November 4, 2009

As abruptly as it had begun, the barrage of sound ceased. This time, Nicholas welcomed it, glad of the silent respite. The sensation had not quite been pain, but overwhelming enough that his mind felt overloaded by the prolonged blast of what had seemed like noise. The mental relief that the silence brought him almost felt palpable. He remained wary, though, certain that the sound blast might return at any time.

The silence had just begun to concern him when the voice returned.

"My apologies, Nicholas," it offered. "That apparently did not work as expected." There was a brief pause. "We are re-calibrating and will try again in a few moments."

The voice went silent again and Nicholas realized what had been bothering him about it. The transition from speaking to silence was distinct. The voice, although oddly modulated, was also consistently clear. There seemed to be none of the usual background noise or electronic static that one would expect from almost any form of verbal communication. It was just another in the growing list of strange things that Nicholas had begun to compile about his new environment.

Okay, Nicholas," the voice returned. "We are going to attempt this procedure again. We hope to more successful this time."

There was that "we" again, Nicholas noted. Clearly whoever was involved in what was being done to him was not acting alone.

He then noticed a faint buzzing noise, just on the edge of awareness. As he tried to focus on it, it gradually grew, very slowly gaining in intensity. He prepared himself for a renewed assault, but the level of the signal stabilized below what it had been before. Nicholas guessed it to be at about half of the intensity of the original blast. It seemed entirely tolerable at its current level. He could not imagine its purpose, but was certain that, if he did not come to ignore it, it would become a maddening distraction in time.

The sound continued for a time. Nicholas then began to detect small variations in the signal. They were subtle at first, but grew more pronounced the longer he listened to them. It still seemed to be meaningless sound and he attempted to discern a pattern from the variations, trying to determine whether they were intended to be words or something else entirely. This on for some time, long enough that he had actually started to become bored with the exercise, when the fluctuations ceased. It returned to being a single, flat tone before ending abruptly.

This time, Nicholas felt himself react differently to the return of the pervasive silence. At first, he imagined it to be like being in a darkened theater after the lights went down, but before the movie started. No, he decided, it was more than that. In a theater, there would be the sounds of the air conditioner (always turned on too high) and the noises of people sitting nearby. This was different than that. Then he had it. It was that seemingly unnatural silence that followed in those first few moments after a neighborhood-wide power outage. Every sound would suddenly vanish from the environment: no hum from the kitchen appliances, no barely-audible buzz from electronic devices—nothing. Just silence.

In those instances, though, ambient sounds did eventually return, even if only from a distance. Nicholas could imagine it now: the sounds of automobiles out on the street, dogs barking, children crying—all of the usual sounds of life continuing to take place in the absence of light and electricity. Here though, wherever he now was, the silence continued to be absolute unless the voice spoke to him—or offered up strange, monotonous sounds. Nicholas waited, adrift in a sea of silence, for the voice to return.

#

Cynthia Kincaid removed her phone from her backpack and checked it. It indicated that she had received three voice messages during class, but none of them had been from her father. That really was not surprising, for he often did not return her calls during the day. He had explained to her more than once that he did want to interrupt her during class. Each time, she had laughingly told him that it was okay. She suspected that the truth was that he secretly abhorred the notion of having his voice stored in a digital message.

Someone bumped against her, nearly knocking the phone from her hand. She glared at the perpetrator, but was only able to score a glancing blow off of his retreating back. None of those who called required urgent attention, so she shoved the phone back into her pack and continued on.

"Hey, Cyn!" came a familiar shout from nearby.

She stopped, turning on the ball of one foot, looking in the direction that she believed the voice came from. Waving wildly to her with one hands stretched up high was Diana Parrier. Cynthia thought Diana looked foolish standing there like that, but Diana either did not notice or care. In truth, Cynthia thought it was probably a mixture of both. She waved back quickly, making just enough of a gesture that she hoped that Diana would see it and stop, but not enough to draw attention to herself. Changing direction, but not increasing her pace, she headed toward where her friend waited.

Diana smiled brightly, almost bouncing in place. "Hey, Cyn," she repeated. "Want to grab something at the Bar?"

Cynthia grimaced slightly. The main draw of the Bar-D Grill was just that, its enormous menu of grilled meals, with a cooking grill to match. Cynthia also knew, though, that the Bar's main attraction for Diana was one particular student who worked there behind the monster grill. His name was Beau or Braun or Brian, or something like that. All Cynthia could remember for sure was that he played some sport for the college that was not football or basketball. Still, he was large and athletic-looking, but not at all Cynthia's type. As a matter of fact, Cynthia had realized long ago that nearly any male student that Diana had expressed an interest in was not her type. In almost all cases, she could far too easily imagine them in the future: sitting on the sofa, drinking beer with their buddies, and cheering at the television screen. That did not match her personal vision of a bright and sunny future.

She could sense that Diana was getting antsy for a response. She was getting hungry, she realized, but would have just as happy with a salad from one of the healthier, and less crowded, eateries on campus. Finally, before Diana started doing more than shift from foot to foot with impatience, Cynthia gave a non-committal shrug and said, "Sure."

Diana, as expected, took this as enthusiastic approval and headed off, almost at a trot. Cynthia followed at a slower pace, moving just quickly enough to keep her friend in sight.

#

Kincaid awoke to daylight. It took him several moments to recognize how unusual that was. Even if it had been a Saturday—and came more sharply awake when he realized that it was not. He found himself slightly surprised that he had not been awakened by a phone call from one of his staff members checking on him in concern. They were probably just as tired as he was, Kincaid suspected, and had probably guessed that he had decided to try to catch up on at least a few hours of sleep lost over the past few days.

On paper, the institute had flexible work hours, depending on the needs of specific projects. Official policy to contrary, it was well known that Adamson preferred to have her staff there and working no later than nine o'clock (although it was apparent that she appreciated those who arrived by eight o'clock even more). Kincaid glanced at his clock, unused to having to read its display in the morning light: 9:32. He rolled onto his back again and sighed. While he was somewhat surprised at the time, he was not entirely surprised that he had slept that long. I'm not in college any more, he reminded himself silently. It was both a mild scolding and a melancholy reminder.

He had given up academic research four years ago to accept this position at the institute. In addition to offering considerably more money in compensation, it also provided him with the ability to conduct his research with a much more reliable stream of funding. The opportunities to publish and present were no less limited. In fact, there might even be more chances for him to reach an even broader audience with the possibility of turning his research into practical applications.

Kincaid rose to a sitting position, feeling stiff. His muscles felt tight in several places that he did not expect. It was then that he realized that he was still dressed from the day before. That explained much of the rest, he decided. Standing, he started to undress.

The shower seemed to invigorate him somewhat, the steam and hot water washing away most of the remaining fatigue. Watching the water and soap swirl down the drain, he was suddenly reminded of something involving water . . . of something he needed to do . . .

Even as he toweled off and then shaved, it continued to nag at him, but would not reveal itself. He tried to dismiss it in a bit of mental reverse self-psychology, telling himself as he dressed that whatever it was really did not matter, but that tactic failed him—the elusive mental nagging persisted. He headed downstairs toward the kitchen to make coffee and find out what he might have available for breakfast.

As he made his way down the stairs, the aroma of something that he could only describe as spiced sewage wafted to him. He stopped, slumping, as he realized with an audible groan just what had been niggling at him all morning. Finally forcing himself onward, he told himself that he could not just leave it until later. Later might be several days away and the damage even more severe than it already was.

Daylight did not improve the appearance of the situation; it was simply more brightly lit. Kincaid judged that to completely repair the damage would require, at minimum, the services of a plumber and a carpenter . . . and several hours of having to try to work from the house as they performed their various, highly-priced services. To make matters worse, if Kincaid’s memory was correct, his daughter’s college tuition for the next academic quarter was due next week.

It never rains, but it pours . . . Staring at the stained and warped hardwood planks, he thought how apt that adage truly was. He headed back toward the kitchen. Coffee first, he told himself, and then the plumber.