The perpetrators of the Italian airport bombing that killed his mother and six others were never found. Officially.
He lay half-awake in the late night, thinking about the informal speech that Alex Heron had given at Hi Step, just before the attempt on his life:
‘One of our main interests these days is robotics, A.I. Research. Alternate ways of looking at medicine, for example. To a certain extent, these are interlinked although the company structures are tailored to the individual areas of research, still, the one thing they have in common is the fact that they are interlinked. As is everything. This goes beyond into other areas of course. Which has given rise to some concerns... ’
‘Some concerns.’ That provoked a hand grenade tossed by a suicidal geriatric genius...
Brigg: things always change. Nothing remains static, just the illusion of stasis, which is usually cheap nostalgia, a mood of fear that resists the inevitable movements of time, the contemplation of which sends me into trances where I think I could follow everything intermingling simultaneously until I am falling through a vortex into some swirling dizziness that seems the precursor to full blown madness so I surface, riddled with vertigo and disoriented to hell. Continually wonder at this yearning for intensity, the surging emotion that sweeps me towards these attempts at an almost mystical ecstasy spinning out of philosophical speculations. Traceable to the booze I have drunk, hooking into flashbacks. And the drugs I sometimes take. And the echoes of the bombs, linked across time. Rare but intense.
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