| Hasbro(tm) Location: In all good toy shops |  Psion - An ongoing Sci-Fi novel
Having had various previous attempts at writing a novel go somewhat the way of the ghost I've decided to not be so darn serious about it for a change and do something with a bit of my unique brand of comedy thrown into the mix. As such I present to you Psion - the small story of a man thrust, as often as is, into the spotlight due to circumstances beyond his control, cognition or care. Enjoy! WARNING - SOME OFFENCE MAY OCCUR This is an edited version of the story. The version I have saved has a lot more swearing in it. All attempts have been made to make this user and family friendly. Feel free to complain with gusto if it is otherwise.
And now our feature presentation:
Originally Posted by Psion There was no denying the sense of continuing foreboding that crept over Doctor Jackson. Sat on the rickety wooden table in front of him a wad of paper, crumpled up into an approximate shape of a ball, sat without any incident or action being wrought on it. It seemed incredulous for him to assume that anything would occur to the paper as he continued to look at it, however amazing and unlikely the reason behind this experiment may be. The other man was adamant of his position and he was determined to reinforce it with this display.
Sitting on the other side of the table, the person in question stared intently at the paper, his left eyebrow raising up and down slowly as he continued his silent vigil. To look at him you would be forgiven for forgetting to look twice at the man. Average blue eyes and a normal nose, mouth, ears, and short cropped brown hair. The only real notable irregularity about his features was the freshly healed scar on his forehead. A mark that he had come to gain through a series of experiments of his own.
“Are you sure you are doing anything at all?” asked Jackson, leaning back slightly in his chair and punctuating his sentence with an extended sigh. “I mean, I could get the infra-vision goggles to double check…”
“When I said stay, I meant stay,” replied the man, his eyes not moving an inch from the paper. Sweat was now starting to bead down his face. His body seemed to be shaking slightly from the effort. If there was any genuine effort being used here. It could be an elaborate show meant to show-up the Doctor in some freakish prank. However the previous events demanded an explanation, no matter what the source. Objects don’t simply lift up from where they are sitting and fly across the…
A thin trail of smoke was starting to creep up from the paper. Falling with a loud thud back onto all four legs of the chair, Jackson quickly brushed the hair from his face and brought his glasses up closer to his eyes, whilst simultaneously leaning forward intently. There was a smudge across his left eye, probably from touching it with his greasy fingerprint whilst adjusting them, but he hardly had time to clean it. What he was witnessing was…incredible! The smoke had now grown into a full-blown plume, a faint glow emanating from within the shell of the paper. Seconds later a flame erupted from the paper, forcing the Doctor to leap backwards to avoid the sudden rush of heat and light. Shielding his eyes from the intense light that left a purple spot floating in his vision, Jackson lowered his hand and looked towards where the paper had been. In its place was a small pile of ashes, with notable flecks of ash floating gently into the air. Around the pile of ash was a extending circle of black which reached almost to the end of the table.
Wiping his forehead dry and smiling to himself, the man across the table brought up his arms behind his neck, an obvious look of triumph and smugness directed towards the Doctor.
“I told you, it can take a while, but it’s bloody impressive once it gets going,” said the man, propping his feet up onto the table. The moment he did the table gave a moment of groaning and creaking, before splitting almost cleanly in a line where the man had decided to park his feet. Obviously the fire had done more damage than had previously been thought. Then again, it was quite a shoddy table anyway, much like a lot of the equipment in the laboratory.
Still standing from the sudden collapse of the table, Jackson noticed his jaw was dropped. If he had the capacity it would have most likely have been dragging on the floor. The stranger was telling the truth, there was no other explanation. Making a conscious effort to keep his head together, Jackson removed his glasses and wiped off the smudge he had seen earlier with the back of his lab coat sleeve. Placing them back onto his face it seemed that not only had the smudge actually grown in size, it had been joined by another. He really would have to get this lab coat cleaned over the weekend after all.
“Yes, erm, it most certainly is,” said Jackson hastily as the man looked up at him, patiently waiting for an answer from before. Scrubbing his hair back, Jackson paced over to a nearby side table, rooting through the various bits and bobs scattered across it until he came to what he was after. A stethoscope and a small handheld light. He wasn’t too sure what he would be looking for. It defied every rule of physics he knew. Everything he had been taught, everything he was sure was one hundred percent certain and unchangeable, had been broken before his very eyes. He would need all manner of equipment to try and fathom this mystery out. Geiger counters, spectroscopy devices, electromagnetic spectroscopy device, perhaps even a spectrometer. Certainly judging from the purple blobs still affecting his vision it would be an interesting area to measure.
“What is this, a check-up?” asked the man as he placed the stethoscope against his chest. He didn’t reply, instead listening intently for…anything really. Perhaps some unknown “da-dum” to indicated some residual organ that had been created through a mutation which may have allowed the paper to simply burst into flame. Again and again he moved the diaphragm to various areas of the torso. He knew he was getting desperate when he was placing the small device around the shoulders and arms. “I’m pretty sure I don’t have a heart up there, doc,” commented the man, which prompted Jackson to quickly remove the device from his “patient’s” shoulder. He wasn’t an expert in biology by any measure – his area had always involved elements of innate materials or objects of an otherwise dead disposition – but just by looking at him Jackson could tell that he was, to the naked eye at least, a human being. A seemingly healthy one at that. Surely if he was some sort of alien then he would have a residual arm or extra appendage that might…honestly, what would he suggest next, that the man was a “Morlock”?
“Fair enough then,” said Jackson, lowering himself back into his chair so that he was facing the man once more. Ducking his hand down to the side of his chair, he picked up a small clipboard adorned with various stickers he had collected over the years, and flipped the notepad clipped onto it to the first empty page he could find. Grabbing the biro attached to the clipboard by a dirty length of string, he placed the edge of the pen onto the paper in anticipation. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
“At the beginning?” said the man, leaning back slightly more in the chair. “Very well then, that would be when I was at work…”
Chapter 1
A fresh smell of sawdust and burnt plastic drifted over from the far side of the warehouse. The wind that had picked it up swirled slowly past, picking up a loose piece of plastic sheeting. It drifted slowly across the dirtied floor, clinging tightly around the boots of Jonno and causing him to almost trip and fall flat onto his face. Only the quick reactions of Pete grabbing him as he tumbled stopped him from finishing off his decent. A quick exchange was made between the two, before the warehouse supervisor came over, a huge block of a man with a wiry moustache and a rotund chin that gave him the impression of a frog or toad.
“Bloody useless so and so's leaving this wrapping around here. I swear, I’m going to knock some bleedin' heads together before the day’s out!” bellowed Mr. Gibson, his extended chin wobbling as he ranted. Some of the other men on the floor turned around to see what all the fuss was about, though no one seemed eager to jump to offer up their apologies for a lacklustre job.
“First bit of exercise you’d have done today, you lazy fellah!” came a voice from the end of the assembly line, followed by a general round of laughter from all of the employees. Mr. Gibson’s face slowly changed to a deep red as his chin continued to wobble and the vein on his head became increasingly notable. Stifling a laugh as best as possible was not enough to avoid the notice of the obese overseer, and he quickly crossed the divide much quicker than a man his size should be capable of.
“I bet it was you, wasn’t it?” he asked, rubbing his greying moustache with the backside of one of his podgy fingers, “You’re always slacking off aren’t you Peterson?” that was more a statement than a question, so David was unsure as to how to respond. Slowly putting down the piece of tubing he had been working with, he drove his hand into his pockets and shrugged.
“Don’t know about that one, sir,” he said as innocently as possible. This was the third time in under a week he had been single out by “Fatty Frederick” for other people’s mistakes. He had only been at the factory for under three months, but in that time no other new employees had been insane enough to sign up for the fledging plumbing manufacturers. As such he remained fair game for constant ridicule and blame for any hazard, accident or misfortune that befell anyone. At least he couldn’t be directly sacked without evidence proving it was him.
“O, you don’t bloody know, do you?” said Mr. Gibson, the line between an actual question and a simple iteration of the facts blurred again. The man had his arms at his side’s, his hairy belly sticking out of the top of trousers he should have had enough pride to admit he couldn’t quite fit into anymore. David concentrated on the man’s face, trying not to make it look like he was distracted further by the shifting mass of fat beneath his jaw-line “Well there’s a whole lot you never seem to know about. Thirty units go missing from the T-pipe box, and you don’t know about that. The pressing machine in Unit four mysteriously breaks, and you don’t know nothing about that either. Is there anything you do actually know you little bleeder?”
“No sir, nothing,” was all David could say, failing to give an adequate response to stop a potential discipline action against him. That chin could be almost…hypnotic at times. Mr. Gibson sniffed loudly, drawing up his trousers to ungracefully cover up the line of hair sticking out from his shirt. It was a small grace at best.
“Sounds about ShlupxAaronluvluv right,” said Mr. Gibson, rubbing his moustache again “Well I’ll let you know one thing. No overtime pay for you this week. Maybe you’ll bloody learn that,” he said, turning around to almost trip over on the piece of plastic which still littered the floor “And someone better clear that up!” he bellowed, before wobbling away to the open garage doors where a truck was waiting to unload it’s goods.
“FF’s really got it in for you this week Dave,” said Jonno as he dusted himself down. He had been quick to come to David’s defence, about as quick as a lead pipe stuck in glue. The shaven haired man didn’t really seem too phased that he had cost David the better part of fifty pounds. He was more bothered about the small patches of dirt on his perpetually filthy overalls.
“What is that, like three times now?” asked Pete in his deep, drawling accent. Like Jonno he was shaven haired and very tall, with a thick eastern European accent that demanded attention if only for it to be understood fully. The man himself was very intimidating to look at though.
“Four,” replied David, picking up the sheet of plastic from the floor. That nuisance maker wouldn’t cost him a fifth dock of his pay if he could avoid it. Though at this rate FF would be taking pay off him for using too much oxygen “and thanks for stopping him guys, I really appreciate it, I really do,”
“Hey, what were we supposed to do?” said Jonno, picking at the sole of his boots to remove a small stone that had been clicking every time he took a step. David wished he would fall flat on his face at he watched him tottering on one leg. Spineless little…
With a shout, Jonno toppled over to the left, clattering into a pile of 450’s and sending them flying. An angry cry from FF prompted Pete to shout over that Jonno had fallen of his own accord. Good, at least David wouldn’t be notching up number five just yet. He was sure had FF been able to prove it he would have taken all his pay for this week. Then again he wasn’t sure of the policy regarding willing accidents on other employees.
“I swear, it was like I got pushed, really,” remarked Jonno at the laughs being directed at him.
“Too much beer sunshine, can’t handle your drink,” shouted Keith from the top of the overhead gangway.
“Yeah, always got some sort of hangover ain’t you, Jonno?” came another voice from the break room, probably Gary’s from the sound of it.
“Well you can all knick off!” shouted Jonno, prompting a torrent of insults being directed his way.
“Knick off you mud stain!”
“Screw you, you stupid nitwit!”
“Go away you dumb bugger!”
“Is this really necessary?” interjected Jackson. The man stopped talking for a second to look at him. A questioning appearance adorned his face. Perhaps the full events of a day’s work in a factory was of great importance to him, but the continued foul language of his co-workers was hardly the reason for his visit.
“You said you wanted me to tell you everything,” replied the man, crossing his arms and notably adding a sense of irony to his voice. This was the last thing Jackson needed. A defining moment in the history of physics and possible the world, and it was contained in a smart mouthed kid. That was what he appeared to be, no older than perhaps twenty or twenty-one if that. If he was any older he was certainly keeping very good care of himself.
“Well not everything, just anything relevant to the topic at hand,” said Jackson, standing up from the chair to allow himself to stretch his legs. He almost stepped into the pile of broken wood and ashes on the floor. That would need to be cleaned up. Then again the ashes may provide some clue as to what exactly had happened to cause the effect he had seen, however small. Bin the wooden legs, bag the ashes.
“It was relevant to the topic at hand,” said the man in a crude imitation of Jackson’s own accent. It was always odd to hear English people attempt to imitate his own Canadian accent. There seemed to be a perpetuating myth about how Canadian people spoke even in this country. It was bad enough when he was at MIT having to deal with constant accusations of pronouncing ‘about’ as ‘aboot’. Yet most of the time, in England at least, he was quite often mistaken for American, a fact that grated on him immensely.
“A bunch of guys swearing at each other? I fail to see how that’s relevant at all,” said Jackson, marching over to pour himself some more coffee. Black, three sugars. It was already pushing two o’ clock in the morning, but he wasn’t about to go to sleep without getting a full story.
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” asked the man, leaning forward onto his elbows as he spoke “I think it was the first time I used my…abilities. I thought about Jonno falling and then…” he held his hand across his palm, making a whistling noise as he slowly dropped his hand flat against his other hand.
“Well you can’t really prove that,” said Jackson, taking a long gulp of his coffee. He swallowed hard as he felt bits of goo working their way down his throat. How long had that coffee been there for?
“There’s a whole lot I can’t prove,” said the man, standing up and pacing around the perimeter of the chair he was sitting on “I mean, there’s the more obvious stuff, the stuff leading up to me coming here in the first place. I could talk about that if you like?” Jackson almost didn’t hear the question, coughing harshly as the coagulated coffee attempted to escape his oesophagus. With another strong gulp and yet another ill-advised drink of coffee, he nodded once as the concoction worked it’s way down. He wasn’t going to risk having it repeat on him whilst talking.
“Yeah, you do that,” he said after a moment, punctuating his statement with a loud burp. The other man drummed his fingers on the upright back of the seat, staring at the floor as if trying to remember something. Returning to his pacing around in a circle, he began again…
Rain pounded down so hard that a perpetual sound of tearing paper surrounded David as he half-ran with his luminous work jacket covering his head. Around him other people dashed around with various makeshift shelters protecting them from the rain. The orange glow from the streetlights gave the shining pavement a reddish aura to it, whilst the intermediate traffic added a clearer perspective to the night as they drove by. A taxi driver shouted abused at David as he crossed prematurely at a set of traffic lights, neither understanding nor caring what the man had to say to him. Already his clothes underneath his jacket were notably damp and his nose so cold it was numb. The last thing he needed was a cold along with the other troubles plaguing him presently. Along with his deteriorating pay packet – which had gone down later in the day after he accidentally pushed over a stack of barrels taking a sandwich break – there was the problem of his rent which was due, no food present in the flat. It seemed the troubles of the world revolved around money.
Reaching the safety of the archway outside of his front door, David dug deep into his pockets for his keys. He could feel them scratching against his leg as he fished past his wallet, a wad of tissue now sopping wet, what felt like a lollypop, and finally some old gum he had forgotten to take out of it’s wrapper which promptly glued his fingers together. It did provide a small virtue in that it allowed him to more easily retrieve the wayward keys, though they refused to be separated from the gum, forcing him to twist his forearm around to open the door.
After a short trip up the stairs David was finally in his flat. A modest affair at best, it comprised of all the usual items one could expect in a bachelor’s accommodation. Pictures of family and friends, cheap flat pack modular furniture, discarded wrappers of various food items, a television, moderately clean sleeping quarters and a kitchen. That was his first port of call, to remove his damp coat – for all the good it did, the stitching having come loose leaving him with two large stains on his armpits – and put the kettle on. No matter how bad the troubles of the world, a nice hot brew was the British way of overcoming adversity. And it worked a treat. At least it would if the bloody kettle would boil.
David’s mother had always told him a watched kettle never boils – then again she had also said that if he ate his crusts his hair would go curly, putting him off crusts for life – but with little but terrestrial television and pointless rearranging of food stuffs to occupy his time, it couldn’t hurt to watch the vapour slowly rise from the kettle as it completed it’s work. Vapour which was taking it’s sweet time to start going. Actually, was the light even on?
“Bollocks,” muttered David, checking the plug was indeed attached to the wall. Deftly jumping onto the tabletop on his knees he checked the fuse box just behind the far right cupboard. They hadn’t triggered, which meant only one thing. His kettle was knackered. Arse. Giving a knock with his hand, his own version of maintenance, the dawning prospect of not being able to enjoy a cup of tea was looming ever closer. With it came the concept of a dry throat, a cold stomach, a nervous temperament, and those headaches. Even the thought of it seemed to make his head spin and pulse. If only that bastard kettle would bloody…
“What the heck!” bellowed David as the kettle violently shook with steam pouring out of the top. It was like a small mushroom cloud, like an atomic bomb, that spread across the ceiling of the kitchen. Wafting the water vapour out of his face, David slowly brought his head over the top of the kettle. The aftermath of it’s outburst was apparent in the humidity in the air, as well as the continuing stream of vapour that slowly drifted up into his eyes. He hadn’t seen the light come on, and usually that meant it was…no, best not think on it. He was already becoming irritable, and that headache seemed to have grown more acute, necessitating the previous requirement for caffeine-based hot beverage consumption further up his “to-do” list.
Sitting down in front of the television – more slumping into the provided armchair which his landlord had been more than happy to fish out of a skip at no extra cost – a small flicker of electricity heralded the incoming approach of entertainment. First on the agenda, yet more depressing stories from Four Corners of the globe, or the news as it was more commonly known.
“It’s six o’ clock, I’m Lindsay McDermot,” said the borderline attractive newsreader in a clear, crisp tone. Must be the new girl. David preferred the other woman “Metropolitan Police are still on the lookout for the man thought to have been connected to the murder of six patients at St. Mark’s Hospital in Bristol. Peter Faulkner is believed to have poisoned the patients over a series of months, including six year old Jessica Langwell and her brother Paul…” the words seemed to trail off as David continued to watch as various images of the victims and police crossed along the screen. Straight and to the point, that was the news. All the worse for it, having to listen to the death’s of several people, including children, the abrupt manner of the facts given driving home the tragedy of the situation. If the news was meant to be unbiased it certainly never seemed that way. More stories of trouble and strife followed. More bombings in Iraq and Afghanistan, more problems with oil prices, more problems with third-world countries…the news had a unique talent to make it appear as though the world was coming apart at the seems.
David finished off his tea and returned to concentrating on the program, he realised his headache was still present. Must have been from the rain pelting down from the train station. His friends had said to get a flat closer, or at least find a property close to a tube line, but he had to keep his finances in check. The minor inconvenience was worth…David lurched in agony as a sharp pain ran through his head. Doubling over and clutching his head, he closed his eyes tight and tried to work through the pain. He couldn’t think straight, though a series of possibilities rushed through his mind. Was it a migraine, or maybe cancer! Damn, if it was…another burst of pain caused him to exclaim in shock. A rush of heat seemed to overcome him, running from the inside of his torso and pulsating upwards. The pulses grew quicker in number and speed until…
For a brief moment David wondered what had happened exactly. He remembered the pain of his headache – thankfully now completely gone, though his vision was blurred – and remembered the heat. There had been a moment when his eyes were blinded by…something. A flash of light, maybe it was his brain dying or something. No, there was actually something tangible that caused it. He remembered it more clearer as he brought himself back upright, having been thrown backwards from the armchair onto his back. It had been, well, lightning, it was the only way to describe it.
Once more vertical David could see what remained of his television. Where once there had been a tacky brown wooden set now was nothing but charred remains. Wires and bits of plastic stuck out from the carcass of wood, and a distinct smell of burning filled the room. This was going to come out of his rent for sure.
“PEEP PEEP PEEP,” the fire alarm loudly clearly declared in a high-pitched tone that seemed to be bringing David’s headache back again. With a small click a shower of water flowed out across the room from the sprinkler system. Well if his top wasn’t already completely wet it soon would be. Rubbing his forehead David knew he should feel at the least frustrated if not in a full murderous rage. All he could think about was the events of the last few minutes. The kettle seeming to boil on it’s own, the television deciding to blow up in his face, and all precipitated by intense headaches. Coughing at the smoke in the room, David was shocked to see his breath mist in front of him. Suddenly the immediate coldness of his environment became apparent. Not only that but how cold he seemed to be, from his hands down to his feet. Very sleepy as well. As if he could…sleep for about…a few years…if they…the television…
“Incredible,” said Jackson under his breath, his coffee now stone cold in his hand. Not that he minded, having given up on attempting to finish it off after getting a chunk of black goo in his teeth. The man’s story was borderline amazing. It defined logic, or reasoning, or any other…
“I woke up about three or four hours later,” said the man, knocking Jackson out of his reverie. He hadn’t realised that the man had continued talking. Obviously it was very late. The famous Doctor Jackson unable to keep interest in the discovery of the millennium? Only exhaustion could have prevent that from occurring “Or rather the old lady from across the way woke me up. Apparently I had set off the sprinkler system on the whole floor. She had a right go at me for ruining her microwavable cottage pie during her soaps. Of course I told her I’d burnt some toast. I mean, would she believe me if I told her I blew up the television with my mind?”
“Probably not,” replied Jackson, unsuccessfully holding back a yawn as he talked. Dots danced about in his vision as he continued “So obviously this was the first time this happened so acutely. When was the next time?”
“Two days later,” replied the man, scuffing the bottom of his shoe against the concrete of the floor. Jackson had to wonder whether the man was starting to drop off himself. He sincerely hope so, though from what the stranger had said he hadn’t slept proper in over three days “I’d had just got on with myself after that. I didn’t want to go to the doctor in case I was dying or going crazy – or both,” the man laughed at that last remark, as if he half believed he was crazy. Jackson couldn’t blame him. He was a rational man, and he felt as though he was going insane as well.
“Understandable,” said Jackson, more to keep his mind active than to actively engage in conversation. Certainly if the man wished to continue to talk further he was more than welcome to. His pad was already covered in various markings and strange runes that only Jackson could understand. ‘Pseudolang’ he called it, a way of keeping his findings a secret. His line of work demanded such a high level of secrecy. His own mother thought him to work on genetically altered algae primarily, a cleverly constructed ruse able to fully confuse and deceive a fifty-four year old housewife with ease.
“So I kept having the headaches from time to time, and the rushes – you know, the one’s I told you about before, like I’ve dived into a bath?” asked the man. Jackson nodded. A crude metaphor at best, since the stranger described the heat as emanating within not along his skin “but I just kept a plug on them. Again the whole going insane thing,”
“And the next time you actually exhibited these…” Jackson stumbled his own words. What name do you give to such a strange and outlandish phenomenon? “…powers?” he eventually decided upon. There was power involved, and it was something that his subject could identify with. Had he said “reverse kinetic entropy” a definite inference would have been lost in translation.
Leaning back in his chair again looking thoughtful, the man half smiled to himself as if remembering something amusing “The next time…” he said with an air of mystery, the grin growing larger as he spoke “…was the day I became a superhero,” |
12-12-2006, 11:57 PM
