Class Fives: Origins

by Jon H. Thompson

  Let him wonder what that meant, Crawford thought smugly, then turned his attention back to the tasks ahead.

  The tiny phone in his jacket pocket buzzed quietly as he passed through the door of the outer office and into the long hallway.

  “Crawford,” he said, flatly.

  “Sir, it’s Jones.”

  “Continue,” he said evenly.

  He was surprised when Jones actually seemed to hesitate before responding. The man never did that.

  “Sir,” Jones said at last, “I believe we have a second Class Five.”

  Dr. Walter Montgomery sat behind his desk, staring at the computer screen, waiting. It was an inconvenience but one that he had learned to tolerate, especially considering the importance of what was going on at the other end of the communication.

  He cast his mind back as he waited, considering the long, torturous road he had followed to this place.

  All the years having to suffer, to toil, absolutely endlessly, to no purpose.

  He’d discovered the truth as a young man, and it had haunted and driven him ever since.

  And now the goal to which his entire existence had strained was at last within sight.

  All it required was this final piece, and without it, all his efforts would produce little more than a repetition of that horrible failure all those years ago.

  Because Karillan hadn’t known. Hadn’t been aware. Such a significant thing, and it had escaped him completely. It was almost embarrassing.

  Only when he had read of the work of Dr. Vernon Jenkins and reached out to contact him did it all finally become clear.

  Montgomery smiled wistfully.

  The young man’s analogy of the painting was more right than he had known.

  And Karillan had not even conceived of it.

  Because Karillan hadn’t scraped the canvas clean. He had burned his way through the atoms and flattened the quantum level, but he had not cleaned it away. He had attempted to paint a canvas already bearing an image, albeit a faint one. But that had been enough to turn back his efforts on themselves and consume him.

  He glanced over at the computer screen and saw the cursor blinking steadily.

  What time is it where he is, he wondered? Still, he could not press. This one was not his employee, merely an acquaintance. And one had to placate those.

  But if the prior reports had been accurate, then very soon it would be time to move.

  And it really was a moderately interesting bit of research, he considered fairly. Certainly not his particular cup of tea, but in this case incalculably useful.

  Montgomery’s correspondent was Dr. Stefan Svag, one of the world’s most eminent subatomic particle specialists, and his research was exactly that, research. It was not compromised by any corporate funding or government grant. It was not trapped in the constraints of having to produce something of value, either to build or destroy. It could be what it was meant to be, a man peering deeply into the fabric of existence just to see what was there.

  And Montgomery paid the bills gladly, not only because of his need, but out of respect for a pure man of science, like himself.

  To others, of course, the research would seem a stunning waste of time and resources, because it would appear to have no practical application.

  Dr. Svag built atoms. Or more precisely, the nuclei of atoms. He was attempting nothing less than to create new and heavier elements, elements so dense they would collapse into bits if not pressed together with a strong magnetic field.

  Dr. Svag had developed a portable magnetic generator that would allow the containment and transport of super-dense atomic nuclei, and had discovered it worked perfectly well as a capture mechanism when sequenced with a small particle gun.

  And it allowed him to thumb his nose at basic physics.

  Every atom consisted of a nucleus composed of positively charged protons and charge-neutral neutrons, stuck together by the strong nuclear force. Around them at vast distances whirled the negatively charged electrons, living their jittery half-existence being everywhere along their orbits at the same time, trapped to eternally dance around the nucleus.

  But atoms are balanced. For every electron there must be a proton, and vice versa. Lose one, and the other makes the atom unstable. It must shed the extra particle to restore the balance, and in doing so becomes another element. Uranium, for example, became lead.

  Amazingly, Dr. Svag had discovered how to fire tiny streams of neutrons and protons in packets into his magnetic field, and cause them to stick there, confined. And through patience and repetition he had managed to add another proton here, a neutron there, but with no electrons.

  Svag had once described it to Montgomery as building a snowball with a pair of tweezers, one flake at a time.

  The moment the magnetic field faltered, of course, the unwieldy mess of bits fell apart, but while it was maintained he had been able to stuff more and more particles onto it until he had more than doubled the weight of the largest man-made element.

  And that was the sum of the good doctor’s work. A jumble of neutrons and protons, jammed tightly together inside the press of a magnetic field. Interesting but essentially useless.

  Useless to everyone but Montgomery, that is.

  Because of Vernon’s calculations, Montgomery had finally realized that it could perform a function. If it were to be heated in just the right way, using certain esoteric particles such as those produced by the device Mr. Franklin had so graciously built, and which was even now on its way to where the containment building awaited it, then that bundle of useless bits would agitate, and vibrate. And when at last the magnetic field was burned away with the collapse of the container itself, a wondrous thing would happen.

  Instead of flying apart, the meaningless ball of particles would fuse, sticking together as if melted, and their combined force would instantly pull on every electron within a micron. But it would not merely rip away and steal the electrons of other nearby atoms, it would fragment their nuclei, and consume them as well, like a monstrous, microscopic black hole.

  For one tiniest fraction of an instant, it would sweep in everything around it, leaving… nothing. Even the quantum level would be blasted away, the canvas of reality beneath at last fully exposed. And through that space between the fabric of universes, the message of the photons spewing from the device would penetrate beyond what is, or could ever be.

  At long last, he would touch an untouchable place.

  He was suddenly jerked back from his reverie by the computer beep, and jolted slightly in his chair, fixing on the screen.

  “Good evening, W,” was etching itself above the jerkily moving cursor.

  Montgomery leaned forward and placed his fingers on the keyboard.

  “Good day, S,” he typed. “How goes it?”

  There was no immediate response, and Montgomery felt a faint itching at the back of his collar and a flutter in his stomach.

  “2.7,” appeared on the screen.

  Montgomery felt a sudden exhilarating rush.

  The tiny, invisible blob of something floating tranquilly in its sea of magnetic force had more than doubled in size. It had gained another tenth in only a week this time.

  “It’s speeding up,” he typed back with trembling fingers.

  “U ain’t seen nothing yet,” was the response.

  Montgomery slowly leaned back in his chair, letting his mind paw over this information.

  At this rate, he would have the 5.0 he required very shortly. Perhaps a few weeks, perhaps less.

  And then….

  So close, he told himself. Reach out and touch it. Smell it on the breeze. Almost there.

  He allowed himself a warm smile at the news, and felt himself begin to relax.

  Now was a time to savor, to enjoy, to wallow. Because when the time came, celebration would be superfluous.

  He leaned forward and reached for the keyboard.

  He would spend some time stroking Svag’s ego, appearing excit
ed and raining him with plaudits. The man truly deserved them.

  And perhaps, out of respect for the man, and if it could be reasonably managed, he might not have him killed, when the time came to harvest his research.

  Soon now, he told himself. Soon. He paused, thought of a suitable superlative, and typed.

  John sat on the long, cushioned bench against the wall of the waiting room, trying to get comfortable. He would have preferred to just stretch out along the length of the thing, maybe try to catch a few winks, but even though he was alone, the whole floor of the medical facility having been cleared out, something still made him remain seated. The offices of Doctors and Grade School Principals were places you just never learned to relax in, he considered.

  He’d spent the last couple of days lounging around the hotel room the two totally humorless men who’d taken custody of him had dumped him in. They did do him, John thought sourly, the courtesy of stationing a round-the-clock guard just outside, effectively blocking his ability to get away if he’d really wanted to. He’d considered trying to burst suddenly out the door, rush by the guard and try to get as far downstairs as possible before making a jump back, but always gave up the thought. What would it gain him, he reasoned? He’d be that escaped terrorist Dan had warned him about. So instead he’d watched TV, ordered room service and tried not to go bonkers.

  This morning, however, the one called Jones had knocked on his door early, and a half hour later had ushered him into this sterile waiting room on the top floor of a sprawling medical center.

  So, he thought, today is test day. And I haven’t even studied.

  He rose and moved to where the low, chunky coffee table bore its burden of old magazines reflecting a wide range of topics, from golf to accounting, and flipped through them, discovering quickly that he had no interest in any of the things represented.

  He was just straightening up when the outer door opened and the guy called White stepped inside, standing back to usher someone into the space.

  Roger hesitated in the hallway before stepping into the waiting room. This place was totally alien to him. He’d never been within a hundred feet of any sort of medical facility in his life, that he could remember. This was where people who get sick and die come, he thought, suddenly feeling a sinking depression settle over him.

  “Hey,” John said, confused, “What’s going on?”

  White indicated the bench to Roger who looked at it a moment, then settled onto it.

  “Wait here,” White said, turning and stepping outside the door, which he closed behind himself.

  “Hey,” John said, stepping toward the door, “Wait a second. What’s going on here? I thought I was supposed to do some test thing today.”

  He reached out, took the knob in his hand and tried to turn it, but it wouldn’t move.

  “Oh great,” John muttered. “That’s just great.”

  He turned and looked down at where Roger sat impassively.

  “Excuse me,” he said, “But are you being tested today, too?”

  Roger drew in a slow breath and gave a small nod.

  “There was supposed to be somebody else here,” Roger said. “A… friend of mine. Guess he’s running late.”

  John looked around as if there might be some kind of answer to something in the air around him.

  “There’s going to be another guy, too?” he asked.

  Roger sighed and shook his head.

  “Just a friend,” he said quietly, looking a bit lost. “He said he’d come with me but…”

  John stared down at him for a few seconds, then glanced around the waiting room as if to demonstrate his casual attitude.

  “So,” he said at last, “What do you do?”

  Roger slowly turned to look up at him, his face etched with confusion.

  “Sorry?” he responded.

  John gave him an almost smug grin.

  “Well, if you’re here for the same reason I am, then you must be able to… do something.”

  Roger stared at him, as if examining an interesting stain on an otherwise spotless piece of cloth.

  John sighed.

  “Never mind,” he said dismissively. “I just want to get on with it. I don’t want to spend the whole day here, you know? Hospitals creep me out.”

  Roger nodded absently, and turned to direct his gaze across the room.

  There was a faint knock on the door, causing both men to turn toward it.

  A moment later there was the click of a lock being thrown, and the door opened.

  White pushed the door fully opened and Dan stepped into the waiting room.

  Roger turned to him, his expression brightening suddenly.

  Dan smiled, glancing from one to the other.

  “Morning, guys,” he said. He turned to Roger.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t find a parking space. I’m parked at the other end of the block. And then I had to find this place…”

  His voice trailed off as he caught sight of John, staring at him, his mouth hung slightly open in surprise.

  “Hi, John. I guess things worked out for you,” he said.

  “What the Hell…” John muttered, then glanced from Dan to Roger and back.

  “You guys know each other?”

  Dan nodded.

  “Yes, we do. Well, sort of.”

  John shook his head, confused.

  “I don’t get it. So does this guy… Is he like me? He can do stuff?”

  “Oh yes,” Dan said, giving Roger a glance.

  John repeated the glance, first at Roger, then back to Dan.

  “So there’s two of us?”

  Dan shrugged.

  “I guess so,” he said.

  He turned back to Roger.

  “So, have they told you what they’re doing today? What tests and things?”

  Roger shook his head.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” he said simply, clearly having relaxed quite a bit.

  John pointed at Roger, his attention directed at Dan.

  “So what can he do?” he said, curious.

  Dan hesitated, tossing Roger a probing glance.

  “I think it would be up to him to tell you,” he said gently, “If he wants to.”

  John considered this, nodded thoughtfully, and turned to Roger.

  “Fair enough. So what do you do?”

  Roger looked up at John again, seemed to ponder him a moment, then turned to look at Dan, who shrugged. Roger directed his gaze back to John, and for a moment seemed to flood with a hint of something like smugness.

  “You’ll find out, I imagine, during the tests.”

  John’s expression tightened in mild confusion, then opened innocently and he shrugged.

  “Can’t wait,” he said.

  Once again the door opened, this time admitting a short, rotund man with closely cropped hair and an olive complexion, wearing a long white coat and carrying a folder tucked under his arm.

  He paused just inside the door and turned to regard the men in turn with a broad, warm smile.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said, his voice carrying an accent of some kind, “I’m Doctor Pravin Patel. I will be overseeing your tests today. Would you please come with me and we can get started.”

  John stepped forward, now suddenly displaying a building tension that he appeared to be attempting to mask animatedly.

  “So what’s up, Doc? What kind of tests are we taking?”

  “First a few basic medical things, some blood work, then we’ll see,” Patel said pleasantly. “If you’ll come this way, I can show you.”

  For an awkward moment the three men exchanged glances, then Roger rose and moved to follow the Doctor, the others trailing.

  Out in the hall White, who had apparently been standing guard at the door, fell into step behind them, forming a ragged little parade that wound down the long hallway and followed Dr. Patel through an open door into a moderately sized, gleaming white room with a few padded reclining chairs against one wa
ll, and small stands bearing various small implements used to draw blood.

  “Please have a seat, gentlemen,” Patel said pleasantly, indicating two of the recliners.

  John practically leapt onto the nearest one, while Roger moved slowly to another and gently eased himself down onto it. Dan moved to lean against the wall just inside the door, crossing his arms as if awaiting some event that promised to be quite interesting, and White moved to a corner where he took station like a guard, arms folded in front of himself.

  A moment later three other people - two men in white coats and a frumpy, middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform - entered and moved toward the counters that lined the walls, beginning to open overhead cabinets and start some kind of preparation.

  “Ah,” Dr. Patel said, “This is Doctor Rushdie, Doctor Stevens and Nurse Abernathy. They will be assisting with the testing today. We’ll begin with some blood samples, then we will move to the stress lab for some cardiac screens, and then we’ll get a few pictures, see what’s going on inside, shall we?”

  By the time he finished, Nurse Abernathy had already turned from the counter, holding up a syringe and several empty tubes with colorful rubber caps.

  She slid smoothly into a low stool next to where John was reclining and reached to take his arm, feeling it appraisingly, as if it were a piece of meat she was contemplating purchasing.

  John swung his gaze to Dan.

  “How about you?” he said, forcing a nervous grin, “You want to make a contribution?”

  “Thanks, I’ll pass,” Dan replied.

  John jolted slightly, his head whirling back to see the Nurse had already inserted the small needle into the crook of his arm and was filling the first of the empty test tubes. With expert speed she filled all three, and before John could comment, was folding his arm up to trap the cotton ball she’d placed over the tiny spot of blood where she’d removed the needle.

  She rose, returned to the counter, and in a moment was moving to settle onto the other stool beside where Roger lay, motionless.

  She reached out to take his arm and squeeze it gently, but suddenly she stopped, her brows contracting in puzzlement.

  Roger turned to regard her, expressionlessly.