Shen Ark: Departure
Science Fiction
by John Hindmarsh
Copyright 2013
All Rights Reserved
Published by
Rexon Press, Inc
Disclaimer
Shen Ark: Departure is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are entirely fictitious, invented by the author for the purpose of the story. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Also By John Hindmarsh
Explore my titles at http://www.JohnHindmarsh.com
Science Fiction
Glass Complex Trilogy
Book One: Broken Glass
Book Two: Fracture Lines (scheduled for early 2014)
Shen Ark Series
Shen Ark: Departure
Thrillers
Midway Series
Mark One
Mark Two (scheduled for Xmas, 2013)
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Cover
Cover Design by Damon Za - see http://damonza.com/
Formatting
Formatting by Polgarus Studio - see http://www.polgarusstudio.com
Acknowledgements
I want to thank my wife Cathy for her continuing patience, for providing her utmost support, and finally for re-reading many drafts. Excellent input was provided to me by the Tahoe Writers Works writing group. Editing was patiently conducted by Richard Crasta. However, despite everyone’s best efforts, I daresay there will be one or two errors remaining, which are definitely my responsibility.
Dedication
This book is for Cathy.
Chapter 1
Joseph paused for a moment to watch the 8 a.m. English Broadcasting Commission morning news on the faculty office television set. Every morning, on the hour from six through ten, the EBC presented a rapid-fire roundup of news items, mainly covering English disasters or crimes. The announcer was barely into her twenties and he surmised her attractive looks were one of the main attributes considered for her employment.
“This is the EBC news for eight a.m. United States government officials announced the average temperatures across the country have fallen by five degrees Centigrade over the last two years. No reasons were provided for this temperature change. Thirty people died Saturday night, at a popular London nightclub. Police suspect the deaths were caused by a flawed batch of Golly!, the current popular party drug, illegally manufactured by the homeless occupiers of Regents Park. There will be an in-depth review of party drugs in our evening news, to help you select the drug least likely to kill you. Separately, police denied they were proposing to arrest or remove the five thousand homeless trespassers, mainly illegal immigrants, currently occupying Regents Park. English authorities yesterday forcibly dismantled refugee camps occupied by Scottish refugees in northern Northumberland. Scottish MPs protested this harsh treatment of fugitive Scottish Nationals who fled the rigid language requirements for legitimate Scottish residency imposed in 2015 after the Great Floods. The English Prime Minister had no comment. Now to the important news. The winner of the popular Singing Refugee Competition was Harold—.”
He tuned out the rest of the broadcast and was about to continue to his office when one of the faculty PAs caught his attention.
“Dr. Krowe, Dr. Krowe.” Her voice was piercing.
He stopped. “Yes, Madeleine, what do you want?”
“Dr. Krowe, there’s a faculty meeting at 4 p.m., and you are requested to attend. It’s a mandatory invitation, I’m sorry to say. Also, the EGA—the English Government Auditors— team wants to meet with you this afternoon, to review your research expenditures; 2 p.m., they said.”
“Thank you for the information,” Krowe said. He had no intention of being available for either meeting. He continued along the hallway until he reached his small office. The nameplate on the door read:
Dr. Joseph Krowe MD, PhD
Nanobiotechnology Research
Joseph did not even glance at the sign; he regarded his initial excitement when he was appointed as mere youthful exuberance. Two years was a long time and he felt he had matured considerably since his appointment. He pushed open his office door, and sighed at the mess of papers and books covering most of the worn and faded carpet. His desk also was piled high with research material, notes, and observations. It would have to stay untidy. His private research was reaching a critical stage. He sat at his desk. He had no time for distractions.
He logged on to his laptop and selected his personal health file. He entered the encryption key. Then he took his pulse, temperature, and blood pressure and added the data with date and time to the file. He noted that his headaches had stopped, his vision had cleared, and he was no longer urinating blood. He saved and closed the file. He knew he should do other tests; however, he did not have patience or time for those. He could not ask anyone from the research team to help because this was his own personal, very private experimentation.
His whole London University undergraduate and graduate life had been devoted to studying and researching partially explored and challenging aspects of the human brain. Initially he had combined a degree in psychology with a degree in chemistry, achieving honours in each. Completing those marked the beginning of his self-imposed program. He had then added a degree in pharmacology, and continued on to conduct wide-ranging research before and after his doctorates in nanotechnology and microbiology. His efforts and creativity far exceeded the expectations of both his tutors and professors as he pursued almost arcane avenues of study. All the while he was obsessively hiding his real target, taking great care to disguise his experiments.
This last year he had followed his own agenda, a private agenda with a private objective, and worked at his research with just that one objective in mind. The intensity and depths of his efforts had almost exhausted him, draining both his physical and mental strengths. He had struggled and persevered where no one else could have succeeded, he knew, because only he had the necessary vision and drive.
He had meticulously mapped the human brain’s pleasure centres, cross-referencing neural network structures and identifying chemical receptors; the result was an innovative multi-dimensional view of how chemicals affected particular areas of the brain. He then added a nanotechnological framework overlaying those chemical structures, designing and creating pharmacological nanites capable of analysing and altering their biological targets. He determined how to create chemical and nanite combinations to engage the brain’s pleasure receptors, at the same time establishing a nanite-based, DNA-level protective framework for the host body. The resulting pharmacological product, with its nanite structures, was both mind and brain altering; he had designed it to eliminate the adverse side effects of the pleasure-enhancing component, at the same time ensuring it always sought to improve the host body, working at a chromosome level. Now, he was ready to claim his rewards.
Unfortunately, his co-workers, who were obviously very envious of his abilities, had recently become extremely curious and were prying into the details of his experiments and research. The timing and degree of their interest was extremely suspicious and very worrying. His peers were trying to steal or copy his work, and he would not share the results in any way; the rewards were to be his and his alone.
Joseph had not been able to find volunteers to help him test his nanite-based formulations; the main problem was his refusal to provide underlying details of his experiments. He had to protect his secrets. Of course, he had experimented on his laboratory rats. In the second to last batch, seventy percent of his rats had died within twenty-four hours of cons
uming small doses of his formulation. The survivors showed no adverse indications. He did not want anyone to conduct post-mortem examinations on his dead lab rats, and he had immediately arranged for them to be incinerated.
The lab crew wanted to know what had killed his rats; their questions at first were casual, and when he did not provide answers, they became more direct and pressing. This unwarranted attitude had forced him to destroy test materials and disguise his results: he had deleted files, destroyed notes, altered research logs, and even disposed of his remaining laboratory rats, releasing them in farmland well away from the university so that no one could use them for tests.
He had then focused intently on identifying why seventy percent of his lab rats had died, and eventually determined necessary modifications to his formulation. Subsequently, while at home in his apartment, he had decided he would be his own volunteer. He knew the risks. He dosed himself. The results had been almost fatal. For at least thirty minutes after taking what he estimated to be a modest dose, he had experienced extreme psychedelic delusions, including weird mental urges, until eventually he collapsed, writhing in agony, as every nerve-end in his body seemed to burn furiously. For the next twenty-four hours he had experienced extreme agony, which, to his relief, then eased to an almost bearable level. Next, for most of a day, he had experienced headaches which reached from temple to temple, the pain incessant and totally unresponsive to painkillers. Subsequently, as his headaches eased, he lost his vision. Fortunately, his blindness also had been temporary, and his eyesight was back to normal—or better than normal—after two days. Three weeks later, his only remaining adverse symptoms were occasional agony flashes from nerve ends and brief moments of blindness. After each bout of blindness, his vision was further improved. These symptoms were annoying, although he was certain they would fade and stop; in any case, they did not interfere with his work.
He had again dosed himself, this time with a smaller amount of his revised drug. The results were exciting, psychedelic, and extremely pleasurable. His confidence grew. He knew he had achieved success—he had created the perfect recreational designer drug. It intensified reactions of the brain’s pleasure centre, at the same time monitoring for and countering all adverse effects arising in the host’s body. Repeated doses intensified the pleasure effects and nanites embedded in the structure of the drug continually reinforced protection of their host, ensuring the host body was in excellent health. He knew the drug was harmless; his survival was proof of its benign impact.
He paced back and forth across the carpet, corner to corner, carefully avoiding untidy heaps of books and papers. Faculty research managers and government auditors required reports, and to discover how he was progressing they were seeking a full accounting for the research supplies he had used, for the money he had spent. They wanted his secrets, they wanted the results of his research. He had stalled and prevaricated. The pressure from faculty management had continued and intensified. His ethical paradox was simple: he could not answer without falsifying research records, even though he wanted to respond as truthfully as possible, without giving away his secrets.
He sat at his desk, his head in his hands. Perhaps it was time, he thought, to see if he could sell the results of his research. He had produced the perfect recreational drug, and its pleasure effects were far stronger and more enduring than those drugs he had illicitly acquired on his multiple research visits to the club scene. So he would sell his drugs to the clubs. Surely, he thought, the people currently selling nightclub drugs would leap at the chance of selling his product instead of theirs; and why not, when his provided so many health benefits?
~~~
Joseph ordered a drink at the bar and eventually found a quiet table at the back of the room. He eased his backpack down onto the floor; it was full of samples, and he had also brought most of the feeder stock, the nanite-based compound which only required protein to trigger further production. He was in one of the theme rooms of the Max-M club, trying to relax as he sought out one of the illicit drug vendors from whom he had purchased samples for his research. The music was extremely loud, and overhead lights spun and pulsed in sympathy with the sound. On previous visits, he had found the combination to be unnerving and disconcerting; tonight, he could ignore each and their composite effect. He sipped his drink—even the alcohol seemed to have no impact.
At last he saw a familiar face and waved. The man came over to his table and sat down. He was dressed casually and, Joseph thought, expensively, as well. He looked at Joseph for a moment and then smiled. For some strange reason, Joseph was reminded of a shark.
“I remember—you’re the mad scientist who was here a few months ago. Doing experiments, if I recall. Huh. Whaddaya want this time?”
Joseph bridled at the mad scientist label, but withheld his comment. “I need to talk to your boss—I have a proposition I think he might be interested in.” He slipped a hundred Euro bill into the man’s hand. “Can you introduce us?”
“Can sure try. Wait about, I’ll let you know.”
~~~
“He said he wants to talk with you, boss. Said he has a proposition. He’s the guy I mentioned a few months back—he’s a mad scientist type—he was buying all kinds of pills, to experiment, he said. My guess is he wants to sell you something he has manufactured.”
“Tinker, do you think he’s the law? You know we’ll lose our license if the filth find drugs on the premises again,” Percy said. He was the boss, part owner of the club, and its day to day manager.
“Doubtful. I think he’s just a would-be manufacturer—y’know what these scientist types are like—they always think they have invented something startlingly new.”
“All right.” Percy turned to the two men standing beside his desk. “Gus, Andy—I want you to deal with this—what did Tinker call him?—that’s right, mad scientist. Get him off the premises. Rough him up—make an example of him. No, Gus, don’t kill him—control yourself. Andy, make sure Gus toes the line—if he’s found dead, and the filth trace him back here—our license is gone. Tinker, point out this guy to Andy, and then take a break.”
~~~
Shortly afterwards, two very large men approached Joseph. The first one stopped and rested his hand on the back of a chair, waiting. Joseph nodded his head and they both sat down, one on either side of him. The larger of the two spoke. It was Andy.
“Tinkerbell said you wanted to meet his boss. Wassup?”
“Wouldn’t it be better if I told him?”
The other man, Gus, reached over and casually gripped Joseph’s hand. He applied a thumb lock. Joseph almost screamed with pain.
“I think not. Tell us,” Andy directed.
“Let—let my thumb go.” Gus released his grip and Joseph rubbed his hand, thinking furiously. Either he told these two thugs, he decided, or he left and tried another club. He did not want to waste time.
“I want to make him a proposition.”
“Hear that, Gus? A proposition.” Andy sounded out the word, smiled at his companion and then focused back on Joseph. “Why would you want to do that?”
“To make money. I’ve designed a drug which will him make lots of money.”
“We don’t do drugs here, do we, Gus?”
The other man shook his head.
“What about Tinkerbell?” asked Joseph.
“Who?”
“The person who sold me—” The man called Gus, who had applied the thumb lock previously, again reached for Joseph’s hand. Joseph pulled it back, protectively.
Andy said. “Didn’t you hear me? We don’t do drugs in this club. Not allowed. Illegal, see? Rozzers don’t like it. So we don’t do it. Get inta trouble with the filth, otherwise.”
“But—what do you suggest?”
“Now that’s better.” Andy looked at his companion. “Cooperative, see?” He faced Joseph again. “Come with us—if we go outside the club, we can talk. There’s a rear entrance. We have a rule, no drugs in the club, see?”
The man’s suggestion sounded very sensible, thought Joseph, and he reached down to get his backpack. The second man grabbed his arm.
“Whatchya got?” Andy asked.
“It’s just my backpack.” He did not mention that it contained his PCN feeder stock. He now used the acronym as an easy label when referencing his pharmacological-chemical-nanite formulation.
“Come on, then. Follow me,” instructed Andy. They both stood, with Joseph between them, Andy in front and Gus behind. Joseph somehow felt at risk as they wended their way through the growing crowd, moving more and more into the shadows as they transited towards the rear of the club.
***
Chapter 2
As Joseph stepped down the short set of stairs into the dark alley at the rear of the club, he was struck a severe and savage blow from behind. His head rang, he saw stars, and he almost fell to his knees. As he staggered off the bottom step, the thug in front of him turned and punched him in the stomach. Joseph gasped and would have collapsed, except for Gus holding him up. The blows were repeated, again, and again.
“Tougher than I fought,” muttered Gus. “‘Old ‘im for me.” Gus stepped down to street level, dragged Joseph away from the steps, and struck him with a heavy fist.
Joseph sagged against the other man and Gus readied his fist to strike him again.
“We don’t do drugs, anywhere,” announced Gus, punctuating his statements with blows to Joseph’s midriff. “Not inside, not outside, and not wif strangers.”
Joseph, now wracked with agony, dropped to his knees, his falling weight pulling him out of the other man’s grip.
“Andy, ‘old ’im still, willya?”
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