From: Andy@s-enigma.demon.co.uk (Aerial)
Subject: Synchromesh
Date: Sun Feb 05 15:54:08 MET 1995

Hi. S'been some time.

Well, my last posting ('Descent') received some great feedback, so just a
quick thanks to those of you that emailed me :)

What follows is the first part of a story called 'Synchromesh', that I started
to write some time ago. It's not great... but it's not my worst :) I'd
appreciate comments via email.

This is is for EFK :) Thanks for the inspiration, the hot days and the even
hotter nights last summer. Seni seviyorum, canim :)

Andy

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"Lifting Shadows, Off A Dream Once Broken, She Can Turn A
Drop Of Water, Into An Ocean, And She Listens Openly, He           _./|  Oink
Pours His Soul Into The Water, Reflecting The Mystery,          ___\ oO   /
She Carries Him Away, And The Winds Die Slowly..."            ~(      _@
                                                            ....oO.oO'...
        -- Dream Theater, "Lifting Shadows Off A Dream"

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From Andy@s-enigma.demon.co.uk (Aerial)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo
Subject: Synchromesh pt1
Organization: The Social Enigma Directory
Date: Sun Feb 05 16:12:42 MET 1995

SYNCHROMESH sing'kro-mesh, adj - of a gear, in which the speeds of the driving
and driven members are automatically synchronised before coupling.

She bolts upright on the thin, warm futon and her glistening forehead connects
with the low ceiling of the cube. Looking down in the dim static half-light
she sees the foam is wet between her thighs. She hasn't pissed herself. The
fifteen milligrams of Deprenyl and Bromocriptine scratch at her pituitary like
a hungry and frustrated lover -- screaming words of erotic torment in
neurochemical pulses. Like packets of digital data, her nervous system
illuminates in neon fire. A violent shiver sends cold caresses over her sweat
slicked body. A quicksilver nymph.

She rubs her eyes and strains closer to the City; the accusations of a
black-and-white lamenting another statistic; the chemical kiss of a factory
spitting sulphurous love into a monochrome sky; the quiet hum of an
industrialists dream turned nightmare; the City of a thousand cogs.
Co-dependents turning twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, three
hundred and sixty-five days a year. No rest. Sisyphus smiling.

Reaching over, she flicks on the cable tv with her finger. Her sweat leaves a
smear shining like a ruby firefly on the power switch. The crackle of crushed
styrofoam fills the cube and the screen jumps into life. Phosphenes dance over
her vision for a moment before her eyes focus.

"Each day is the fucking same." she murmurs to herself, her words still lucid
with the intangible stuff of her dreams. "What's the point in anything any
more?" The cable hisses and burns at the back of her mind as she rises to her
haunches. Slim thighs pockmarked with fiery pinpricks where she puts the
needles. Crusted saline paste tangles her pubic hair. She hasn't washed in
four days.

This is her Place. An island in the city. Somewhere that she can come to hope
and wish -- to escape the unreality of life and slip into a better world. A
warm place where no one dares touch her. She remembers him there, as she used
to remember him here. The touch of his body on hers and the feelings he gave
her. The warmth and the love. At least she thought it was love. "What does it
matter now?" she whispers. "He's gone and he isn't coming back. Ever. Not the
way he was..." Her soft voice trails off, the tight air in the cube reeking of
her futility and hopelessness. She idly scratches her breast, her nails
digging into yielding flesh. It's not unpleasurable. She remembers the arch of
her back above his as they fucked with an unfelt urgency in the shadow of a
street lamp. Him thrusting into her Place. Pain from pleasure.

The cube is her way of getting away from it all. Every day she sees the
Orwellian figures of grey, mindlessly and numbly going about their business.
The corporate sector -- happiness in slavery. She used to be one of them,
until the day he came into her life. Walked in on soundless feet, fine elfin
features and soft, downy hair. He tore her away from the monotony of her
pitiful life and saved her from the death she would have died. All in the name
of progress. Her job was tearing away at her soul, cutting it away a piece at
a time until, eventually, there would have been nothing left.

"Business Voodoo" he'd called it -- nothing but a hollow carcass serving a
faceless bureaucrat who she would have never met. An expendable number. He
took it away from her and gave her meaning.

And now he's gone.

Sure, he's still in his Place. When the needles scream for her touch, and
the binaries dance like maniac fools over her vision, he's there. It's
the subliminals that get her. Fuck with her mind. She's always out of it
for hours afterwards, but she doesn't care one little bit. She closes her eyes
and shuts out the subliminals. Her doc called it "Post-Synaptic Cortex Shock"
and told her that she wasn't to ever be with him again. She switched to a new
doctor. The few hours pain, where her head feels like its wrapped in steel
wire, are worth it for the time she spends with him. She ignores the glass in
her brain and concentrates on the needles, cooling with the sweat on her skin.
She likes the way the paste dribbles down between her legs -- it's like a
memory of him. Something to remind her of the time she spent with him.
Sometimes, she touches herself down there -- pushes her fingers in deep and
pretends that he is still there holding her and sharing her Place. But the way
in which her ragged breath comes in bursts, makes her mind tear apart even
more. And the pain gets too much.

The cable dies now, and the empty halogen strip that feeds the cube with
light, flickers for a moment and fades. Her vision burns with the afterimage,
and then that too, fades. She is alone now. The cube is empty, but for the
blister pack of dopaminergics that she'd payed for with her legs at four and
eight. But it wasn't like him. She just switched off and dreamed of the kick.
The DP's cut through the barrier between his world and hers, and make the
unreality more distant. That's what she calls the kick.

Of course, as well as the drugs, he's here. She never goes anywhere without
him. Even now, they're together. Sometimes, when she gets afraid, or it hurts
too much to press the needles into her skin and go to him, she holds him in
her hands and caresses the cold edges of him. A lover bound in polycarbon and
resin. Worn and chill to touch, but so welcoming. She wonders what it would be
like to be in there with him. Her fingers trace the edges of the mass of
Korean microcircuitry that binds his soul to the digital world. She knows
every niche and every scratch in his surface. She presses her dry lips to him
and murmurs as couples do. Cradles him in her arms.

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

"Lifting Shadows, Off A Dream Once Broken, She Can Turn A
Drop Of Water, Into An Ocean, And She Listens Openly, He           _./|  Oink
Pours His Soul Into The Water, Reflecting The Mystery,          ___\ oO   /
She Carries Him Away, And The Winds Die Slowly..."            ~(      _@
                                                            ....oO.oO'...
        -- Dream Theater, "Lifting Shadows Off A Dream"

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