The Prometheus Effect

by David Fleming

With the effortless grace of long practice, Jack drew the polished steel of an ebony-handled straight-edge razor along his neck. The razor had been an early anniversary gift from his wife; probably more of a hint than a gift.

  “Rip? Rip!” someone yelled from outside.

  Jack poked his head out his bathroom, his face half shaven. “Tony? I’m almost done here.”

  “No time, Rip. The chopper is hovering at the crow’s nest. You can finish shaving on the way. We’ll keep the ride smooth. Wouldn’t want the Ripper cutting his own throat.”

  CHAPTER 38

  James and Dawn were still talking and enjoying supper in her room when Mykl stopped by to pick up his belongings. He told Delilah to wait in the cart since it would only take him a second. His real reason was that it would have taken her a half second to notice the mess he’d left.

  “Is she going to let you live, James?” Mykl asked.

  He barely managed to duck a wadded napkin thrown by Dawn.

  “We’re continuing to discuss my fate,” James joked. “But it’s not looking good,” he added as Dawn bounced an olive off his forehead.

  “Any other comments, minion?” Dawn asked, plucking a cheese cube from her plate and cocking her wrist in Mykl’s direction.

  “No, no! I’m just passing through to pick up my things. I’ll be staying with Jack and Delilah now that you two have each other to entertain.”

  Dawn frowned. “You’re leaving us?”

  “I’ll only be a few minutes away.”

  “Well, be sure to visit,” Dawn said with a sad pout.

  “Between meals, you bet!”

  A tiny yellow square whizzed past Mykl’s ear as he ducked and ran.

  Well, that’s a good sign, he thought. She still had her feisty spirit, and James didn’t have any new scratches.

  He gathered up his pajamas, a spare pair of socks, and Lawrence’s jacket to bring with him. The rest could wait. With his arms full, he hooked the pillow on the floor with his foot and flipped it up onto the bed. Shrugging, he thought, Well, it’s a start.

  ***

  Mykl’s new room was no larger than his old one, but it had a homier feel to it, and less generic furnishings. He particularly liked his bed’s blanket, which featured detailed sailing ships sewn at random angles. But the current ambiance setting was a dark underwater theme that felt a shade too claustrophobic for comfort, especially after experiencing the wide-open-space illusion in the main room.

  Delilah removed all the adult-sized clothes from the drawers and closet, then told Mykl to make himself at home. Judging by the size of the clothes she had taken away, her son was fully grown. It was also apparent from the grooming accoutrements in the bathroom that he still visited every so often. Delilah returned with a brand-new toothbrush and added one more condition to his agreement with Jack.

  As Mykl settled in—which mostly consisted of hanging Lawrence’s jacket on the back of the chair—he noticed that this room did lack one important thing: a computer. He was about to investigate the desk when Delilah’s voice came from the kitchen.

  “Dinner’s ready. Get it while it’s hot!”

  Mykl’s stomach rumbled in anticipation. This computer issue could wait.

  Delilah set their chairs next to each other at a corner of the table for easy conversation. Mykl’s chair, while the same height in the back, had a much higher seat. It was an ingenious design of subtle steps and handholds; he could easily get in and out by himself without being lifted into it like a child.

  Four steaming bowls sat atop the dining table. The largest overflowed with long, pale, rubbery shoelaces—or at least, that’s what they looked like to Mykl. Next to it was a bowl of a cream-colored sauce. The smallest bowl on the table contained a chunky reddish sauce. The contents of the dish closest to him smelled familiar but he had never seen them served in this form before.

  “Spaghetti?” he asked.

  “And fettuccini,” Delilah replied. “Take your pick. Mix and match. Whatever floats your boat.”

  “Why are the noodles so long?”

  “You’ve never had spaghetti before?”

  “We had it in the asylum lots of times, but the noodles were always really short.” Mykl indicated a length between his thumb and forefinger.

  Delilah gave Mykl a look that he deciphered as pity. She portioned out the long noodles on both their plates and layered on some of the wonderful smelling red sauce; the cream stuff smelled too much like feet, in Mykl’s opinion.

  “Allow me to show you why spaghetti noodles are supposed to be served long,” she said. With one tine of her fork, she selected the end of a noodle and brought it to her lips. Slowly, to Mykl’s amazement, she sucked the entire noodle into her mouth. “Now you try.”

  It didn’t look that hard. Mykl scrutinized his noodles for a likely candidate, lifted an end to his lips, and slurped. Too fast. The tail end of the noodle flung to the bottom of his chin and whipped up to pelt him in the nose before disappearing in a wet smack between his lips. He felt slashes of sauce decorating his surprised face.

  “And that,” Delilah laughed, “is why spaghetti noodles are supposed to be long!”

  And that, Mykl realized, is why the Box kept them short. Anything that could be used as a source of fun or entertainment was censored, suppressed, or, in this case, shortened.

  For the rest of the meal, Delilah showed him all the different ways to wrangle slippery noodles, but none was more fun than the speed-slurp method. Mykl was sure he had sauce in his hair by the time they were done.

  After Mykl helped carry his empty plate to the dishwashing “device” (to call it a machine didn’t fit, since it had no moving parts), he broached the subject of a computer.

  “It’s there,” she said. “Place your palm flat on the desk and tap your index finger twice. Your access level is already coded.”

  “Fascinating,” Mykl said, arching an eyebrow at her.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Have you watched any of the early color television science fiction shows?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You should.”

  “Indeed?”

  She laughed. “You slay me, young man. Yes, indeed!”

  Mykl wrung his hands together in excitement. I have an “access level”! He didn’t know what restrictions they’d placed, but he was sure it meant explicit permission to roam on their computer network. No guessing of passwords, no clandestine midnight missions, and no demons waiting to prey on him from behind. A computer of my very own.

  “May I go and…” He searched for a suitable word for using a computer in an ultra-secret underground city of diamond.

  Smiling, Delilah bent down and, with a finger, lifted his chin to make him look into her twinkling eyes. “You may go play with your computer now.”

  “Thank you, Lahlah.” He beamed.

  Mykl literally ran to the desk. He climbed up into the chair and adjusted it to its highest setting. It was just right, though he wished something could be done about his dangling feet.

  Palm flat. Tap twice. A large home screen flashed to life, level with his eyes, and an androgynous voice spoke in an overly friendly tone.

  “Good evening, Mykl.”

  Oh, hell no!

  “Um, voice response off, please?” Mykl requested, though he felt silly for talking to a computer. The text [Verbal Mute] glowed briefly, and he exhaled. He wasn’t quite ready for a conversing computer yet. Swishy doors were enough for now.

  Apart from the generically labeled icons, the screen before Mykl looked like a dark hole he could crawl into. He spared a quick glance to see if Delilah was near before scrambling up on the desk to make sure. He pushed his hand against the screen. Solid. Any escape through this illusion would have to be made through his own imagination.

  By accident, he discovered that sliding his hand along the wall moved the entire screen. If he wanted, he could drag it anywhere he desired. The icons turned out to be touch-activated as well. Lowering himself back
into his chair, he got down to business— playing with the computer.

  Simple labels such as Internet, Satellites, Cameras, and Projects made for easy navigation. He ignored the one labeled User Introduction. After all, he had years of experience with computers. They weren’t that difficult.

  Among the Satellites he discovered a subsection for Planets. Mykl knew exactly what he was after, and the folder did not disappoint. A page-long list of blue highlighted feeds streamed from Jupiter and its moons. He broke down and peeked into the User section to find out what colored highlights meant: blue was for FTL transmissions, green for mixed technologies, and red for external systems only. Good to know. With a few taps on his desk, a real-time image of Jupiter filled the darkness of his screen. If he concentrated hard on one location, he could make out subtle movement. Like watching clouds lazily morph on a sunny day.

  “I have something for you, Mykl,” Delilah called from behind, startling him. “Oh, got your mind in the stars, have you?”

  Mykl simply turned his head and nodded. Guilty as charged. She was concealing something behind her back. He stiffened in alarm. The last time…

  Delilah pulled a stunted brown creature with stiff legs and tiny ears from behind her and held it out to him. In the dim light, he couldn’t see clearly. Was it dead?

  “This belongs to my son, but I don’t think he would mind if you had it.”

  Still in the chair, Mykl pushed himself away from the desk and spun to face her. She stepped to him and, with two hands, placed the creature gently in his lap. He took tentative possession with a loose grip. It certainly wasn’t alive. Good thing, too. Its guts were spilling out through a hole in its side. And it was missing an eye. He peered up at her questioningly.

  “It’s a teddy bear,” she said, as if that should explain everything.

  “Oh,” Mykl said, still not understanding. “What’s it for?”

  She gave him that look of pity once more. “You’ve never had a teddy bear before?”

  Sadness slowly crept into him from the dark doors of his mind that he preferred to keep closed. His mom had promised him all sorts of odd things—things that he’d never allowed himself to discover the meaning of during his time in the Box. This was one of them.

  In tight control of his voice, Mykl replied, “My mom used to say that I was her teddy bear.” The lifeless blue eye staring up at him threatened to pry those doors open even further. Unbearable pain threatened to flood out if he didn’t push them closed fast.

  Two warm arms encircled him and squeezed the doors shut. “Of course she did. You’d make a great teddy bear. They’re always willing to give unconditional love and protection when you’re alone.”

  “Protection?”

  “They keep monsters away.”

  That explained how it got disemboweled and lost an eye.

  “You should give it a name though,” she said.

  A name. Hmm, what do I call a lovable, lifeless, incomplete hunk of monster repellent?

  “What did your son call it… him… her?”

  “Stinker.”

  Mykl felt like he had been punched in the gut. He hugged the bear to him. “Why?”

  “Whenever he farted, he would blame the bear.”

  With his chin resting on top of the bear’s head, Mykl spoke as if he were in an empty apartment, alone with his memories. “It’s a good name,” he said, wondering why his mother had called him Stinker.

  Delilah ran her fingers once through his hair and scratched his back lightly with her fingernails. “Well, I’ll leave you and Stinker to conquer the universe then,” she said.

  CHAPTER 39

  Lori smiled confidently, oblivious to everything but her protective entourage. Law enforcement officials had deemed the city jail too dangerous to detain the Asylum Angel. The media continued to feast on her attempt to kill a five-year-old child, and police feared an angry mob might burn the jail in an effort to carry out vigilante justice. So she had been processed into the only prison for women in the state, for her own safety. The women’s prison offered appropriate security and facilities to ensure Lori received the proper protection.

  Two large female guards walked her through common areas as if she were on parade. Lori reached back and pulled her hair aside to rub one of the puncture wounds left by a stunner dart. Bastard. Another five minutes and that ranger would have shot himself to forget what she had done to that wretched child.

  The guards advised that she would be permitted to shower before they moved her to a high-security solitary confinement wing. A shower would be nice. Then she would have sufficient privacy to start devising a strategy for her insanity defense.

  The prison was unnaturally silent. Whenever she entered a new section, inmates stopped and stared, their bodies taut, as if they fought to control a desire to pounce. And Lori realized something, something that had been nagging at her from the moment she crossed the threshold to general population. All the inmates she encountered had their hair shaved close to the scalp—but hers had been left long and loose. They may as well have tattooed “CHILD KILLER!” on her forehead; the difference made her stand out, as if a spotlight followed her every move, the unblinking eyes of her audience recording every step. The inmates had been forewarned of a visitor; the Asylum Angel had entered the lair of the damned.

  All the inmates were women, and all had been sterilized so they would likely never have children again. For this reason, among others, the worst crime one could commit, in their judgment, was taking the life of a child. And walking among them now was the most notorious kind of child predator.

  Lori questioned her guards about the security of the shower facilities, but the guards, too, remained silent as they held the door open for her. The large shower area possessed a single, weak light bulb. It struggled to produce a pale glow within the cloud of steam flowing from a nozzle in the center shower station. Hissing, hot mist bellowed forth but never seemed to reach the miniature white tiles below. The smell of sour sweat mingled with the heavy, damp air.

  Lori stripped off her prison jumper and took long strides toward the glowing circle in the center. She wanted to hurry.

  The brilliant flash of every light turning on at once momentarily blinded her. Then the thundering crash of the door slamming shut echoed through the room. When Lori’s eyes readjusted, she found herself surrounded by feral faces.

  She screamed for the guards. The door opened immediately, and two guards entered. One set a bottle of bleach on the floor. The second dropped a handful of scrub brushes. They winked at Lori before leaving and closing the door behind them.

  Seventeen women circled Lori. One for each child she threatened to kill in the asylum. The shaved bodies of the prison Purity Clan glistened with sweat; they smiled at the opportunity to purify their world. They brandished prison shivs made from spoons, toothbrushes, popsicle sticks, lunch tray shards, even an old pork chop bone. Heat permeated the air, stifling Lori’s ability to breathe, yet she shivered as if she were standing naked in the snow.

  With a wild growl through teeth like a tattered picket fence, an inmate stepped in to grab Lori’s hair. She wrapped it firmly around her wrist and pulled Lori’s head back viciously while another woman chopped her fist down on Lori’s exposed throat. With a hip thrust and twist of her shoulders, the first woman leveraged Lori off her feet by the hair and slammed her limp body hard, face first, on the slick floor, as if she were no more than a soaked towel. She hit with a sickening wet smack. With her larynx crushed and the wind knocked out of her by the force of the fall, she lay stunned and trembling.

  Without uttering a word, the women descended upon her like jackals on injured prey.

  Lori felt tiles press into her chest as they pinned her face near the drain, her limbs held in vise-like grasps. The only sounds escaping the shower were Lori’s panicked, gurgling attempts to scream, and the soft grunts of her executioners’ efforts to make dull shivs penetrate her pale skin. Blood serpentined along moldy grout lines.
Eyes wide with terror, Lori watched her life slowly, and painfully, drain away.

  CHAPTER 40

  “Jessica, my syrup is cold,” said a pasty-faced obese woman.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ll get you another.”

  Jessica retrieved the woman’s miniature chrome pitcher, sticky with blueberry syrup, and marched back to the kitchen. She had been fortunate to get a job in a run-down twenty-four-hour pancake house. Unfortunately, the only hours offered were for the swing shift. Wearing a nametag and earning minimum wage, serving breakfast when people normally ate dinner, made for a very meager existence. Especially when those wages were garnished to pay off her student loan. The remainder went to her parents to pay the rent they charged her for moving back in with them. Still, it was better than completely giving up and living under a bridge like a troll.

  “Here you go, ma’am,” Jessica said as she placed another pitcher of syrup on the table, fresh from the warmer.

  “Thank you. Could you turn up the volume on the television panel?” the obese woman asked through a mouthful of eggs.

  Jessica was aware of the news story about to be aired and had been trying her best to avoid it. They had been pumping the story all day because of the unsuccessful assassination attempt. Her choice would have been to leave the TV off for the remainder of her shift. But she had to abide by the customer’s choice.

  She dragged a chair to the television and stepped up to adjust the volume.

  ***

  “The government is harboring technology that could fix our energy problems,” Sebastian told the interviewing reporter. “Fusion technology.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Up until three months ago, I worked as a government agent.”

  “For which agency?”

  “My cover identity was CIA. In actuality, I operated in a special division of the NSA.”

  “What division would that be? They usually don’t intermingle.”