wasn't engineered for zero spin throwing. It didn't sharpen at my touch, but it would do the job against all but one. I stepped over Hoffman's body and left him for the inevitable clean up crew. The room's only door unlocked and slid into the wall. At my approach, triggered by Jack's communit, a vacant corridor opened up before me. Blinking emergency lights played off the naked pipes and wires. I knew what I needed to do. I knew what Veil would have done. I had to bring the truth back to the surface. It might be enough. I wormed my way through the vacant halls. I followed the blood past body after body, Land spoke and recombined the like dismembered with unmistakable precision, though none of them bore the Burnemark Hoffman head. They slumped against walls and portholes, all reduced to the same lifeless meat. I felt the tug of the black drug's absence as I passed the first crew cabin cluster. I wondered if they'd had time to search my room, where there's still two vials of Basilisk tucked away in my bag, an umber black blade wrapped in a spare shirt. If I could just tighten my will and reactions, upgrade my weaponry, then a head a hatch flew open, and two Youdex security guards slumped out into the hall, entangled in sensual embrace, hands pawing, searching, lips, frothing. They hit the opposite wall and slid down to the floor. Fetis emerged behind them. I ducked down a converging hall and froze against the bulkhead. I readied the knife in one trembling hand. Now I didn't have to see to know good. My breathing is too loud. My heart, I knew she'd hear me, reach out to my mind before I could strike. I was no match, not like this. Closer and closer. Another door rolled open. When it closed, I moved. I leaped over the two doomed guards as they chewed into each other's faces, moaning with the cross wired pleasure of mutilation, eyes rolling back like something from the poles of Hell. I didn't look at that. Yeah, m hmmm, Ladies and gentlemen, Peter Booklem, thank you, thank you. I know you've heard a lot of great speakers today. You've heard a lot of amazing ideas about how we can change course, how we can harness the forces of innovation for a better world, for brighter tomorrow. And no, I don't mean deeper oil wells. I don't even mean hydrothermal, which I realized is something of us prize coming from me. I do believe that's the future of energy. It sustained the Triton's from millennia, and it can do the same for all of us. But now what I want to suggest to you goes beyond even benign exploitation of our planet's resources. Today, I want to talk to you about the science of despeciation, the necessary process by which two species become one. Depis the horrible transt. They'll call me through our word later tomorrow. Want this silent later written a word on traditional specifical well Satis patrols persons around yan. I cut through the bazaar. Its empty alleyways, wet from the rain of sprinklers, A burned out fry shop and a looted storefront told me all I needed to know. A worker lay in two halves beside a glitching tero machine. Empress and scepter flashed across the blood splattered screen. I pushed on through the alley of saints and oceanic gods, their altars washed in the blood of their last attendance. The triton shaped bust of mother hydra lay toppled and shattered across the grated floor. There was still no theetis to block my path, but she knew where I'd go. If not my quarters, then the subs I sprinted the remaining lengths of hallway, ignoring my wound, more blood, more abandoned gear, and baggage, to mark an increasingly frenzied evacuation footprints in the gore A technician clutching a dive knife. There's spinal column laid bare. Please proceed to the nearest evacuation hub. I reached the docking station module. The door rolled aside to grant me entrance, and there it was one remaining docked vessel, the very Gladious class sub I'd arrived on, and no fetis. I ran across the cargo bay, weaving among its stacked and sordid crates shipments from the surface compressed garbage tubes bound for return. I shot into the Gladious sub's open cargo bay and slammed the manual switch to close it behind me. Please, great community, The great door rolled into place, and I caught one last glimpse of Atlas station alarm lights gleaming in trails of blood, and just a hint of movements before the door blocked my view and the locking bolts shot home. A pale pursuer. Welcome passengers are Hanka Jacks. I stalked across the empty cargo hold to the crew module. Even without my own community, the automated system would recognize Jacksons and follow evacuation protocol. Okay. I opened the door and saw two blood smeared communits on the cot, and she stood beside it. Blonde hair fell to shoulder length, the jeans and jacket of a surface pedestrian now soaked in gore. She held one human arm out to the side, blood still dripping from the fingertips. My knife hand tensed the muscle, memory of training and instinct. It would have given me a chance against any other foe veil. She turned casually, as if this was but a social call. She regarded me with those same eyes, flawlessly human eyes. I know you're in there, I know you're more than just a mask. We can stop this. Why would we stop it? It wants us at war with each other, at war with ourselves, wants only silent death, no life across a billion world, silence in the mind veil. Tabitha, you came for the truth, a message of change. Her face twitched, her eyes trembled. I want to try it. I. Her flesh loosened like an unraveling shroud, dry membranous wings of indeterminable shape, shredded her blood soaked clothes, and fanned the stagnant air of tune and all ruin. Within the whirlwind of flesh, I caught the scarcest glimpse of its true form, the thing that lurked beneath the layers of semblance, and enacted it's inhuman will. It's because your mind's had a turning place. The eyes were still veils, but the swirling tissue was already reforming in the likeness of a woman's bloodied and bruised rows of horizontal black bars tattooed over scalp, forehead and throat the one who would deliver its message. You're stronger than this thing. You're the one who believes. I know you can resist. She moved, and I felt the burn of her palm against my forehead. And history is a spiral m m m M. The second oil age was produced by Robert Lamb Alex William Slowen's Vogel Bomb and Josh Than. This episode featured on Joe Masters as SnO Khan, Lauren vogelbaumb as Tabotha Veil, Helen Lorn as Thetis, and Nicholas Dacosti as Peter Gluckman, supporting voice work by Gina Rakii and Josh Clark intro outro, and supporting music created by a weird in Module. Learn more at Module dot dom camp dot com. Mm HM from more podcasts from my heart Radio, visit the I heart Radio app, Apple podcasts or when I may listen to your favorite shows

Following the production of my art raining. This episode contains depictions of strong violence, drug use, and sexual coercion. A second oil rage. I'd barely climbed out of the airlock well before the proteus suit disgorged me. It opened up like a great clam and spilled me out onto the dive room floor. I glanced back just in time to see the armored shell cave in on itself, melting back down the well as a column of slime, warning security breach, Please proceed to the nearest, coated in a patina of alien fluid. I rose to a crouch and marked the rhythmic blinking of alarm strobes, the smell of blood over by a cluster of lockers, The dive boots of a corpse poked out from behind an overturned bench, A smashed graph ink pro lay by its side. Hoffman, I rose to my feet and took a cautious step forward. The severity of his wounds made me grimace. Blood and hemorrhaged brain tissue pooled beneath his shattered skull. A burn in the shape of a human hand branded his upper face and forehead. It wasn't the work of Triton or neread. It could only be the other, the void walker, the thing that wore veils consciousness as a mask. I studied his frozen expression, his eyes brimmed with vacancy. Did the thing wear Hoffman? Now, I wondered? Did it? Rushed aboard a departing sub with his face his communit his we have a story for you. What had happened here? While I hunted for Bouklan and apathists tested their handiwork something from the outside, something nearly mythic, even to the Triton's lashed out at both surface and deep. In doing so, it framed me and, by extension, dux itself. My escape only cemented the presumption of guilt. What version of the truth would it bring to the surface? In Hoffmann's guise, I could guess its ends might be uncertain, The methodology was clear, So division set uncertain allies against each other. What better place than here? I checked the lockers and found a dive knife. It wasn't engineered for zero spin throwing. It didn't sharpen at my touch, but it would do the job against all but one. I stepped over Hoffman's body and left him for the inevitable clean up crew. The room's only door unlocked and slid into the wall. At my approach, triggered by Jack's communit, a vacant corridor opened up before me. Blinking emergency lights played off the naked pipes and wires. I knew what I needed to do. I knew what Veil would have done. I had to bring the truth back to the surface. It might be enough. I wormed my way through the vacant halls. I followed the blood past body after body, Land spoke and recombined the like dismembered with unmistakable precision, though none of them bore the Burnemark Hoffman head. They slumped against walls and portholes, all reduced to the same lifeless meat. I felt the tug of the black drug's absence as I passed the first crew cabin cluster. I wondered if they'd had time to search my room, where there's still two vials of Basilisk tucked away in my bag, an umber black blade wrapped in a spare shirt. If I could just tighten my will and reactions, upgrade my weaponry, then a head a hatch flew open, and two Youdex security guards slumped out into the hall, entangled in sensual embrace, hands pawing, searching, lips, frothing. They hit the opposite wall and slid down to the floor. Fetis emerged behind them. I ducked down a converging hall and froze against the bulkhead. I readied the knife in one trembling hand. Now I didn't have to see to know good. My breathing is too loud. My heart, I knew she'd hear me, reach out to my mind before I could strike. I was no match, not like this. Closer and closer. Another door rolled open. When it closed, I moved. I leaped over the two doomed guards as they chewed into each other's faces, moaning with the cross wired pleasure of mutilation, eyes rolling back like something from the poles of Hell. I didn't look at that. Yeah, m hmmm, Ladies and gentlemen, Peter Booklem, thank you, thank you. I know you've heard a lot of great speakers today. You've heard a lot of amazing ideas about how we can change course, how we can harness the forces of innovation for a better world, for brighter tomorrow. And no, I don't mean deeper oil wells. I don't even mean hydrothermal, which I realized is something of us prize coming from me. I do believe that's the future of energy. It sustained the Triton's from millennia, and it can do the same for all of us. But now what I want to suggest to you goes beyond even benign exploitation of our planet's resources. Today, I want to talk to you about the science of despeciation, the necessary process by which two species become one. Depis the horrible transt. They'll call me through our word later tomorrow. Want this silent later written a word on traditional specifical well Satis patrols persons around yan. I cut through the bazaar. Its empty alleyways, wet from the rain of sprinklers, A burned out fry shop and a looted storefront told me all I needed to know. A worker lay in two halves beside a glitching tero machine. Empress and scepter flashed across the blood splattered screen. I pushed on through the alley of saints and oceanic gods, their altars washed in the blood of their last attendance. The triton shaped bust of mother hydra lay toppled and shattered across the grated floor. There was still no theetis to block my path, but she knew where I'd go. If not my quarters, then the subs I sprinted the remaining lengths of hallway, ignoring my wound, more blood, more abandoned gear, and baggage, to mark an increasingly frenzied evacuation footprints in the gore A technician clutching a dive knife. There's spinal column laid bare. Please proceed to the nearest evacuation hub. I reached the docking station module. The door rolled aside to grant me entrance, and there it was one remaining docked vessel, the very Gladious class sub I'd arrived on, and no fetis. I ran across the cargo bay, weaving among its stacked and sordid crates shipments from the surface compressed garbage tubes bound for return. I shot into the Gladious sub's open cargo bay and slammed the manual switch to close it behind me. Please, great community, The great door rolled into place, and I caught one last glimpse of Atlas station alarm lights gleaming in trails of blood, and just a hint of movements before the door blocked my view and the locking bolts shot home. A pale pursuer. Welcome passengers are Hanka Jacks. I stalked across the empty cargo hold to the crew module. Even without my own community, the automated system would recognize Jacksons and follow evacuation protocol. Okay. I opened the door and saw two blood smeared communits on the cot, and she stood beside it. Blonde hair fell to shoulder length, the jeans and jacket of a surface pedestrian now soaked in gore. She held one human arm out to the side, blood still dripping from the fingertips. My knife hand tensed the muscle, memory of training and instinct. It would have given me a chance against any other foe veil. She turned casually, as if this was but a social call. She regarded me with those same eyes, flawlessly human eyes. I know you're in there, I know you're more than just a mask. We can stop this. Why would we stop it? It wants us at war with each other, at war with ourselves, wants only silent death, no life across a billion world, silence in the mind veil. Tabitha, you came for the truth, a message of change. Her face twitched, her eyes trembled. I want to try it. I. Her flesh loosened like an unraveling shroud, dry membranous wings of indeterminable shape, shredded her blood soaked clothes, and fanned the stagnant air of tune and all ruin. Within the whirlwind of flesh, I caught the scarcest glimpse of its true form, the thing that lurked beneath the layers of semblance, and enacted it's inhuman will. It's because your mind's had a turning place. The eyes were still veils, but the swirling tissue was already reforming in the likeness of a woman's bloodied and bruised rows of horizontal black bars tattooed over scalp, forehead and throat the one who would deliver its message. You're stronger than this thing. You're the one who believes. I know you can resist. She moved, and I felt the burn of her palm against my forehead. And history is a spiral m m m M. The second oil age was produced by Robert Lamb Alex William Slowen's Vogel Bomb and Josh Than. This episode featured on Joe Masters as SnO Khan, Lauren vogelbaumb as Tabotha Veil, Helen Lorn as Thetis, and Nicholas Dacosti as Peter Gluckman, supporting voice work by Gina Rakii and Josh Clark intro outro, and supporting music created by a weird in Module. Learn more at Module dot dom camp dot com. Mm HM from more podcasts from my heart Radio, visit the I heart Radio app, Apple podcasts or when I may listen to your favorite shows