by Peter Damon
It was only nine in the evening, but already the building had a quietness associated with the early hours. Michael bypassed his own door to make his way quickly up the stairs to the boys bedroom door and, kneeling, took a moment to pick the old lock before sliding noiselessly into the room.
A large window looked out over the street and allowed light from the nearby streetlight to fill half the room. Michael chose to leave the light off and the door ajar, letting in enough of the light from the hall for him to see into the dark half of the room. He then quickly looked about, inspecting the books on the overflowing book case before rapidly checking the papers scattered around the computer on the desk.
None of it was very informative, and he was about ready to leave when the door slid open and two young men stepped in.
The first thing Michael noticed was the similar lean frames, the same hair colouring, the same long and lean faces, and the two pairs of pale brown eyes watching him.
“Hello. Matt asked me to get his tablet,” he told the twins, glancing from one to the other as he waited for an expression to appear, something on which he could base his next decision.
“Matt doesn’t use a tablet,” said the twin on the left.
“Doesn’t need to; with his memory,” said the other twin.
“And you are?” Michael asked with as light a tone of voice as he was able.
“I’m David,” said the one on the left.
“And I’m Thomas, but you might as well just use Thomas or David to address either of us, you’re not going to be able to tell us apart,” he told Michael. “And I bet you’re the man Professor Rolle told us about,” the other one said, both of them grinning.
“You’re the two,” Michael stated, suddenly aware of the error he’d made. Trust Rolle to forget to mention that the boys were twins.
“Come on up and we’ll have a chat,” one of them told him.
Michael followed their lean forms out of the room and up the stairs to the top floor. Here, because no one else used the floor, the landing had been changed into a lounge with the addition of an old leather sofa whose better days were well behind it, and a TV screen on the facing wall. Beneath it, arranged haphazardly, was every type of gaming device that was currently on the market, or had been in the last decade.
Opening the door to the back room, the twins grinned as they revealed a bare frame in which computer cards had been slotted, the lowest providing a lead plugged into a power socket, while the one above it took a feed from the cable coming in through the window. The large screen standing on the table was showing a swarm of bees endlessly following a single queen while, next to the keyboard on the table, stood an old shoe.
“You’re here about this, eh?” he was asked as one of the twins turned a small switch. The shoe rose two feet from the table and stopped in mid air. Michael stepped towards it and waved an arm above it and below it. He looked to them for permission, and once they had nodded, reached out to try moving it; he couldn’t.
“What, have you got it locked on some coordinate?” he asked.
“The shoe, no. As far as we can tell it is sitting in a completely new gravitational field,” Thomas, or was it David, explained.
“We’ve painted the gravitational field substance to the sole of the shoe, so the two are ‘glued’ to one another. But we could just have easily made a flat platform for the shoe and lifted it in that way. Then you would have been able to move it,” one of them explained.
“The important thing to remember,” the twin was saying, growing excited at the concept, “is that we can create an independent gravity field. That means that anything within that field conforms to that field and not the space around it.”
“You’re creating a self-governing area. Whatever its relationship to space, you are free of it,” Michael nodded, showing his understanding.
They nodded. “In the same way that earth generates a field, and while we exist within it, we are unaware of the physical implications of its own movements within the universe.”
Michael licked his lips. “So it’s not Anti Gravity at all,” he concluded.
“Exactly right. A better description would be ‘Independent Gravity’.”
“We haven’t got a name for it yet,” one of them admitted.
“Rolle thinks that terrible!” and they laughed, once again in complete unison.
“But, to position it, you still need some point of reference,” Michael stated, and the twins nodded.
“But the starting reference point is always itself. The current produces the field, and the field has an ‘up’ and ‘down’. “By manipulating electrical currents through independent but connected pieces of our substance, you promote movement.”
“And are there any dangers? Does it blow up in excessive heat, give off toxic gases, produce cancer generating compounds or ruin our Ozone Layer?”
“We’ve done quite a lot of testing and, so far, none of the above. Mind you, we haven’t tested the ozone layer as yet,” one of the twins explained.
“Where do Jake and Matt fit into all this?” Michael asked.
The boys shrugged in uncanny unison and smiled, turning up one side of their lips. “An early warning system,” Thomas told him, or was it David. “They know something is up, but we’ve kept this pretty much to ourselves until we can work out a way to use it that’s safe,” he explained.
Something else was worrying Michael. “Whatever can be discovered through science, can be re-discovered by someone else,” he told them. “How certain are you that this isn’t about to be re-invented in CERN or somewhere?”
The boys laughed, but it was the lad on the right, closest to the keyboard on the nearby table that began keying in an instruction.
“You know of course that it wasn’t Thomas Edison who invented the light-bulb. There were at least half a dozen men who made significant strides towards it, before and after him, and the whole process took about a century. During that time, thousands of alternatives were tested to find one with sufficient stability to make it cost-effective.
“Now, if those inventors had four variables; atmosphere, filament, coating and shape to work with, and it took them over a century to arrive at a workable solution, then how long do you think it will take a team of researchers to discover what we discovered through complete chance when the number of variables is at least five hundred times that of the light bulb?”
The large screen on the wall had begun scrolling a long list of variables and Michael was sure the boys were trying to make a point that went right over his head. After all, he was only an English major.
The twins smiled at his expression and one opened a small fridge to offer him a beer. He declined and took the diet Coke instead.
“This is huge, but you know this already,” Michael said, breaking the seal on the lid off the Coke and taking a sip.
The twins nodded. “Every single application of transportation, from the skate board to the space launch vehicles used by NASA, CNSA, ISRO and the KFA, will change. Cars, buses, railways will all be revolutionised; the good side being a reduction in carbon emissions.”
“The bad side however, being new applications for warfare. Aircraft, missiles, ships, tanks; they’ll all become that much more versatile, and that much cheaper to produce.”
“We’re aware of the dangers, Mr Bennett. We hope you can steer us around them.”
Michael sighed. “The list is huge. Every government will want this under their control, not only to control the rate of change to their economies, but for the power it will give them too.
“Every large corporation will want the secret, from the oil producers who will need it to survive, to the car, ship and aircraft manufacturers. There’s not an individual out there who won’t want a piece of this. And by ‘this’ I mean ‘you’. You two have become the most wanted people on this planet. Thankfully, at the moment, only we four know it,” he told them.
The twins looked at one another, their worst fears confirmed. Micha
el took a deep sip of the Coke and wished it were something stronger as he looked again at the hovering shoe. “So where do you want to start?” he asked them.
October 15th
“We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” Michael told the professor, trying to be jovial as he rose to shake the older man’s hand. The professor chuckled and put his glass of cider down carefully on a coaster, his free hand rising to slide his fingers through his hair while he glanced hurriedly about him.
They were in the Goose and Pauper on the outskirts of Cambridge, seated in a booth large enough for six, mid-way between the bar and the raised area where three pool tables stood, all in use by groups of boisterous students. More students stood in overlapping groups across the floor and bar area, their voices failing to compete with the steady music being pumped from ceiling speakers across the length of the large saloon. It was a new pub, scarcely more than a year old but built to look old and quaint. The students loved it because the bar was long, it was a Free House, and they played good music. It was always busy, irrespective of the night of the week, and that meant a lot of students, and a lot of noise. Michael had chosen it for all those reasons.
“Glad you decided to come to Cambridge, Michael,” the professor told him, finishing the slow slide of his hand through his wayward hair.
“Thank you for putting in a good word with the owner of the Chronicle,” Michael said, leaning forward to make himself heard above the noise of the room. He would never have got the job had Rolle not vouched for him.
Rolle nodded. “So, what have you found?” he asked, similarly bent forward over his drink.
Michael explained about meeting Matt and Jake before the twins introduced themselves and showed him the chemical in action.
He paused then, pulling a face that conveyed his worries more eloquently than two dozen words.
“You know, there’s no way you can keep this from the authorities,” he told the man softly but forcefully, leaning right across the table to put his face closer to that of the smiling professor’s.
“We have to,” he was told, the professor watching him while he took a sip of his cider.
Michael shook his head. “Then bury it deep and tell everyone to forget about it. You begin using this, and someone is going to learn about it really quickly,” he said, stabbing his finger onto the table to emphasise his point.
“I agree; someone will notice it, and very quickly. So what do we do? The twins want it developed. They’re not going to just ignore it or pretend they never discovered it. But they want to develop it for the right reasons,” the professor drew his hair back with his hand.
“Ambulances before tanks? That’s been the bleat of students ever since the Vietnam War. It will never happen,” Michael argued.
“You’re right,” the professor agreed. “So we need to develop this in a controlled manner. Perhaps then we can keep it from the authorities until it’s too late for them to do anything but comply.”
Michael frowned and thoughtfully sipped his Coke, Rolle watching him as he often had when Michael was a student, and subsequently the husband of his daughter before she’d died when Michael’s car had been blown up.
“You want to use it, but far away from the hands of all and any authorities,” Michael murmured in thought.
“Where on earth, or off it for that matter, answers both requirements?” the professor asked, sweeping an arm out expressively while watching Michael with a shrewd eye.
Michael stopped to digest the professor’s words, and then smiled with just a little humour as he saw the direction the professor was going in. “You want to move the twins and the technology into space, as easily as that?” he asked in complete incredulity, snapping his fingers to make the point.
“It’s not idle speculation either, young Michael,” the professor told him, “This is something I’ve thought about, long and hard.”
“Really Professor, even if you now have a means of getting up there, how are you going to live, eat, have a life, up there?” he asked. “What exactly are the twins and their minions going to do, two to three hundred miles off the surface of the earth and without being able to refill the water tank every time it grows empty?”
“Yes, that’s the question, isn’t it,” Professor Rolle agreed, and picked up his glass of cider to watch Michael as he began to mull over the problem.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Michael asked.
“If you’ve got a better idea, I’d like to hear it,” the professor told him.
+++++++++++++++++
The professor remained on the bench, leaning over his cider after Michael had left, a hand keeping his wayward hair back while the swirl of the amber liquid seemed to hold his attention.
In fact, the professor’s mind was a long way from the cider as he contemplated the process he had just begun.
Wendy sprang to mind bringing the familiar ache her death caused him. It would surprise Bennett to know that the professor didn’t hold him responsible for her death. That responsibility he placed with the British authorities whose policies made it inevitable that innocent individuals would lose their lives. The professor had woken the day his daughter died, and seen the world for the first time. He was absolutely certain that there was no alternative for the Howard twins, or their revolutionary chemical. They had to go where only the chemical could take them, and in such a loud way that no one would dare interfere once it was done.
October 17th
Michael was oblivious to which train he took. He didn’t care if it was fast or slow, or if it had refreshments or wireless connection to the Web. He sat within his waxed jacket and watched the countryside slide by, oblivious to all but the ticket collector who requested his ticket, scanned it on his little machine, and returned it to him.
He was throwing another life away, another layer of the onion, another skin he had taken years in hardening. He wondered how many he had left, and how many he would need.
Arriving in London, he chose to walk the short distance to his small flat in Tower Hamlets, retracing the path he’d often taken before; past the Tower of London turning towards the Thames so that he could enjoy the pleasant walk through St Katherine’s Dock. He had problems crossing East Smithfield, but then, didn’t he always, before reaching Blue Anchor Yard and his single room flat.
He unlocked the door and automatically kicked the folded piece of paper that fell from it as it was opened. Everything was as he’d left it; spartan and clean. The walls were a shade of magnolia and kitchen units were white and blue, the work surface some strange material of cream with flecks of red, blue and yellow filaments suspended within it. The carpet was beige and there was laminated flooring in the kitchen and bathroom. A window overlooked the access road, when the curtains were open, which was rarely, and the bed in the bedroom was too large for just him, just as the wardrobe was too large for his clothes.
He opened the drinks cabinet and quickly threw out the various bottles he had accumulated, then played with the kitchen cabinets, toying with the idea of taking some of his kitchen equipment and knowing he would never be able to carry it, and so moved away.
There was nothing in the sitting room that he wanted. It could have been a hotel room for all the personal items it contained. The bedroom was another matter. Michael took down the leather holdall from above the wardrobe and began folding his meagre clothes into it, nervousness growing inside of him as he anticipated the moment he’d need to go under the bed and draw out the box.
He sat on the bed and blew off the dust from its lid before opening it.
Sometimes he wondered why he kept such items; he never looked at them, not until moments like this when he needed to move from one flat to another, and those occasions were thankfully rare. There was a photograph on the top to greet him, as it always did, with pain and self-loathing. It had been taken years before, when he had still been a student. He in the middle, smiling and laughing, Wendy Rolle on one side of him, before she had become his wife,
and Heather Wilson on the other side, their closest and dearest friend. They had been so happy back then, so totally unaware of what the future would hold.
Heather had escaped him, he recalled, and had joined the police force. She might still be there for all he knew; he wasn’t one to retrace his past. Wendy had agreed to marry him and had begun doing research on a book she planned to write, aware that he had started work for the military, but unaware of the danger it would entail.
Had she realised, moments before the bomb blasted her apart, he wondered?
Michael stopped looking at the picture and unceremoniously dumped everything from the box into his holdall. “I’m not going to do this,” he told the shouting letters and photographs. He then rose to empty the bathroom of his personal affects before zipping the holdall closed and leaving the flat. As soon as he closed the door, his mind turned to the route he’d need to take to avoid the public houses and off-licences. On his way he dropped the key off at an estate agent with instructions to get rid of it for him.
October 18th
Michael rubbed the sleep from his eyes and groaned. He’d not slept well since meeting Rolle two days before, and every time he saw the twins, he remembered the boot hanging in the air. Then the dread would slide over him, a dread of what would happen when the authorities discovered this new source of power. Only someone who had already been through the wringer once could appreciate what was likely to happen to them all.
His mobile had woken him, tinkling an inane tune to let him know a text had arrived. Michael grabbed for it and read the message.
The text was short and demanding. “Come check out the river boat @ Fen Ditton, 10am,” it read, arriving from Rolle’s mobile.
Groaning with the effort, Michael made his way to the bathroom and showered. He then dressed in his usual hurried way, and had a bite to eat, keeping as quiet as possible while in the kitchen, unwilling to meet with Jake and Matt. With still plenty of time, he donned his waxed jacket and walked into Cambridge to wander about the old book stores for a while, satisfying himself that he wasn’t being followed while keeping an eye on the dark clouds that threatened rain from the west. There were several books he would have liked, but all beyond his purse.
