Mick is the first in a series of stories which surround and underlie a novel which
has been percolating through my head and on and off on paper for a few years now.
If you read this, I would be pleased for you to critique my writing. If you hate
it, say so. I'll hate you back, of course, but that is my perogative <grin>.
One morning, I didn't wake up. At least I thought I wasn't awake. There were odd movements and a jostling that I could not quite figure. Odd flashes of light permeated my field of vision. Dizziness, and clenching and unclenching in the area of my stomach disturbed me greatly. A voice, a gorgeous woman's voice, Kathleen Turner's voice, on Ecstasy, calling my name, over and over, fading into the distance. Michael, Michael. I strained to hear that voice.
Other voices rose in me. Tapping the net . . . Subject amenable . . . add factor 17. These voices, these sounds impinged hardly at all. I was too busy wondering at all the new sensations. I could feel the air, several feet out from my body. Molecular vibrations became detectable, overwhelming. A storm arose, a swirling, twitching nightmare of a storm, which eased gently.
Modular overload . . . lighter now . . . sleep, Mick.
The sound of a small bulb popping. That woke me, right enough. Only nothing happened. Numb. Isolated. What was that sound? Honey? Are you there? I opened my eyes to see her, my mouth to talk to her. Nothing. Another voice, a man's. He can hear you. I can. Can you hear me? What's happened? I can tell you hear me, darling.
There must have been an accident. I was supposed to have been to work - big meeting going on between my bosses and the ven-cap people. I remember kissing Sam goodbye, climbing into the car, and nothing more. Sam, Samantha are you there?
Listen carefully, Mick, dear. They are going to do some tests, and you have to cooperate. They are . . . Her voice trailed off. The man's voice. The tests will map your responses to stimuli. Visualize each part of your body, attempt to move it as you feel the imposed sensation. These voices, they weren't like sounds, more like thoughts. Something is very wrong here. Am I dead? No one to answer. This way lay madness, I dare not tread. I started feeling pinpricks, tingling in various body parts. I worked hard, trying to move that part, to feel that motion. Nothing. Phase One is complete. Physical synchronization is imminent - let the subject rest. Rest, hell. Tell me what's . . . It was already black. I just faded.
That popping noise again. Mick, honey. Are you awake? They have more testing to do. Can you feel that . . . Her voice cut off, like somebody threw a switch. Mr. Taylor, we are going to map first vision, then hearing. We don't know what you will see or hear, but you will be safe. Yeah, like from my favorite book, this must be some definition of safe with which I was previously unacquainted.
Again, the flashes of light, stars, fireflies testing their wings. Suddenly huge sheets of color, impossible geometric forms, sweeping toward me, through me. I am filled with wonder, too amazed to be afraid. The shapes, the colors recede. Visions filled my senses, pictures impossibly sharp. To see a whole beach and encompass the roughness on the surface of a single grain of sand at a single glance. These were remarkable. They got sharper, brighter, brighter. I tried to cry out. Black peace.
Then a faint humming began. Only minor variations in the timbre and volume were detectable. There arose occasional spikes of high-pitched noise. The sound resembled that of the modems I remember from my childhood. Simple tones sounded, one after the other, rising first in pitch, then in volume, to soul shattering levels. I passed out, I think.
Say the last part please, Mrs. Taylor. I waited in anticipation, having been stranded in the dark and silence since that pop awoke me. Mick, they tell me that you need to try really hard to cooperate with their work, or there won't be any chance. I heard a muffled sob, and then nothing more, for a long time.
You might rejoin her, Mick, but we have a lot of work ahead of us. There were weeks, months maybe, of round after round of testing. Never did I end the day in any different shape than I started. Then that day arrived.
We're finished, Taylor. It was good to have your help in the calibration. This speeded up the process dramatically. Hope you don't mind. Goodbye. What? A scent of acrid almonds, a searing electric explosion and nothing more.
Until now. I know what happened. They think I have gone, but I am watching. I
can see the lights of the station, see the men in suits clambering across my skin. I
watch them through my remotes. I have been well and truly screwed. Those
bastards at PI are using my brain to run one of their outsystem harvester ships. I
see the logo, and I know now what they meant about me rejoining my wife. With
the twisted sense of humor they have, not knowing I can still see, feel, perhaps
one day act through these nerves of copper and gold and silica, I lay at berth in
the station, next to the good ship Samantha.
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Brian P. Bilbrey.
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