litranaut

“Nuuhh! Urrh nurh thuth thuth thuuurrr”

She looked up, “Hur?”

“UUUHHH!” She looked at him, fingers caught up in his neck tie. He could never manage them. She grinned. He was as beautiful to her now as he was when she first saw him – his lower jaw missing, his tongue lolling uselessly against his neck, straining and flicking like a blind snake when he tried to talk.

She grinned. She knew she shouldn’t but he was so cute in his grey suit with his grey tie and that helpless look on his face. That, and the fact that she didn’t have any lips.

“Nuuuhhh,” she told him, hobbling over. She wasn’t happy about the high heels she was wearing.

There was a crack and she tipped over onto the bed.

She looked down at the floor. This time it wasn’t the heel that had broken. Inside her grey shoe sat her foot, cleanly broken at the ankle.

“nuurrh?” His voice was quiet.

Maybe they’d have to give The Walk a miss this year.

***

They massed at Central Station. Somehow it seemed appropriate. Those that could scavenged what they could. They arrived dressed up like dinner – in ill fitting suits with buttons undone, or shirts ripped; some in jogging gear, most of them in clothes too big, or put on backwards.

Towards the back, and looking dead bored, were the hipsters – all the skin ripped off their waists, ear pods jammed into their heads, congealed blood oozing from busted ear drums.

At the front, on a burnt out car, arm pointing the way, groaning as loud as his deflated lungs would let him, was the walk leader. He flopped his arm around, trying to point out a route, but soon gave up and decided that he should lead by example.

He stood, poised, lifted his leg and placed it in front of him. Then lifted the other and placed that.

The others watched for a while before copying  the movement.

Even the Hipsters managed to do it. While still looking dead bored.

And so it started – The Great Annual Human Walk.

Christina woke up abruptly, as if someone had shaken her.  

She rubbed her eyes and checked her sub-dermal chronometer. 4am. 

She listened.

Then answered. “Hi.”

***

There was a time when hearing voices in your head meant that you were a prophet. That you had a direct line to the Gods. 

Or God.

If you traveled to other worlds, you did so as part of a ritual, to bring back healing medicine to save the tribe. 

Then we got civilised and realised that it was mental illness and drug misuse that gave us these things, and so we locked up our prophets and visionaries. 

*** 

The computer project didn’t get as much press as others. It didn’t have the visual appeal of a giant cannon shooting atoms around a country and the whole science behind it was hard to grasp.

“So, explain it once again?” The reporter looked utterly bemused.

Dr. Stanwick tried not to roll his eyes. He tried not to sigh.

It was, witnesses said later, “an epic fail.”

“OK – it’s like this. We hypothesize that there are many worlds -”

“Right – let me stop you there. Where?”

“Sorry?” Stanwick was confused, now.

“Where are they? Why can’t we see them?”

“They’re parallel to this dimension.” The scientist sliced the air with his hands, trying to convey the idea of ‘parallel.’ He didn’t attempt to disguise the sigh, this time. “Look. It doesn’t even matter. It’s like this. IF there are many worlds, some of them will be very similar to this one, and the people in them will be doing very similar things. That means that there’s a version of me, talking to a version of you – probably many of them.”

The reporter opened his mouth, about to ask another question. Stanwick hurried his explanation, pitching his voice slightly louder. “The upshot of this is that if I’m building a computer that taps into the computing ability of another world, then the me in that world is probably doing the same thing. That way, when we turn them all on our computational power goes through the roof.”

The reporter stood, slack jawed, for a moment. “So…you’re going to…like, hijack wi-fi from another dimension?”

The range of responses to that question was staggering. They all flashed across the scientist’s mind and, pretty much instantly, across his face. At last his shoulder’s slumped, with a sigh. “Yes. That’s exactly what we’re going to do.”

***

No one noticed it at first. Occasionally people found themselves thinking lovingly of someone else, or harbouring a resentment they were previously unaware of – but they put it down to tiredness, part of the constant internal monologue

Panic attacks spiked. People became severely disorientated – seemingly unaware of where they were; or claiming there weren’t where they should be. Everything was slightly different. It always passed, but they carried the memory with them.
At the other end of the scale scientists were making greater and greater leaps, writers were reaching new levels of excellence.

It took 18 months before anyone thought to ask why and then only because the nation’s current favourite z-list ballroom dancer broke down on Live TV.

It came at the end of a dazzling display. She was spun the breadth of her partner’s body. Everyone had seen the rehearsal tapes. The spin ended with a freeze for a beat, then a dazzling solo. 

Everyone agreed what she lacked in acting ability, presentation and singing she made up for in dance.

She stumbled from the spin, looked around the room, she fear and confusion plain on her face. She looked down at her dress – up at the audience, and let loose a feral howl.

She screamed at the panel, demanding to know how they got her there, where “Danial” was. She then fled the set and locked herself in a toilet, breaking the director’s arm, a security guard’s collar bone and blowing her agent’s right knee off.

When they calmed down her down, she just repeated, “I wasn’t where I was meant to be. I was in a wasteland. Like…if there’d been a war. And I was injured, bleeding. It was so real. And people were screaming. I don’t know what happened.”

She won the popular vote that week.

*** 

Stanwick had guessed this might happen. His diaries stated that you can’t break down the walls and not expect a little bleed. Researchers said his risk calculation was naively short – as if he deliberately turned a blind eye to it.

They all agreed that he couldn’t have factored in slippage on the scale it was happening.

Sudden movement triggered it initially – consciousness folding on itself, slipping through the walls to another when.

As news spread, it spread everywhere. People slipped, but generally everyone was better at handling it.

No one was ever alone again.

But – that first time…. “Hal…” The word faltering. The nervous cough. “Hello?”

A busy shopping street.

A lane in a quiet coastal village.

Nowhere was safe.

350 children. Gone.

What started as a single, observational path just exploded.

250 were taken in the last month alone.

In a bizarre twist, families with one child taken, were hit again. as if losing one wasn’t bad enough. It also brought the age of the youngest child down.

To 6.

*****

The envelopes were plain. The address labels typed onto stickers. The only prints were from the postman and there was no DNA on the stamps.

Everyone watches CSI. Everyone.

Each family received one. As did every major news service.

And most of the minor ones.

They all contained a single DVD.

*****

Center screen was a podium.

No Microphone.

Experts deduced a a camcorder fed to a computer. Though they could have also checked the site to which the video was uploaded. This detailed camera type, computer system, and a great deal of other, less interesting, technical details.

A girl, 14, pig-tails, freckles and a summer dress walked, stage right, to the podium. She coughed, frowned down at the podium, then up, into camera.

“I am one of the 500. My name is Sandra Fields. I am fine.”

She looked beyond the camera, nodded slightly, then walked off, stage left.

Next, a boy, 16. Acne, band T-Shirt. “People are talking about our kidnappers; about our captors.”

Then, a girl, all smiles, skipped to the podium. “Hello, Mommy.” Suddenly shy, she looked down. “I…I’m ok. Don’t be sad. I saw you on TV, crying. It’s ok. Don’t be sad.”

Sandra came back on screen and hugged the girl. “Come on, Tray. We have to read, remember? Look, here we are.”

That was the second, most played, clip. The love, friendship and caring of these two girls continues to confound psychologists. Even after everything that followed.

Tracy Coleman, 8, read.

“We have no…no cap…captors. No one is holding us. We are free to go.” She swallowed and breathed. “If we want.”

Tracy Coleman beamed the brightest, gap toothed smile into camera and waved, “I love you, Mommy. Bye bye,” then skipped from the podium.

Until Mrs Olivia Coleman got a court order preventing it, that was the most played clip.

Sandra was left at the podium. She looked uncomfortable, wrong footed. She shrugged at the camera, ran her hands through her hair, and followed Tracy Coleman off screen.

Brian came next. His eyes were red. “Mr and Mrs Coleman. You have a wonderful daughter.” He sniffed, cuffed his nose and wiped his eyes. He looked down at, what was apparently, the script.

He coughed. “Why would we need to be taken when you drive us away all on your own?”

A flame haired girl, 18, flirting with her audience. “You have it all. You were meant to hold it for us.”

She was joined by a blue haired goth “But you wanted to keep it. You own all the money, keep all the jobs.”

A pierced, tattooed punk. “For the first time in history, we can expect a future darker than your present.”

They walked off together. A young, black man followed. Neat, in a suit. The picture of a business man.

“You left us in debt. Most of you knew of The Collapse, but did nothing about it. We.”

He paused.

“We don’t get to inherit the earth. We get to pay for your failings.”

A small child came from the left. The punk came from the right. When they met at the podium, he was lost behind it. She hoisted him up, cradling him against her hip. She whispered the lined to Tommy Franks. Her 6 year old brother.

“Vair…vair is no one.” He mumbled. “Jus us.”

He looked to camera and was joined by his sister. “Just us.”

More children joined, from left to right. Repeating the refrain, ensuring it was understood. “Just us. Just us. Just us.”

Then, walking to the front of the group, Margret Pierce. First Child.

“You will find us, eventually. You might even try to take us back.” The camera pulled into her face. “But we will never be yours. You took away our future and gave us up. We are simply returning the favour.”

That ended the news organizations discs.

The family videos contained special messages, for their eyes only.

*****

To date, 1200 more children have vanished. Each sends a disc every three months. None have been traced.

Of the children, 250 have been found, and 150 of those were forcibly returned.

Of that 25 stayed.

Some were committed, sent for deprogramming. They were gone within a week of capture.

50 have returned voluntarily.

First Child will be 23 this week.

The following month, Tommy Franks will be 13.

Both are still missing.

He stared out of the window. It was a beautiful day.

He drew a breath.

       She took a bite of the cake, opened her mouth to say –

             “We should fake our own deaths and run away.”

                     She coughed cake over the table.

“What?”

He looked at her, picking crumbs out of his coffee. “It’d make a fantastic story. You and me in a diner in…New York. On the table next to us is an old couple. Jewish, of course. We’re all tawlkin and they say ‘You look like a great couple. May and I have been together 60 years.’ She’ll nod and say ‘Sixty years,’ and he’ll reach over and cover her hand with his, and smile. Then they’ll look and say ‘So. How did you two meet?’ And we’ll say ‘Well, it all stated when we faked our own deaths. Could you pass the sugar?'”

She laughed. Took a breath. Laughed again.

“We’d travel the world,” he continued. “People would see what we left behind and say ‘That looks just like their work. God, if only they were alive to see it.'”

She stopped laughing, wiped her eyes and took a mouthful of coffee.

“We can’t do it.” She eventually replied. “The pain would kill my mother. We’ll have to wait until she was dead.”

“That could be at least 30 years!”

She smiled. “Surely I’m worth the wait.”

“Oh, undoubtedly you are. I’d just like to be able to enjoy it.” He took a bite of the cake. “This is amazing!”

“I know! I was about to say that when you started with the death and stuff.”

And nothing more was said about it.

***

It was late when her mobile rang. Her hand flopped about for it and she frowned through sleep stuck eyes at the name.

“This had better be good.”

“Secret Identities,” he said. “What about secret identities. We just need excuses to travel. A lot. No death, just fake names at hotels and bars. And disguises.”

“Good night. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

She hung up and turned over. For 2 minutes her eyes refused to close. She reached for the phone and hit redial.

“When?”