Explore every episode of the podcast Slip Three
| Title | Pub. Date | Duration | |
|---|---|---|---|
| The Signature | 29 Sep 2026 | 00:08:44 | |
Transmission 04 of 10. You asked what eight years is actually like, so I told you. Splicing, welding badly, reading the surface for what is underneath it. Small places where you are useful and quiet and gone before you become a story. Six people who know a version of me, none of whom I will describe. Then the hard part. The night watch was four people. Three of them signed in. The fourth is a black bar on every copy of that roster that was ever filed. I have the one that was not filed â it was in a drawer, because the supervisor printed the watch list every Sunday and wrote on it in pencil, and nobody has ever built a records system that survives a man with a pencil. I am not going to say the name. The moment I say it out loud this stops being a thing you checked and starts being a thing I told you, and those are worth different amounts. Take the two lists. Put one on top of the other. See which name is standing on its own. THE ROSTER â the copy that was never filed: THE ARCHIVE â every file, with the fingerprint that proves your copy is the copy: THE STATION RECORD â locked. The first transmission opens it: WHAT HAS COME BACK: CONTACT â the only channel I answer: | |||
| Five Desks | 22 Sep 2026 | 00:05:50 | |
Transmission 03 of 10. You found the desk. It took a lot of you about four hours, which tells me something I did not want to know. Second capture is up. Same station, the following day, midnight to midnight, one minute sample. Forty-seven kilobytes. A whole day of a coastline is not very much data, which is exactly why it survived. Two things nobody did with the first one. Check the water against the sky. That night the moon was two days off new, so the range was building toward springs. If my numbers disagree with what the moon was doing, I made them up and you should stop listening. Then run the checksums. Every record carries its own, and all fourteen pass. Then check the block. The block does not pass. THE SECOND CAPTURE: THE ARCHIVE â every file, with the fingerprint that proves your copy is the copy: THE STATION RECORD â locked. The first transmission opens it: WHAT HAS COME BACK: CONTACT â the only channel I answer: | |||
| Dead Water | 15 Sep 2026 | 00:28:23 | |
Transmission 02 of 10. I drink off the tarp and sleep in twenty-minute pieces. Somebody asked whether I was really out here. I am really out here. The arrangement I had is gone. The man who held it stopped answering his phone in March. So this is the new arrangement, and you are it. A session number is not a person. It is a desk. Do not ask me who â ask me which desk that session was opened on, at three minutes to midnight, on a night when only three people had signed in. The door from the first transmission is still open. Same word. Read the fourth line. THE STATION RECORD â locked. The first transmission opens it: THE ARCHIVE â every file, with the fingerprint that proves your copy is the copy: WHAT HAS COME BACK â where things stand, so nobody starts from nothing: CONTACT â the only channel I answer: | |||
| The Zero Node | 08 Sep 2026 | 00:05:22 | |
Transmission 01 of 10. Six seconds of uplink, four times a day. This is one of them. Attached: MCA-CTL-0314-RAW, partial. Tide, salinity, wind, air â station CQ-03, the day either side of the collapse. It is the raw capture and not somebody's summary of it, so most of it is boring. That is the point. Read from 0x4E1C20. Everything either side of it is tide. One of those records was written by nobody. What sits under it is the whole reason I am doing this. THE CAPTURE â nine megabytes, station CQ-03: THE ARCHIVE â take a copy of everything, and check it against the fingerprints: CONTACT â use an address you don't mind burning: | |||