Telepathic from Birth

Cold. Dark.
“How is she?”
‘God that woman is hot. I would do her again and again.’
‘I wish he wouldn’t look at me like that.’
‘I want an ice cream cone.’
‘I hate this job.’
‘I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU HATE YOU HATE YOU!’
So many voices. So many. On an on. Voices beyond count. It had always been so. She couldn’t remember a time when she wasn’t all of those voices.
“The same.”
‘I wonder if she’d go home with me if I asked?’
‘Maybe I should just tell him off.’
‘Here’s how to...’
‘I will always love you.’
‘I want...’
‘I wonder what would happen if I cut my finger off. I guess I wouldn't have a finger.’
‘That’s a big...’
‘It’s the thing you hate the most.’
Smooth, clear acrylic surface.
Power humming beneath the surface.
Voices. Her voices, all of them.
“No progress?”
‘I’m getting old. Old and fat. Fat and bald and old. I hate my life. I hate my job. I hate my stupid, fat, bald, old face.’
‘Looks like you gained a few pounds, you cow.’
‘Do you often sing or whistle just for fun? What does that mean?’
‘I wonder if the test type has the same problems as the prototype.’
”There’s a specialist on his way.”
‘Specialist? Doesn’t he remember what happened last time? He clawed out his own eyes.’
‘It’s the thing you hate the most.’
‘I want...’
‘I HATE YOU HATE YOU HATE YOU HATE YOU...’
‘I should tell her how I feel. Even if she doesn’t like me, she might still be willing to do me.’
‘Maybe I should tell him about my girlfriend. Or would that just turn him on?’
”We’ve tried that before, if you recall.”
‘At least the test type doesn’t have this sort of problem. Still, we might be able to salvage something from the prototype. She’s responding well to her physical training, at least.’
”The last one wasn’t properly trained to deal with her situation. This one is.”
Something new. Barrier. A presence that isn’t her. There was something that wasn’t her?
“He’s here.”
‘Old, fat, bald, stupid...’
‘She’s not into men? That’s so hot!’
‘Oh God. I knew this was going to happen.’
‘Age is against me. The world is against me. The children here are lucky. They’re young. Not like me.'
Light. She looks up. There is light. The door is open, and a man stands in the hallway, silhouetted against the light. His thoughts are closed. He steps into the room.

...

They’re gone. They’re gone! The voices are all gone. Gone-gone-gone-horrible-awful-terrifying-wonderful-new-thrill-fear-gone-gone-gone. How can they be gone? This is impossible. Impossible. Possible. Possible?

“I’ve sent them away, Rei-Gouki,” the man said.

Confusion. How could he have sent them away? That’s impossible. Wasn’t it?

Alone with her thoughts for the first time in her life, the girl looked about at her room in wonder, as if she expected the voices to pop out from under the bed, or come flowing back in through the smooth acrylic surfaces that line the walls.

“Where did I go?” she asked.

“The others – the voices – they’re not you, Rei-Gouki. They’ve never been you.”

She shook her head again and again. This was hard. The very idea of such a thing made her shiver. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

He smiled. “You will. But that’s all for today. I’ll be back again tomorrow.”

He stepped out. The door closed. And for the rest of the day, the young Biomade sat on the floor of her quarters, dumbfounded by this new thing that the man had given her: awful, terrible, horrifying, wonderful silence.

Silence.

Ruins

Cities