Work Text:
“Pull over,” says Sarah urgently. “Listen.”
I cut the engine and listen.
The city streets are silent at night. After the curfew, when the lights are out and the government broadcasts have finished for the day, there’s nothing but the low, droning hum of the FCC RVs on patrol. It’s something we’ve got used to, but I don’t think I really realized just how quiet the cities are now until we got out into the country. Out here there’s a whole symphony of sounds they can’t silence, the rustling of leaves in the wind, the screech of owls and the distant howling of wolves. I remember when it was the other way around, when the cities never slept and people drove out into the wild in search of peace and quiet.
But it’s not the sounds of nature Sarah means this time. I stare at the radio, delight dawning. The fuzz of static has become a part of our audio landscape these past few weeks on the road. There have been times when one or other of us has thought we heard a word, a fragment of a sentence, turning the dial frantically to try to find the exact frequency again, but it was always lost. Maybe it was never anything more than ghosts in the machine. But this is different. Not only does it not fade away, but it isn’t just words.
It’s music.
I reach for Sarah’s hand and grasp it tight. To sit and listen to music in the dark is a forgotten luxury, a forbidden indulgence, like an illicit sip of intoxicating wine.
The song finishes and Sarah’s hand slips from mine. She’s rooting through her pack for her equipment, a small black box with which she can do things I don’t even understand, chasing the signal. I start the engine again and we drive off, renewed purpose surging through our veins. This is what we’ve been looking for, listening for, all this time.
*
When I was a child my father took me on road trips. There were hours of driving, enlivened by the spools of black tape bringing me Bowie and Fleetwood Mac, The Beatles and the Stones. I often had a book on my lap, too -- each summer a valuable cultural education. I think of the children born now, who hear no songs on the radio but the New National Anthem. There are no tapes, no CDs, and ever decreasing numbers of approved books on the library shelves, everything purged or censored.
I’d always complained about the digital revolution, preferring the scratch of a needle on vinyl, the feel of paper in my hands. I grumbled about kindles and turned my nose up at itunes. But I have to admit that if we’d been restricted to physical media, we wouldn’t have been able to bring half as much. A trunkful of records and books would have been easily spotted at one of the many checkpoints we’ve been through, undermining all our efforts to get hold of travel permits that would stand up to any inspection. I’ve got a hundred works of literature on a device no bigger than the size of my palm, and thousands of songs on a few squares the size of a fingertip.
And we’re going to bring them to the people.
*
They’re wary, of course, when we turn up on their doorstep. It’s understandable: if we can find them, way up here in the mountains, so can the FCC. But wary, these days, means a gun at your head, and I don’t appreciate that.
“Names?” barks a petite woman dressed all in black.
“Starsky and Hutch,” I say, glaring. Beside me, Sarah snorts, despite the potential danger. It was a joke that started with my brown leather jacket and the clapped out old car. Sarah’s not really old enough to remember it, but after I explained she thought it was hilarious, and even managed to find herself an oversized knitted cardigan so we’d match.
In the end it’s probably the joke that convinces them we’re on their side. FCC officers don’t have much of a sense of humour. Or an extensive knowledge of 1970s cop shows, for that matter. They show us inside and interrogate us a bit more. We pull out the memory cards from where they’re concealed (the sole of my shoe, under a satin lining in Sarah’s bra, behind the casing on the back of her watch), which goes a long way towards gaining their good will.
There’s a thin, pale man with glasses who is beside himself with glee as he slips the first card into a laptop and devours the list of songs with his eyes.
“Manic Street Preachers, Suede, Late of the Pier – aces, we haven’t any of theirs. I’m devoting all of tonight’s show to Fantasy Black Channel.”
“I’ve novels, too,” I say. “And poetry.”
The thin man waves a hand, but another leans forward, full of questions.
“Have you any Ginsberg?” he asks eagerly. “I’ve part of Howl memorized, but I was really hoping –“
“You’re in luck,” I say, and reach in to rip the lining of my jacket where the e-reader is concealed.
There are approving murmurs from among the assembled group of rebels. Even the woman with the gun looks interested.
Sarah and I exchange a look. My throat feels dry.
“That’s not all, though. Sarah has an idea.”
She runs one hand nervously through her lank dark hair, takes a deep breath and begins. I sit back and let her explain. She's the genius after all, and technology is definitely her domain. I wouldn’t know a satellite from a nanobyte.
“So, your reach area covers the mountains and a few towns and maybe a couple of cities around here, right? So your broadcast is reaching, what, a few thousand people at most?”
The faces which had begun to thaw are wary once more at this perceived criticism.
“But what if you could reach more people? What if you could get people all over the continent listening to you, to all this music and poetry, all these ideas?”
“If we could,” says an older woman in a khaki jacket who seems to be the one in charge, “It could be more than just an escape. We could be co-ordinate a real resistance. But I don’t see how. We’re working at the limits of our capacity as it is.”
“Unless you plan to launch a satellite,” scoffs a boy no more than nineteen.
Sarah smiles broadly.
“Exactly.”
*
It takes time for Sarah’s idea to get approval. Everything here is decided by committee, with every member of the group given their say. It’s important to preserve democracy, they say, and we can’t disagree with that, even if it does take longer. Everyone here is here because they’re tired of being told what to do, what to think and what to listen to by people who they didn’t choose to govern them.
Sarah works on the satellite plans while I help out with the kitchen duties, the archiving and the occasional runs out to the nearest town for supplies. We begin to get to know our fellow radio refugees – Colin, who starts all of his broadcasts with Repeat by the Manics and his partner Aaron, the Ginsberg enthusiast; Anita, who is in charge of the kitchen and is serializing The Satanic Verses night by night; Polly, who fled to the mountains at six months pregnant after her husband was killed by the FCC, determined to bring up her son free from the fear and restrictions imposed on citizens elsewhere.
Sarah and I are given a slot on the radio rota together, two until three. I think of the silent cities and each night it gives me the same thrill to think of us breaking that silence, bringing them the sound of freedom.