NetherWorld, Daniel Pagan [books for 7th graders txt] 📗

corrupt. Kill them all!”
“Is there a way out?”
“Let’s make a deal. I hold critical code”
“Is there anybody out there?”
“Just shout. I will find you”
These were the typical early ramblings that sailed the maze of tunnels. Subsequent babble sent nonsensical rants in every direction. Over time, the constant barrage of desperate Bytes destroyed any remnant of Silicate soul. The tunnels were baked with terror and psychosis. Blood of the victims shrouded the halls. Echoes of insanity swallowed all hope. Sour smells of rotting milk and moldy cheese overwhelmed doomed victims.

When NazKlan built his coalition to pursue the Singularity, he knew he needed powerful allies. Thrasher was an ideal candidate. No Byte could reach him or destroy him. He heard whispers about a small army that Thrasher was building. This would help enforce the fascist state NazKlan so dearly desired.
NazKlan captured a corrupt Byte and programmed a message for Thrasher, Keeper of the Bin. Once the Batchers dropped the messenger off, the Byte relayed the instructions to Thrasher. NazKlan created a unique channel of communication that only could be accessed by them.
“Ahhhh. Another Byte for the ssshredder. Prepare to meet your end Sssilicate. I cannot wait to sssuck on your lifeless strands. Ohhh. Be ssstill. Thisss will hurt you Byte,” said Thrasher.
“Wait. Message have eye 4 u. Must relay. Must. MMMMust. Relay message to Trashy One. NazKlan message has u for. Pleez acksept. Pleez acksept,” replied the corrupt Byte. Since his systems were breaking down, he was not capable for clear communication. NazKlan understood this. He inserted a program in Analog, the mother tongue. This language was so basic, that clear messages can be sent via this ancient language.
“What isss thisss? Foolery. Do you mock me Byte. I have eaten Sssilicatesss alive for such behavior. Isss that what you want? Ssspeak Sssilicate! Speak!” demanded Thrasher.
“Pleez acksept. Message 4 u. Pleez Acksept.”
“Amussse me Byte. If the messsage is not to my liking. You will suffer ssso much more!”
The corrupt Byte reverted to the Turingi code. “110 1101110011 011011 11010101,” spouted the decaying Byte. NazKlan knew that Thrasher was also versed in Turingi. Long hours of Byte torture provided him with many skills not possessed by ordinary Bytes. The message roughly translated as the following:

NetherWorld is dying. We need your talents to take control and save our fellow Silicates. The High Council wants to do away with the viruses that bring you all the corrupt Bytes. They believe they can starve you to death. They fear your army of Pixals. I have developed a protected channel for us to communicate. Join me, and your Bin will never want for corrupt souls to savor. Together we shall rule NetherWorld. Respond on channel YXG546TR.11.2 if you will join the effort.

“Thrasssher very angry. Council will pay for thisss. Mussst ssstop them. Thrasher will not ssstarve. Thrasher must help NazKlan,” he declared.
“I will tassste the Council before thisss isss over. Minions, we go to war! We mussst fight thossse on the sssurface” bellowed the Keeper of the Bin. Hundreds on mini Thrashers voiced analog agreement. Minions levitated in an enormous orbit while chanting cries for war. Thousands of snake red tresses danced in celebration.
“Now, back to you Byte,” Thasher said as he turned towards the shivering messenger.
“But I deliver massage for Trashy. Nasal promised no shredding. Sneeze honor his words. Let my show!” pleaded the desperate messenger Byte. He search Thrasher’s dark visor for any shred of compassion and found only a soulless hunger; hunger for death and unending torment. The Byte tried to plunge away in the tunnels.
Thrasher spat Turingi instructions to dispatch of the poor messenger. Sprites swarmed him before he took two steps. Pixals followed in tow. Unintellible screams sang in the Bin as the Pixals dismantled the Byte, while the Sprites repeatedly stung him. Every sting from a Sprite injects small amounts of highly toxic taint; leaving a large welt in its wake.
Leaving scattered body parts, the assassins moved on to other duties. Batchers picked up the remains and flew them into the Shredder.
After watching this typical act of carnage, Thrasher reached out to NazKlan on the special channel and the partnership was forged. NazKlan used him to provide the muscle for his plans. He knew Thrasher was disturbed, but controllable. The High Council would think twice before attacking him.


Isolated, Thrasher descended deeper into the madness that rotted his circuits. He began talking to himself more and more. Endless babble filled throughout the Great Bin. He always sang nonsensical songs as he built his army of Pixals and Minions.
Under the dark dome of the Bin, one could hear him sing:

“Piecesss of the dead I comand you
Presciousss ssstrandsss of aqua blue

Walk reborn and ssserve my will
Together with NazKlan we shall kill

Eternal life from eating Bytesss
Make Thrasssher full of undead might”

His purple spider army waltzed around the Bin as Thrasher sang. His red scaly snakes waved around and hissed in demented delight. Sprites swarmed above him in a macabre motion; making a low pitched drone that vibrated through all in range. Pixal clicks provided the beat to his morbid lyrics. In lock step, they crawled in celebration of their Master. This scene was repeated cycle after cycle.


Chapter 16
Finding Nick

Book of TranFor:

Before reaching the Awakening, one must understand what lies beneath.

“Nick!” Whizzy screamed, pounding his claws on the hyperroom door. “NazKlan! You dirty Byte!”
“Where did they take your friend,” Jeeves asked.
“To the Bin, no doubt. NazKlan means to have him shredded so he can never Join with Tera,” answered Whizzy.
“Sorry for your friend. Wish I could help in some way.”
“Do you know how I can get to the Bin. No one I know has ever ventured there unless brought there by Batchers. I need to sneak in and rescue Nick before Thrasher has his wicked way with him.”
“There are legends of the Subroots. They say there are secret tunnels that reach even to the Bin. Maybe you could use them,” suggested Jeeves.
“How do I get there? I’ll try anything.” Whizzy wobbled with anticipation.
“Well, I do not know if passage to the bin exists or how to get there.”
“Great! That’s just great! You get my hopes up with these SubRoots and now you tell me you don’t know how to use them to get to them Bin. Thanks for Nothing Jeeves!” Whizzy twirled and spun towards the exit. He could not afford to waste any time dawdling with these HazBinz.
Jeeves chased after him. “Wait! I do not know much about the SubRoots, but General Patches does. He talks about using them during the Chip Wars.”
Whizzy stopped and spun around. “The General Patches! He’s here? I thought he was deleted cycles ago. He’s got to be ancient!”
“He is the oldest living Byte on record. His door is at the very end of this hall on the right. This way,” Jeeves plunged down the hallway with Whizzy in tow.
Before opening the door, Jeeves warned Whizzy about the esteemed General. “Whizzy, his health has declined. His mind wanders in and out of delusion. Half of what he says is true, the other half is fiction. I leave it to you to decide.”
“Ok. Ok. What have I got to lose? I’m desperate! Lead on!” replied Whizzy.
Behind the door sat an old globe asleep on his spinning chair. The spinning chair was a favorite among the elderly and infirmed Silicates. Bytes prefer spinning motion over rocking or rolling. His rather raucous snores filled the cluttered room.
On the equivalent of a bookcase were multiple connection portals. Each portal accessed a group of related texts that the General favored. Most of them were about war, weapons or great conquests. A series of medals rested atop a secured safe. In the corner sat his downtime device. It was messy as far as downtime devices go.
Retrofitted with features to assist technically invalid Silicates, only a few exist within the Walled City. Equipped with a Spy/Kook vacuum, a long tube deposited the nasty buggers into a small waste basket. As Bytes rest, they shed spooks. After five or six boots, the bugs really pile up. Patches had a mound of dead spooks at the bottom of his device. In Silicate terms, he was a bit of a slob.
Whizzy was not prepared for the vision that was General Patches. True to his name, he was a hodgepodge of recombined code. Most of his original protocols were obsolete. After cycles of updates and fixes, he looked more like Frankenstein that the bright blue globe pictured in the frame atop his bureau.
The picture was taken just after V-Chip day, a holiday celebrated throughout the Nether dimension. V-Chip day marked the end of the great Chip Wars. After cycles of war torn sectors suffered tremendous damage from the constant fighting, peace was restored to the Walled City. Bytes everywhere still speak of this day.
Patches still wore some of the medals shown in the picture. Of course, now the medals served a different function. They held together mismatched pieces that encased the Generals aged body. Countless text details Patches exploits in the Great War. Some say Silicates would be a divided nation without the unification that resulted from the Chip conflict. The Servers never officially called it a war. They preferred a more benign name to downplay the severity of the situation.
Patches literally looked sewn together. Pieces of old code were peeling on his wrinkled sphere. Before long, even the storied General would succumb to the Bin. He was a stubborn old codger who refused deletion at every turn.
Jeeves shook Patches awake from his snored repose. “What? Who?” asked a confused Patches.
“General. You have a visitor,” replied Jeeves.
“Really! Well, who is it Byte? A Server seeking help with military strategy. No, No wait. It must be the commander of the Blue Guard asking me to join on as a Senior Leader. Well…Show yourself visitor, ” Patches demanded in his gruff authoritative manner that made him famous.
Whizzy plunged his wobbly figure into the room. He was still agitated by Nick’s capture.
“General sir. Please to meet you. I am WizzyWig. We have a dilemma and I need your help,” said Whizzy.
“Who’s your friend?” Patches asked.
“What? You mean Jeeves here?”
“No. Your other friend.” Patches pointed a rugged, but wrinkled claw to empty air beside Whizzy.
“But…” Jeeves poke Whizzy in the equator and gave him a look. “Oh, my friend. Well, er, he is…”
“A fine soldier from where I am spinning. Please to make your acquaintance young man,” Patches extended a creaky arm into empty air beside Whizzy