litranaut

Silence where there should have been none. It exploded through the room.

This was no calm before a storm, it was a miscue.

The groupbody recoiled in shock, like a puppy having its nose slapped. Then, an instant later, the flash, – freezing all it passed. Preserving the image.

Faces frozen, grimacing with teeth bared either in reaction to the silence or in exertion, sweat held on brows, chests bared and glistening. Others smiling, the bliss of light freeing them from the loss. They stood, arms outstretched pulling in the light. Others are caught mid-speech with mouths open, words stolen from them with the shame of having them heard aloud, or with heads thrown back in laughter.

And the bodies, caught in every imaginable shape and position, frozen in a tableau of the moment. Legs risen with steps half formed, the tension of the moment sucked from them. Bodies turned, twisting and thrusting into emptiness, where something should have caught them; where something should have been there to unwind them – forcing them back to a form they knew.

But the lovers; the lovers torn apart from the moment, hands holding faces forever frozen, lips never quite meeting. All their fleeting promises forever unfulfilled.

Nature, as they say, abhors a vacuum and it rushed to fill it. From the silence came a great sucking, hissing sound of air being pulled into lungs, building for a release – a great cry.

And the room plunged back into darkness.

The sound exploded though the room as the cry broke in the throats of the crowd. Those closest felt the noise vibrating through their chests. Clothes were blown by the force of the blast, and the moans of displeasure transformed into cheers and whoops of delights.

Bodies writhed as the beat took them. Couples circled, stalking each other, hungrily looking for the opening to allow them to strike.

People at the edges were drawn towards the heaving mass, moving as one to the constant thump, the constant drive. All were back, once more on the beating track.

Saul flew.

Chest out, arms outstretched, he soared high above the waterways, and what was left of the streets, below. No one saw him, not many people looked up anymore. He and his kind owned the roofs, the air and –

He pulled his arms back, curled into a ball and allowed himself to fall forward, landing on the roof opposite with a roll. Never stopping, he used his momentum and ran a wall over a sheer drop. From there he pushed out into open air. A leap, and fall, of faith to a flag pole.

He swung on the pole and flew, perfectly, through the window of an empty tenement.He reveled in the rush as brick and wood passed his ears.

Another roll and he stopped, flat on the floor, panting.

Saul’s mind wandered back to the history of the Roofers. It often did at this time, the still moments. He thought of those who came before him. He stood, abruptly, and crossed the room to another window.

To be honest, he didn’t care about who came before him; didn’t care how he and his kind came to own the roofs. All he cared about was here, and now.

And milk.

He checked his route home. It was a simple from here – a jump to the roof below, a sprint leading to a leap, which in turn called for a roll and on and on and on.

He grinned and jumped into the window frame.

His arse vibrated. Stepping back into the room he pulled his spime from his pocket.”Yup.”

“Hey, Saul. It’s Matt. How’s the roofs?”

“Better than the water, Fish boy.”

“Uh huh. So you won’t be coming out here at the weekend then.”

“You got the code done?” The excitement in Saul’s voice was obvious.

“Of course. If you bring the stuff, we have ourselves a deal, my friend.”

Saul slipped the spime back in his pocket and, laughing, took to the skies again.

He hit the roof running, hit a loose tile, felt it slip out from underneath him.

He stumbled, tipping out over the street. He twisted, slamming his weight back.But his rhythm was shot and his balance quickly followed. He tried to remain upright, and failed.

Arms flailing, he toppled from the roof.

His hand scrabbled for a gutter, caught it, and felt it rip away as his dead weight proved too heavy.

Saul fell.

“Tho-” Jack winced.
Everything hurt.
His head felt like it had been split open. His eye sockets complained with a dull ache. His mouth felt like someone had taken a drill to it, opened his jaw, removed and replaced a tooth, implanted god knows what, and resealed it.
Which, to be fair, is exactly what had happned.
Not that knowing this helped the pain any. His left arm pulsed with every heart beat, and turning his hand made the bones in his wrist grind against each other. Worse, the electrodes that monitored his health pulled at the hairs on his chest every time he moved.
A couple were sacrificed before he stopped moving.With his good hand he reached out and pressed a button. The machine it was attached to beeped, and he felt an icy jet rush up his good arm.“If this is the future,” he thought, as the pain relief hit his system. “You can keep it.”
And slept the sleep of the drugged.This cycle continued – brief spikes of pain breaking through long, warm oceans of sleep – until the Third day, when he rose again.Jack shook his head. It didn’t split.
A doctor shone a torch in his eyes, and they didn’t scream at him. Sure, they complained, but not as much.
“Not as much pain?”
“Nu” His mouth still felt like bears regularly used it as a latrine. “Ih stirhurth buh nuh thomuch.” He smiled.And hoped he hadn’t drooled.
“Good, good.” The doctor wrote on his clipboard. “You know, this really is remarkable recovery. In a few days I think you’ll be ready to plug in.”
“In a few days,” Jack thought, and closed his eyes.
 

********

 

He woke, later, and saw his mobile phone on the table.

 With his good hand he felt over a flap of skin at his wrist. It felt, for all intents and purposes, like real skin. He played with the edge, found a small groove, pushed against it and felt it slide back.
Under the skin was a metallic channel, thin and cold to the touch. He reached out, grabbed his phone and slotted it into place.
His vision darkened, and he fought to stay conscious.
“Jethuth.” They told him his body would be part powering the phone when he slotted, and that the transition would be a little strange.
Slowly his vision cleared, and he waited for his ears to pop. His breath returned to normal, his heart beat steadied.
He ran his tongue over his teeth, searching for his first molar. It, too, felt normal. He was impressed that they kept the filling. It felt just like his old one.
He knew the drill – press down with his tongue, twice, and the tooth would activate his connection – he’d be in the net through his own system.
All the pain, all the waiting, was for this.
He hesitated. A voice in his head said, “What? Are you scared?”
“Of COURSE I’m scared. I’m shitting myself. If this doesn’t work, I fry my brains. Twat.”
He pressed his tooth. It didn’t move.
He pressed it again. Nothing.
Cautiously he moved his tongue across to the other side of his mouth. That tooth felt…synthetic. There was no filling. His smile would be better on that side. If his head flip topped.
He pressed his tooth.
Behind his eyes, there was an explosion – a white flash of pain the likes of which he’d never felt before. The explosion dissolved into small white balls, which twisted, and drained away. His ears rang with a hum, ending in a small chime – obviously the start up music.“That has to go…”Jack was floating in the middle of a space. Vast and stretching out into infinity. Small points of light disappeared into the distance. It was too much. He closed his eyes, but could still see it. He grasped for the familiar, felt the bed against his back and clung to it like an anchor.
But it was wrong. He was upright.
He turned, trying to see the bed and felt the pull of the tape against his chest. His stomach lurched as he span round at an incredible speed. There was no bed behind him – only more of the infinite, but the feeling still persisted. 
He lifted looked down. Where were his legs? He had no body. Could see no body. Could feel the weight of his body. Could smell his body. Lights yawned below him at an unimaginable depth. Vertigo sucker punched him in the stomach.
He tried to raise his hand, which was useless. He couldn’t stop gripping the mattress, which wasn’t there, and neither were his arms – 
“Why am I not falling?” 
He could feel his body against the bed. How was he feeling that when he had no body – when he was falling? He was so high…
His breathing came fast and raspy, his heart thumped at his chest. With a sharp pull sideways he was kicked out of the net, crashing back into his body. His stomach heaved and he finally vomited.
“Shit, I hope I don’t pas-“ And he passed out.
 

*****

 When he woke, there were nurses cleaning him up and the nice doctor from earlier standing over his bed. Except now he didn’t look so nice.
Now, he looked angry.
While the medical staff didn’t chew Jack a new arsehole, they did mark the area it would be in, and described, in great detail, the procedure they would use if he ever pulled a stunt like that again.

The neon, light poluted night was intermittently punctured with the staccato flash of emergency lights.

Two cars burnt brightly on the forecourt of Block 3578, the flames red and yellow setting a warm backdrop to the harsh, electric blue.

Most of the windows are shuttered off, closed to the outside world but some… Some turned their large, black empty eyes onto the scene below.

Behind one such window, 50 or so people were crammed into a dark, sweaty room. A DJ silently spun a musical web, mixing classics with bleeding edge sounds and dropping phat baselines on the silently grateful crowd.

“Police Light Discos” were so underground that the DJ only knew of two of them.

The two he started.

There’s rules. Two Rules. We all blame “Fight Club.”

1) No Sound. At all. All the music is wirelessly broadcast into headsets.
2) The only lights are to be provided, secretly, by the local emergency services.

The setup is dangerous – the location, the guests, the invite for the emergency services – but that was part of the buzz.

That said…

        He cued the next record, his hands finding, and holding the beat back.

… it was the third car burning at this block in the last two weeks.

He held the beat back.

Even if the cars, well…these cars, were abandoned and not stolen, it was stil risky.

     He held the beat back – and glanced at the windows, smiling.

It was probably time to find a new place.

He dropped the beat on the crowd and, as one, they gasped – almost cheered.

The DJ smiled. Still, he’d miss the soundproofing.

“Red.”

 

A woman turned and looked in the speaker’s direction. The man stood out from most other people by being dressed. Albeit dressed in an ill fitting, ripped suit, but dressed is dressed.

 

He was pointing.

 

“Red. Red.” The woman followed his finger. He was pointing to a car.

 

Which was blue.

 

Not that either of them could tell the other that.

 

The man sighed. “Flange monkey scrugh na na na.” He looked at his feet.

 

Then started to cry.

 

“Scrunch Spanner,” he sobbed.

 

In the distance, a man crawled through some trees – one arm outstretched, his nose bleeding, both eyes blackened. He cried quietly, unable to understand how he was boxed in at all sides by things he couldn’t see.

 

*****

 

The theory was interesting: What would happen if you broke the connection between subject and object? What if you could remove all meaning from the word “Red”and you showed someone a swatch of red?

 

A group of linguistic scientists started with a small step – essentially a word virus.

 

Early experiments were promising but the effects were devastating.

 

Some people suddenly lost the ability to ‘see’ things they had no words for. Others were paralysed – either with fear or confusion. Some responded with childlike wonder – seeing the world with new eyes.

 

***

 

Their findings were presented to the Board. One member suggested that people with trauma could have the meanings disassociated from the words and a new round of funding was secured.

 

***

 

A shaking hand twisted the lid on a plastic bottle. He was so thirsty. He didn’t know the word for what he was feeling. He wasn’t even sure what the specific words was for thing was he had to do to resolve the issue, but even without the words he knew what to do.

 

He opened his mouth and took a deep swig of bleach.

 

***

 

The hypothesis was simple: The process of disconnecting a single word at a time was too slow. Wouldn’t it be better if we had a faster way of doing this. Something that looked at the linguistic section of the brain and then disconnected a set of words?

 

The planning was extensive – sound proofed rooms, carefully studied parameters. A test session was set up and. They discovered that their virus was too potent almost immediately. Their test subject was losing more words than he should have.

 

The Devil, as always, was in the details.

 

Like a virus, it had been coded it to be communicable. One word sent it into the minds of the scientists who heard it. Who then spread it to those they spoke to.

 

From a very safe distance, the contagion pattern was studied and the spread simulated. There was but one solution.

 

And so it came to pass England was quarantined. No radio broadcasts, no flying over the country. Aid was dropped in but it was readily apparent that nothing could be done.

 

Only mute observation as a country lost its way.

 

*****

 

A woman found a kitten in a tree. It was doing something she didn’t understand, but the sound made her sad. Holding out her hands she managed to coax it down. She wasn’t sure what she was holding but she carried it gently to a crying man in an ill fitting suit.

 

She held it out to him and asked, “Red?”