by Wayne Hill
Tommy sets off in a quick military march. Marching until the wild beat in his chest becomes steady, and his thighs start to feel as though hot needles are slowly being pushed into the muscles. There is the coppery taste of blood in his mouth, his eyes are wild.
The Believers’ court issues a ‘survival backpack’ to all convicts which contains food pouches, water and a first aid kit. This token gesture fulfils their duty of care and should allow the prisoners to survive long enough to reach the closest prisoner community.
It’s not right, thinks Tommy. Nothing about throwing prisoners on an island and leaving them defenceless, exposed to the elements — to fend for themselves against other prisoners, bears, wolves and who knows what else — is right. No, there is no humanity in abandonment — only pain and suffering. Only pain, suffering and this impending sense of ... doom.
This is all just a bad dream, Tommy thinks. A part of him wants to go back and bang on those large, metal doors and beg for forgiveness, for another chance. A silent, slurring voice in his head — maybe of an ancestor or a malevolent spirit — wants him to head back, scale the wall, and hack off those blaster cannons he had installed just three years ago.
Fuck it all! Thinks Tommy, suddenly furious, I’ll not hack them off! Shit, no! I’ll turn my MCL5000-Repeater Cannons on the Guardians and Believers! And — as their heads explode, their arms and legs detach, as volley after volley rip through their chests, tearing out hearts — then they’ll see just how much pain they’ve caused me. And I’ll be like, ‘Too late, fuckers!’
Tommy stews with this thought for a long while. It would be so easy for him to do. As he puts distance between himself and the facility, the sinister voice laughing in his head grows ever fainter. He can feel his head starting to heat up. He knows it is only a matter of time now before something bad happens. It always does when this feeling sets in. Whenever an evil idea takes root in Tommy’s brain, something ancient and buried deep inside him, a marauding daemon of sorts, turns to face him, lifts a heavy eyebrow and smiles.
Tommy tries to compartmentalise all his hurt and shame, he tries to lock it all away, but it condenses and manifests as a burning lump of hatred in his chest, a pain in his head, and a lump in his throat. All thoughts of his old life are pushed far away by the fierce storm that rages all around him, and within him. An awareness of his surroundings grows. There’s no time, a dull voice whispers from somewhere deep inside Tommy’s mind. He knows his survival depends on reaching his hidden tools. As the concrete fortress disappears in the distance, and the trail of old marble and granite paving stones slowly transform to hard, wet clay, dense undergrowth start to soften the rough clunking of his blast boots.
A thought inside his mind shakes Tommy. Sitting some place where asshole thoughts sit — never in the back of a person’s mind, no! — just someplace close enough to unexpectedly sucker-punch him, making Tommy’s arms and legs heavy. Five words streak through his heart and mind, like a volley of one of his MCL5000 Cannons.
I have no one now.
A desperate urge to apologise to his mother and father takes hold of him. He feels so many conflicting emotions, but the survival instinct creeps in, like some unwanted, insipid advice from a family member at a funeral. The wind makes the rain attack from right to left now, and the staccato impact of the rain on his cold face reawakens the fury inside. Everything is magnified by the storm — everything is far worse when you are cold. And alone.
Desolate and ruined, his heart is a hollowed-out vessel being filled with the violent rage of the storm.
Bravely or foolishly, he does not know, Tommy Salem fights onward through the rain. He is uncertain exactly how long this path of solitude and coldness will stretch. If Tommy had had any foresight to know the darkness that lay ahead, it would have been a kindness for him to simply sit down and open a vein. To wait for bears to track down the scent and rip him apart.
Tommy hikes for five miles, laboriously, and with heavy feet, through the worse weather prison planet Earth has seen in over one hundred years. A part of him believes he deserves the brutality of the storm, so he soaks up the energy and the pain. Unbeknownst to Tommy, many on this path just curl up and die. Just below the green grass of the island, on either side of him, are many skeletons of those who could not continue. Those who would not, and could not, live. Lying there, buried from sight, the weak of heart and mind, the hopeless, the forgotten.
Tommy feels the sting of something ancient within his being, something inside him turns towards his dim comprehension and smiles. An insane person hiding just out of view. Something more than him. A higher power that soaks into him through his pores, through the many microscopic mouths on his flesh, filling him with something demented, something alien. A channelling of forces — the beginning of a brutal transformation.
That ugly emotion: Revenge. A fearsome look flashes in his eyes, and he imagines what he will do to the high priest of the Believers’ court when he eventually meets him. He thinks he will take away his jaw first. Just to watch his tongue loll down as he lets out his last noise.
Tommy kicks a large stone that he imagines to be a priest’s shinbone. The rock shoots off and it disturbs a toad, which jumps away, irritated. He stares at the creature for a while, after it stops hopping. The toad seems to wink at Tommy. He wonders how content the little toad must be in the storm.
“At least someone’s happy you stupid creature,” he mumbles as he strolls away, kicking at a nearby puddle.
The toad jumps up onto a large rock and watches as Tommy enters the woods. The toad never goes into the woods. She knows what is in there. Stupid creature, thinks the toad.
Approaching his stash of joining tools, a terrible thought sidles into Tommy’s already troubled mind. A smoking thought from an unwelcome place.
He stops. What if a prisoner has found them? What if his joining tools and the Eternal Power Clamp (EPC) have been damaged by a freak bolt of lightning?
Now he runs, panic-stricken, the remaining two hundred metres through the rough grassland. His heart is pounding, there is a metallic taste in his mouth again. He flips planks of wood and branches from the top of a rubbish pile, next to an old, upturned boat. Frantically, he pushes at rocks until he finds the joining tools and sees the EPC shining up at him. Relief floods through him as the precious invention is, once more, back in its creator’s possession.
Tommy’s heart should have slowed with the elation of retrieving the powerful device, but, instead, it speeds up. Rage builds as all the memories of the Association and the facility flash through his mind. He holds the EPC and the violet energy, swimming inside the transparent box, reminds him of the cost that there is in a power of this magnitude.
“My curse,” whispers Tommy, as he studies the violet vortex spiralling — condensing — into a pin prick of nothingness inside the clear, and seemingly empty, box. The force of the surrounding storm, barely reduced by the sheltering trees, keeps him on edge. A torrent of memories assails him, inside, as the storm relentlessly pummels the external woods. He sees his father’s eyes filled with disappointment. He sees his mother’s gaunt, distraught face in the Believers’ court. Like so many before him, his liberation was realised through the tears of others.
Tommy presses the indents of the joining rods and points them towards the wreck of the rowboat. A line of neon light shoots out of the end of each rod, followed by a blast of fire. The flame is like the breath of the mythical dragon. It leaps forth, searching out, licking the damp carcass of the old, upturned boat. Fascinated, he watches the blues and greens of the flames as they peel away layers of the old ship’s paint, the boat revealing its true self to the flame. The flame heats his flesh and warms his soul.
He sighs with relief that the machinery — which he has invested so much time designing — still has life. In the rain, the boat continues to crackle and hiss in the face of the raw elemental, and opposite, energy of fire and water combined. Tommy finds a strange amusement in the raw power that
he has unleashed. The flame seems a mirror to his very wild, and increasingly aggressive, nature. With the boat still burning, hissing in the rain, he presses the long metal joining tools together, placing them on his right arm. The rods attach to bio-ports on his arm and stick out inches over the back of his clenched fist.
He places the cube-shaped EPC underneath the joining rods on his forearm. Vibrations start. Vein-like implants begin to snake around under Tommy’s flesh. He takes a sharp intake of air through pursed lips. This part always hurts him, but it can not be done any other way. The ability to suffer massive levels of pain is, he modestly believes, a recognisable part of his genius. It has always been a factor in his complicated and unfortunate life. He has always taken pain and recognised it as a lesson. He accepts that an unwanted beating is sometimes necessary to keep the peace, knowing all the time that he is strong enough to endure more. Always.
The balance of pain to pleasure is a law not yet understood. Tommy’s informed guess would be that good things might just balance the bad in his life, if he searched hard for them.
Power surges through his veins, as the vines of liquid information light up complex networks, changing muscle to something more. The technological abominations of a very unusual child’s imagination join, painfully, with hard, material reality.
Tommy knows the worst pain is to come, as his mechanical arm prepares for the next stage. He braces himself as he runs his left hand over the Eternal Power Clamp, glowing violet and pulsating slightly on his right forearm. A tendril of violet matter sits in his hand, turning red and fizzing in the rain. It shape-shifts, becoming an oval. Tommy gulps in two deep breaths and slaps it into his left eye socket. He grinds his teeth as it melts into his eyeball and bone, bonding with him, completing the MechVision.
Dampened pastel colours are visible under his skin, swirling in patches then vanishing. The twisting colours are seen on his forehead, then disappear only to reappear further down his arm, then under his eye. The pain subsides to a low drum beat as the evolution of this bio-bonding nears completion. The final — much less painful — stage is another quick swipe of the EPC, now glowing a violet colour just beneath the surface of his arm. A violet liquid energy moves and soaks into his left palm. He stares a while. It fascinates Tommy to see the EPC’s purple energy creating a whirlpool inside his hand. He imagines small ships carrying people round and round, down and down, towards the pinprick centre of that violet vortex in his hand — spiralling down until they vanished inside that beautiful display of Power Clamp energy.
Readings appear in his left eye’s MechVision, assessing and analysing properties, making subtle, pre-programmed alterations for this expensive equipment to work to its maximum capability.
Diagnostics complete, Tommy stomps off in his large, metal blast boots. He strides onwards through the driving rain, into the dense woodland area behind the carcass of the still-burning boat. His EPC-infused arm shimmers like the scales of a wet fish.
The boat fire can still be seen from far away, continuing to emit sounds of fierce disapproval as the moisture in the wood is chased out by the changing yellow, blue and green flames. Tommy’s frustration and anger have driven him deep into the woods. His MechVision scouts the tall, evergreen trees for the perfect branches to use to build a shelter. Locating some branches, his CerebroTech calculates the vertical impact needed at an elevation of 36.75 ft. He hovers, and circles, his glowing left hand over the length of the rods jutting out from his right arm. The violet colour of his left-hand winks, dimmer then brighter.
“Grappling hooks: tree climb,” Tommy says, as the two rods vibrate under the glow. A split second of energy surges through his altered right arm, shooting from fist to shoulder, as the two rods change shape into a set of barbed grappling hooks. Like he is trying to rid his boot of mud, he backheels his left blast boot into a stone that is trapped in the anaconda-like roots of an ancient evergreen. Nothing happens. Another, this time more substantial, backward hoof and success comes in the form of a curved, serrated blade, one inch thick, which springs out from the circumference of the boot.
“Dumb blades,” he mutters.
Tommy repeats the process for the right foot and, to his relief, this blade springs out at the first tap of his heel. He backs away from the giant tree and stares upwards. He lifts his arm until it aligns with his MechVision identified target position.
“Bam!” Tommy shouts, as the curved, silver hooks launch, towing behind them, with a zipping noise, a golden cable from the joining rods.
Upon hearing the sharp sound of impact, Tommy mentally commands the wire to reel him up. He bangs into the side of an adjacent tree.
“Ah, damn!” yells Tommy.
Tommy’s CerebroTech struggles to comprehend his latest ‘instruction’, which results in him being reeled faster and faster through the mass of branches. Tommy’s cursing intensifies, prompting further acceleration. Before he knows it, he is part of a vicious circle of shouting and swearing and being smashed in the face by bits of trees, at high speed. This short, sharp trip leaves him with nasty scratches to his left cheek and brow. His empty stomach churns, his fragile mental state tips closer to a complete breakdown.
With the first large bow of the tree level with Tommy, he digs the serrated-blade boots into the trunk of the tree and tests the weight. He frees his left hand and waves violet light over the grapple hooks and thinks of a cutting device. Within seconds the grappling hooks shape-shift into a spinning disc cutter with angry looking violet teeth. He puts the fearsome device into effect and revels in the smell as his spinning disk melts through the pine tree branch, separating it from the main trunk with ease. The scent of pine fills Tommy with a burst of joy and a feeling of belonging he cannot explain. He waits and stares at the branch. It is severed, but not moving. This never happened whilst attending training exercises in the NTB training rooms at the facility! Tommy sees the branch is resting on other, lower branches. Tommy’s left eye glows slightly as his brain asks another problem to be solved. Tommy stares at the branch, then at the woodland floor that is so far below him. Satisfied with the CerebroTech calculations, he changes his arm from cutting disc back to the grappling hooks, then attaches them to the large branch before leaping from the tree. His weight dislodges the branch slowly as the golden cable pays out, slowing his descent as the floor of the forest approaches. He hits the ground and rolls away from the falling wood.
The mighty branch crashes down a few feet behind him. The CerebroTech may have worked out the distance and mass of the branch, but the idea and timing of the manoeuvre is all Tommy.
Tommy had kept himself busy during the long days in the facility, but nights were the worst time. Nights of crippling solitude. Nights where his intelligence became a drunk and abusive jailer. The despair and finality of his pre-planned life stretched out before him. Pointlessness stabbed at his heart. The longing to be something other than a trapped human, with all the fleshy weaknesses that came with the role, played like a faulty recording over and over, until the noise became deafening. He wishes he is something better, something stronger — a machine whose cogs never rust.
To be denied his quiet getaway. To get caught, mid-escape, by the stupid, lesser beings: Guardians. Tommy felt robbed of victory.
And now here is dragging this branch through the wet woods, freedom achieved. But at what cost? He curses under his breath as he struggles with the awkward limb of the evergreen. The only calming presence is the smell of the freshly chopped pine. He breathes in the aroma and sighs. The smell is like nothing he has experienced. The sap coats his pale hands, the smell joined to his skin like the EPC to his arm. Unlike his device, the calming smell would disappear with time.
Tommy arrives back at the boat fire in the hinterland of the wood. The now settled-in fire is emitting just the right amount of heat, the roaring flames long since gone. The occasional flash of yellow spins up, now and again, within the deeper hues of the glowing orange and the red veins burning in the wood. The
boat still hisses as the ancient elements of water and fire wage their eternal battle.
Here, the battle is one-sided. Tommy knows this is the case, as the joining rods had coated the wood with a flammable substance; something that the cylinders generate inside them to keep them fresh when they are dormant and unused. Water battles on, without full knowledge of Fire’s secret advantage, as glowing orange plasma makes disorganised, jagged grids on the dark shadow of the hull. Fizzing and crackling with ancient purpose, the fire consumes more of the ship. Tommy makes a makeshift shelter at the edge of the clearing, gathering more wood from sheltered areas. There are plenty of places worth searching, Tommy thinks — trying hard to stay positive.
Hunger gnaws Tommy’s stomach like a gastric ulcer as he climbs into his shelter and tests the layers of springy pine branch flooring — its purpose is to keep his body from the wet floor, and to allow the heat from the fire to circulate beneath him. He spreads out a survival blanket, which unfolds from a small side pouch in the survival bag given to him by the Believers’ court.
He unlatches the provisions bag, looking for pouches of food. Tommy finds a water flask first and he drinks deeply. Being dehydrated, the water feels like it does not reach his stomach. It feels as if the water is being absorbed through his oesophagus, stealing the liquid before it can reach his walnut-sized stomach. He sighs heavily, rubs his forehead, and gives in to the tiredness, sinking into the springy pine mattress. His pale hands shake, clasped over his face, as the rainwater drips into his shelter.
Tommy takes time to concentrate on his breathing, calming his heart. He searches the main compartment of the silver-grey, bland-coloured rucksack for further provisions. It surprises him to find his mother’s home-made bread and he opens a ceramic pot of his mother’s strawberry jam. Ripping up clumps of bread, he scoops up the godly preserve and gobbles it down. Sweetness and tartness galvanise his saliva glands into action, making his eyes water and his face scrunch up with pleasure. He rifles through the other supplies in a quick inventory, as rain continues to pelt down all around. Lightning bolts flash somewhere behind him. He turns, not sure why he does, and counts, just like his mother taught him when he was a toddler. One ...Two ...Thr — a thunderclap explodes, seeming to rock the very trees. So, the storm is about three kilometres away. Physics that even a small child can manage, even if they do not understand the maths.
