Intentional Dissonance

CENTRAL
AVENUE
PUBLISHING
EDITION

Copyright © 2012 Iain S. Thomas

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner
whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This Central Avenue Publishing edition is published by arrangement with Iain S. Thomas.

www.centralavenuepublishing.com

First digital edition published by Central Avenue Publishing,
an imprint of Central Avenue Marketing Ltd.

INTENTIONAL DISSONANCE

ISBN 978-1-926760-85-8

Published in Canada with international distribution.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: Lloyd Foggit

Follow the author on twitter @iwrotethisforu

For my father and mother,

for teaching me to do what I love and for making me, me.

INTENTIONAL DISSONANCE

The End

You have read this all before and you will again. Do you think you’re in the bookshop now, just browsing? Are you in front of your computer, previewing the first few pages? Or is this a well-thumbed tattered old thing that lives next to your bed? Or is it sleeping, lost and forgotten at the back of a bookshelf?

No matter. You have read this all before and you will again.

Have you ever stopped and wondered if, really, you’re just living the same few seconds over and over again and you just don’t know it? You’d never know. Maybe you’ve been doing the same thing for one thousand years. Sometimes that happens. Like when you’re reading and you get a thought stuck in your head and you find your eyes just glazing over the words and you have to go back and read the same thing again.

No matter. You have read this all before and you will again.

You have read this before.

This is what happens, when I fall.

Chapter 1

Now

Something incredibly sad.

What follows is what happens each time I fall. I do not know if these things really happen but this is what I believe happens. As your eyes move across these words, some sacred engine is coming back to life and I am beginning to fall again. Sometimes, it feels like floating.

If you do not mind, I will refer to myself as Jon, in the third person, as these things happen.

I understand that talking about Jon as “I” instead of “Jon” would perhaps make more sense, as I am the one telling you what’s happening, not some omniscient voice somewhere up in the clouds. But one of my earliest memories is of my father, narrating the things I did as I ran around the house or played outside. Like a commentator for a football match, he would yell, “Jon goes up the swing and down the swing, look at him go! He’s a champion!” or “Jon’s eating his spaghetti like a master, ladies and gentlemen, let’s see if he can finish in time or if we’ll have another disaster like we did with the vegetables the other night!”

So talking about himself in the third person in his mind, where no one but you gets to go, gives Jon (still me) a certain degree of confidence. Or maybe it’s just that old habits die hard. Anyway, this is now and in this now, this is what’s happening to the remaining humans in the last city on Earth.

“A space station has recovered Eliot Philips, an astronaut who was spun out into space in a refueling accident and now, his body has returned after completing an orbit around the earth which has lasted more than thirty years.”

The screen on the side of the giant black floating news zeppelin shows a picture of an old woman, presumably Philips’ widow, identifying a young frozen corpse as she weeps tears she has been holding on to for far too long. The zeppelin hovers like a bumblebee over the city. Below the floating news screen, the white marble spires of the United Government building, the last great monument man has built, reach for the heavens, each one raised as if in a challenge to some unseen and unknown adversary. Jon turns to look at them, breaking the audio feed into his head from the news zeppelin and the sudden silence brings to an end his wandering day dream. He can make out the building’s spires all the way on the other side of NewLand, past the mostly empty and unused ornate buildings, lecture rooms, theaters and gymnasiums that blossom strictly from each side of the intricate streets, even through the grimy windows of Emily’s hodgepodge, trinket-filled apartment. Low hanging old lights cast a strange glow over the room and are complemented by the flickering lights from one of the first teleporters ever made. The teleporter hums for a second, like it might spring back to life, but it doesn’t. It’s broken forever. The government has asked that Emily collect and keep old things, should the world ever need them again. Marble statues from Greece, stone slabs containing fossils from Africa and a rainbow coloured VW Beetle from the American 60’s all live uneasily together. The government likes giving people responsibilities. Jon thinks that they believe it gives people a sense of purpose.

NewLand feels like an old attic, spilling over with old secrets. Like someone has taken the leftovers of the world and dumped them in one place. This place. The last living place. Through the window, Jon regards one impossibly perverse spire which has bits of the Eiffel Tower sticking out of it. It was rudely salvaged, and carelessly erected. Industrial teleporters—when they were still allowed—brought it here along with the Acropolis, the Statue of Liberty, and several other things that were considered “worth keeping.” It acts as a reminder of what the human race was once capable. Now there are less than a few million people left on the planet. Black smoke rises out of stacks from the dark machines rumbling below the building, the only noise to be heard as figures move silently from building to building. The grey buildings are all closely piled together like set pieces in a play, short balconies hanging over doors, just a few steps from their neighbour across the road. Some people have painted their doors bright, festive colours but most are a simple, uniform grey. It is a terminally depressed world and yet, the people drift past, each individual wearing an immovable grin. No, that’s wrong. Some grinned. Some smiled. Some raised their eyebrows and smiled with their eyes, and no one said much. What’s left to talk about? How happy you are? People live, die, and smile as they do each.

It’s been nearly ten years since the world ended. Or it may as well have. Jon’s a man in the twilight of his twenties now and his delicate frame holds his clothes as best it can.

Outside, across the road from him, a little blonde girl in a pink dress runs down the pavement outside into her father’s sweat-soaked arms. The father shoots wildly with a stolen pistol at the police teleporting in, who are yelling at him to stop. As she grips his neck with her tiny arms and holds tight, a single shot fired from a young sergeant hits the father in the shoulder, sending a spray of blood into the air, just missing his daughter’s head. His blue eyes go red and his face grimaces in pain, but still, he instinctively whips his body in front of her, his only daughter, and they fall backwards into the bright blue light behind them; a light coming from the stolen government teleporter the man, apparently, has illegally modified. And then silence for a second. Then a little blonde girl in a pink dress suddenly appears outside and runs down the pavement outside into her father’s arms, who’s shot in the shoulder, again. They have looped like this, for years. They’re just ghosts. The theory is that the man’s illegal modifications caused this infinite loop but no one really seems to know what causes the teleporters to loop, just that they do. And now humankind must deal with chronological waste sites, where teleporters have terminally jammed. It must watch the same thing, again and again.

There are thousands of these waste sites and these ghosts are the reason that access to technology has been extremely limited. Jon stops watching. He’s been absent-mindedly playing with his father’s brass pocket watch, turning it over and over in his hands, feeling the engraving with his fingers:
You will become whatever you want to become.
He returns it to his inside jacket pocket, where it’s close to his heart. The view of this particular ghost, this endless loop of a quite famous bank robber trying to rescue or kidnap his daughter—depending on who you speak to or what newspaper you read; there are only two newspapers that are still published for the remaining populace, and they still disagree with each other—once drove the property prices sky-high amongst the last humans.

But now, this place, like the little girl outside, is just another ghost.

If teleportation were still allowed, at least the food from the one remaining commercial airline wouldn’t be wasted. It could simply be teleported off the plane, onto the table of any starving person. There were once plenty of starving people, all over the world. But not now. Back then, everyone wanted to work in New York, have lunch in Paris and pay rent in rural India. But no one figured on the ghosts. People got caught in endless loops when the machines malfunctioned or were modified or were used on Sundays. The excuses were numerous but it soon became clear that the technology just wasn’t stable. At first, the looping ghosts were shrouded with tarpaulins, wherever and however it was happening, surrounded by police tape but people seemed to care less and less and many found some kind of fascination in watching moments and people repeat themselves endlessly. The people in them never know. For them, it is always now.

Jon is full of these things, feelings and thoughts, not just in his heart but in his head. The first thing taken out in the war that followed The End, the common name for the day it all went to shit, the great reckoning of mankind, was the Statue of Liberty. If you squint you can see the remaining bits: a spike from her crown, an eyebrow, a hand with a torch. Apparently, you can still see the book she once held, if you get close enough. Bombers dropped a billion tons of hate and fire on it. Jon should know, he used to fly one of those bombers. They were told that they were destroying an enemy but he can’t remember the details. No one was allowed to remember the details. Now, even without the memories and with so few things left, the war was clearly about resources. The remains of the earth. Mankind has been reduced to a scavenging dog and its ribs are showing. Besides the algae farms far outside of NewLand, there’s barely a patch of land left on the planet that can grow even the stubbornest weed.

He turns his head and looks past the remains of the Eiffel Tower, to get a better look at Lady Liberty’s crown of thorns. This is another thing he keeps inside himself, this piece of knowledge about the bombings, the things that cause ruins and remains and survivors. It is a thing that makes him clench his jaw. He knows they take the families of “enemy” aviators and strap them, alive, to the sides of their aircraft in glass coffins. Military airfields are often filled with screams before takeoff, as young girls and boys, wives, mothers and fathers are lead towards the aircraft to be strapped in. And so all pilots know that when they shoot at the enemy, there’s a chance that they’re killing their own, or a friend’s family.