All God’s Machines

The numbers rolled and clicked like many mechanical eyelids beating out a metal butterfly rhythm.

Below, Abraham Soloman stood wide-eyed, dry-eyed, not a muscle movement, not a single eyelid flicker; staring.

He took in everything; the fleeting algorithms and numerical patterns flashing through LAX, SFO, NWK in a giant pulsating spider’s web of interlocking cipher limbs – each number an infinitesimal piece of a puzzle to be rotated, reversed, multiplied and slotted into place in this vast, clackety jigsaw.

One hundred and sixty eight days, twelve hours, thirty one minutes and four seconds had passed in this manner; the clicking, the fluttering, the matrix moving, breathing, sliding and clanking into place until there was only one, single piece left.

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Tim Waltho

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