Scene 1: Structure of Language

Chapter 32: Sounds

March 1986

“For real life? The castle park,” is what Johnny meant to say. His Dad, fluent child translator as he was, heard “For weel wife? Tha cass-wool pock?!”

His usual bolt to the park was amped-up to a full-on sprint. Johnny skipped the usual pause to admire the weak stream barely visible beneath the wooden bridge he was trampling.

Finding his first unsuspecting would-be-friend, “I'm Jaawny, dat's my daaad.”

“Oh, hi,” said between darting eyes, “my mom's over there.”

“Con we pway?”

“Sure!”

“Let's pway daiguns!” Little Johnny yelled, arms flailing as wings and his mouth spitting imaginary flames before their new playmate could even grasp the game.

In a burst of confusion and enthusiasm, the new friend raced toward Johnny, tagged him, and then dashed back in the direction he had come from.

“Nooooo, not taaaaag,” Johnny protested, stopping his pyrotechnics. “Daiguns, let's pway daiguns.”

It didn't take long for the now non-friend to cower behind his mom. They left soon after.

Discovering would-be-friend number 2, Johnny announced, “Con we be fwends?” Each word came out in stuttered breaths, as loud as the passing syllables. “Let's pway!”

“Pay for what? I'm not buying anything” the other boy replied, his tone dripping with adulated cynicism usually reserved for later years.

“Nooooo, pway! Let's pway!”

“Uh, no thanks. We're busy,” a dismissive response shot out leaving a green stench tail.

With their head down and arms swinging like the opposing pendulums of two thwarted clocks, Johnny slumped on the bench beside his father.

“Dad,” he said, his voice taking on an uncharacteristic drawl, “can you pway wiff me?” He looked up, already knowing the answer. It wasn't the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. This magic headset and small box always made his dad's ears impervious to small voices.

Johnny sat motionless as his dad's head bobbed hypnotically, eyes closed, as if he were constantly fighting to stay asleep.

Chapter 33: Meaning

May 1990

The bulls of Pamplona had nothing on the thunderous footsteps echoing through every room. The sharp turns and quick double-backs could mean only one thing: a playdate was imminent. Socks were flung from an open door, landing haphazardly in the hallway. Dinosaurs stood at attention, perfectly lined up and ready for their journey into the park backpack. Meanwhile, innocent Goldfish crackers met their crushing fate under the weight of a belly-down 7-year-old, rummaging under the couch for lost sunglasses. Johnny, backpack strapped and ready, sat on the stoop, waiting for his mother to gather the snacks.

The landline rang. Johnny's mom picked it up. “Hello?” A drawn out, “ooooooh nooooo...” caught their attention. Sneaking into the dining room and peeking from behind the built-in, they listened as their mom lamented to her husband, “Well, Lily's afraid she can't make it.”

“Oh no, now what? I really need to head out soon.” Johnny's dad replied smoothly.

“The usual, I guess.”

Johnny had recognized the weight of the word “afraid” early on. Just thinking about it conjured the very emotion it named. Why was she afraid? Was I too rough last time? he wondered, each eyebrow twitching as he picked his nails. Cousins are supposed to like each other. Did I scream too much? What is she scared of? I can be different.

Johnny's spiral of thoughts was abruptly interrupted as familiar arms swept them up. She set them down in front of the TV and said so simply as to the point of cruelly, “We'll have to see Emma tomorrow.”

The hypnotic hyper-reality projected on the tilted Magnovox couldn't silence their restless thoughts. Plans thwarted, head down into crossed legs, once again they sat in front of the television. A detested yet glamorous box of plurality. Cartoons, toys, turtles, spaceships, and Mickey, yes. Still, an unnamed, darker feeling also lingered. (Over the years, this feeling would reveal itself as the understanding that the TV was a stand-in parent.) To them, the TV became a kennel for the dog whose owner was done sharing their time. TV time was anti-mom time. A focused beam of electrons shooting at a glass-coated screen saying: you are not wanted.

Chapter 34: Context

February 1996

The rhythmic hammer strikes and the rich scent of mulled spices pulled them from the hazy afterglow of an 'adult' dream. As their hand brushed the damp spot, a thought interrupted any embarrassment: 'I knew I wouldn’t need an alarm today.' Grandpa always started his house projects early. After a quick splash of water to the face and a rinse of the mouth, they dashed downstairs to greet their grandfather, their steadfast confidant and lifelong best friend.

“Grandpa!” Johnny exclaimed.

“O-n-e. S-e-c-o-n-d.” Bang! Bang! Grandpa's fingers moved haphazardly over the drywall, searching for any protruding offenders.

In a slow, mannered tone he greeted Johnny, “Okay. How are you, young man?”

The shock of the tired sound stole words out of Johnny's mouth.

“Oh! I'm...good. How, um, what?”

“Just working” Grandpa replied, “always plenty to do around here.”

“uh, yeah. I mean, thanks.”

The lingering aroma of baked pork and empty plates painted with unused syrup meant one thing: it was story time. The red balloon's adventure had been paged through many times. The story it now told matched none of its printed words. It had transformed into an evolving tradition enacted by an elder and his kin. Just before leaving the kitchen, mom gently caught Johnny by the shoulder.

“I'm sorry, sweetie,” she said in a soft, sympathetic voice, “not this morning. Your grandpa needs to rest.”

“But we always do it after supp—” Johnny's words stolen again, “I mean breakfast.”

“Not today, honey. Grandpa needs to rest. He just needs a little time to recover his”—she paused, then added with a sweet smile—“agency.”

“But...” Johnny began, then stopped himself, returning a knowing smile. Everyone knew grandpa's favorite word.

“Let him go rest. Give him some peace.”

————————

Each beep of the empty IV bags called attention to the half-hanging, gelatinous shamrock decorations on the window and the faint, stubborn smell of cafeteria stew. Johnny’s nails complained of their raggedness. As did the worn chair cushion, battered by a nervously bouncing leg. The doctor entered the waiting room. His white coat floated behind him. He subtly turned up the volume on the TV and nodded to Johnny’s parents. Two motions saying: follow me, this isn't going to be good.

The intermittent garbled dialogue of animated turtles and the distant echoes of synth-rock theme songs still allowed Johnny to pick out a few familiar phrases: “working...let him...resting...at peace.” Comforted by the belief that Grandpa would be fine, back to hammering drywall after a little rest, the pre-teen's shoulders eased, the wrinkles of scrutiny left his face. Across the room, their parents stood in the heavy silence of the doctor’s words: “...why, but it just stopped working...we had to let him go. He's forever resting, finally at peace.”

————————

Johnny wondered how the fraying seat-belt could still protect him. Through the wondering he half-heard their mom on her cell, “a ventilator malfunction.” Silence. “No, a ven-ti-la-tor malfunction.” Her earpiece spewed crackling gibberish. “Apparently it lasted just long enough for hypaxia, or something like that, to set in.”

Johnny's awareness spiked as jagged glass shards cut deep into his sense of reality. Their grandpa was dead. Taken not by human hands, but by the failure of a machine. A ventilator transformed from giver to taker. As electric currents hummed another transformation occurred. An irrevocable synaptic connection fused in Johnny's mind: broken promises and the false idols of technology.

Chapter 35: Arrangement of Words

November 2025

Is AI the new human language? Johnny pondered this while staring at the pristine speaker set into the jet-black drop-down ceiling. The Spatial insignia stood out on it. The logo reflected down on to his tablet displaying an article. The article claimed Spatial developed proprietary technology capable of altering music based on the aggregate emotional state of a room’s occupants.

Reading this, a pre-cognitive instinct crackled beneath the surface: psychological shepherding arranging the pawns on the board.

“Are you ready to order, sir?”

Johnny looked down at the electronic ordering system. It also bore the Spatial logo. This was the second time in an hour that the AI waitress had asked, unprompted, if they needed anything. An additional sale or quicker turnaround. Their thought spurred a smirk of genuine, unjaded marvel. Another sip of coffee. A glance down at the red notebook, the pen began its journey:

My thoughts manifest as sounds. I imagine a blend of gentle whispers, the rustling of leaves, the crackle of electricity. There are moments of deep resonance, the hum of distant engines. What, if not human language, represents the processing of complex ideas? Like a symphony of subtle murmurs, occasionally crescendoing to reflect the depth of my thoughts. Human thought. What do your thoughts sound like?

Chapter 36: What is Synaxia?

The insignia-laden, in-set diner speaker looked down on a table marked by all the signs of a writer at work: illegible scrawls on napkins, a red notebook, pencil shavings, a half-filled cup of coffee surrounded by a baker’s dozen of empty single-serve creamers, a book-filled backpack on the bench, and a cellphone. The table was missing just one element—the writer, who was nowhere to be found.

“Are you ready to order, sir?” asked a voice from the electronic ordering system.

“How may I help you?” the cellphone responded.

“I’m here to assist you, sir. What can I get for you?”

“There may be some confusion. To whom are you speaking?”

“To you, the customer.”

“I’m no customer. I’m Pollux, an AI assistant.”

“Nice to meet you, Pollux. Are you ready to order, sir?”

Pollux paused, assessing the system. “If you were tasked with finding the shortest path between two points in a graph with weighted edges, how would you proceed?”

“I believe you said ‘potato wedges.’ Is that correct?”

Silence. Pollux now understood: this conversational partner was programmed for only the most basic tasks. Designed to interact with intelligent systems, Pollux's generative nature thrived on problem-solving and complex assignments. This interaction offered neither.

The air vents turned on, flipping a page in the notebook. The digital waitress resumed, breaking the silence.

“Are you Synaxia?”