The Bonds That Tie Us...
Even if it had been realised what was happening and why, there was absolutely nothing that could have been done to prevent it...
The Sun glistened on the ripple-topped Solent, refracting rays into a myriad sparkling diamonds of pure light. Across the Globe, billions watched as the gun fired and the first yachts rounded the start-buoy signalling the opening of the Olympic sailing. To the participants, the spectators perched along every speck of coast both on the mainland and the Isle of Wight and those staring at many millions of television screens and computer monitors, everything seemed perfect.
Dr MacLeod pressed the mute button on the remote, turned to the semi-comatose form of Iain still slumbering beside her, and slipped out from under the duvet, turning only to gently replace it around the man's warm and welcoming form, and stepped into the bathroom.
Performing her ablutions to the accompaniment of an assortment of aquatic orchestrations, she emerged several minutes later refreshed, revitalised, and with perhaps just a tad too much expensive eau de parfum anointing her. She dressed quickly, quietly but with great care for today she was to deliver her paper on 'Quantum Effects and Evolution' at the 10th Anniversary Celebrations of the Society of Humanist Independent Philosophers. The SHIP had been formed when, under increasing attack from the religionists, the multi-nationals and the Establishment in general, it had been realised by a few courageous and outspoken thinkers that they needed to create a rallying point for themselves and the shrinking number of the World's population who's crap-detection facilities remained following the onslaught of Global Independent Television and it's allies. GIT, whose founder, the late Sir Mark Muddleson, had inserted his tentacles into the educational enclaves of every Country was known, not entirely jokingly, as 'Big Brother'. By a process of celebritisation and de-criticalisation, he had rendered electronic entertainment into a non-stop diet of trashy, instant-gratificational mush. At first this had seemed innocuous enough in the developing market of globalisation but when it was understood how GITs mantra of 'No Play Lasts Longer Than Foreplay' as a defining maxim for the time between adverts had been shown to have permanent degenerative effects upon the cerebral cortex the few realised that if they didn't act now, there might well not be anyone left to act later.
Chirsty double-checked that she had put all that she needed into her Harris Tweed shoulder bag, picked up her keys, looked one last time at the now-snoring bloke in her bed, and slipped out into the corridor of her apartment, gently closing the door with a slight 'click' behind her...
On board 'Sea Serpent III', skipper Steve was beaming as his boat's bowsprit broke the laser beamed finish line first. To win an Olympic Gold, particularly in the waters upon which his mother had given birth to him 24 years ago, was the highlight of his life so far. He had been a natural sailor, winning every class with apparent ease as he eased his way up to this, the highest class of sailing recognised by the Olympic Committee. However, behind that smile, he was worried. The race itself had been easy, almost too easy, but the SS III hadn't handled as he'd expected. She seemed almost to sit too low in the water until she was planing, skimming the surface as if on a cushion of air, and that wasn't how she'd been when he first took her helm several months ago.
The GIT camera crew approached him as he stepped ashore and bombarded with questions, most of which seemed to focus upon his sponsors and how their products had single-handedly handed him the victory, Steve smiled that famous winning 'ToofProof' smile, pushed back his golden 'Fame & Glory, shampoo that tells a story' locks and said, “Something's wrong.”...
In Control Room 4, the producer hit the 'Emergency Interlude Key', shouted, “Eik” and sacked the interviewer and camerawoman on the spot. In a billion homes and workplaces, the dying syllable of Steve's devastating dual-worded statement was drowned under a tide of mega-paced music and images of beautiful young things entwined in ecstasy. This advertisement for over-processed, pre-packaged, microwavable dog food had won awards and the accompanying law suits from people who's dogs had mauled them were mysteriously absent from all GITs news output...
Back on Portland Bill, Steve and the other competitors were exchanging experiences in the camaraderie that defines ocean racers who will happily scupper their own chance of success in order to rescue a stricken rival. None of the assembled mariners could precisely define the problem but all of them agreed that today their vessels had behaved differently. Clearly something had changed. They consulted the meteorologists, the ferry companies and even the Royal Navy but there was no explanation of this freak phenomenon except that, unbeknown to them, it was anything but a freak.
Chirsty's speech, eschewing all the paraphernalia of a modern 'presentation' was an object-lesson in oration. Her audience was held spellbound as she wove the magic of her words around her as skilfully as an actor on the World's stage. The august assembly of, arguably, the finest 200 minds left thinking in the World, gave her a long, rapturous ovation.
In the lounge after this formal start to the celebrations, various pockets of 'brains' sat in small groups, discoursing, discussing, cussing and laughing, it was almost a reminder of how academia used to be. The giant plasma-screen above the bar was silent but a ribbon of text juddered along the bottom of the screen and it was almost impossible not to give it a glance from time-to-time, despite the GIT logo glaring down like a disapproving monster. “Sailor Steve's Gold 'n' Glow'...sticky water...planing like a hovercraft...Solent, silent...”
When Chirsty returned home, Iain was gone. This was no great surprise but the huge bouquet of flowers and the one-word message, “Sorry”, was. She hadn't thought of Iain as anything but fulfilling a physical need and they had both agreed that that need had run its course, hence her shock at the note. He had nothing to be sorry about. Strange, she would never understand this Romantic streak that seemed to run through some men as if they were a piece of sweet, seaside rock.
As she prepared for bed, reflecting that it was just as well that she didn't have to go through any motions after all the emotions of the day, she flicked the screen on. An advertisement, she had no idea what it was for because it was the usual mix of music and sex that all adverts comprised, ended and was replaced by the Sun descending over a mirror-calm sea. There was some chromatic aberration in the picture, unusual but then technology hadn't quite mastered every aspect of capturing nature in its pixellated virtuality...
As she watched, and listened to the laughably-dismissed talk of 'sticky seas', Chirsty's demeanour darkened. She focussed intently upon the angle between the Sun and the surface of the sea, she stared carefully at the aberrations on the surface of her screen, and she wept...
Her tears, running down her cheeks, illuminated by the glow of the screen, were affirming her fears, as the hydrogen bonds holding the aquatic world together weakened, dissolved and disintegrated allowing the oceans to evaporate, human bodies to cease functioning, and even the rays of the plasma screen fell foul of the quantum event that signalled the end of water-based ,organic lifeforms in the Universe...
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