The Lore of Prometheus

by Graham Austin-King

  Mackenzie could no longer see the red light of the camera, and it no longer mattered. She was beyond thinking, beyond rage. She had become vengeance, and vengeance knows no mercy. She released the fire, relaxing all curbs and restraint, and with a muffled whump the fireball exploded, engulfing the small observation room in flames.

  Mackenzie listened to the howling screams and smiled until the smile turned to a shrill and brittle laughter, that fractured into tears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I was an experiment. I was a specimen in a fucking petri dish.

  It took a few hours for this thought to really take hold. The flood of men and women in white coats began about two minutes after Johnson stopped the tennis ball in mid-air. I suppose they must have had some kind of CCTV hooked up. I lay there, glaring at them all as technicians and nurses drew blood, hooked up more electrodes and scanners, and fiddled with the rubber cap on my head.

  I collapsed back against the frame, too tired and hurt to protest as they clamoured around me. I was their prize lab rat, but I hadn’t just made it through the maze to my reward; I’d nibbled through the bloody walls, set up a little camp, and built a fire to roast the cheese. Technicians clustered around me like ants surrounding a dropped ice-cream. They spoke in Pashto, but not a dialect I knew enough of, and they were all talking too quickly for me to have a hope of following it anyway.

  I suppose most lab experiments didn’t talk much, and any attempts I made to ask questions were studiously ignored. Eventually I gave up and just let them get on with it. At least the damned tennis balls had stopped for the time being.

  They left as quickly as they’d arrived, a line of white coats trickling out through the door until I was left alone in the silence. Pain rushed in to fill the void, as if it had been waiting for them to leave. My chest throbbed in time with my pulse. Already the red was deepening to a blueish purple, the pain enough to rival the dull ache in my leg.

  The silence was a blessing at first. I drank from the tube and sucked down some of the grainy goop as I tried to relax and take stock.

  Johnson had stopped the ball.

  I might have passed the whole thing off as a hallucination if it weren’t for the crowd of lab-techs that had rushed in. I suppose they could have been a hallucination as well, but I’ve never had that before. My madness is confined to the members of my squad that visit. The men I failed. The men I let die before I saved myself, however I did it.

  I don’t know when Pearson arrived. He’s rarely spoken to me and this time was no different. I turned my head and he was there—the same horrified, terror-struck expression etched into his features, as he looked up at me over the balled fists he pressed to his face.

  I jerked back in the restraints and spat out the mouthful of grainy goop as I jumped. “Fuck me, Pearson! Can’t you make some kind of noise or something? You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Leave him alone, Carver, you grumpy bastard,” Turner grinned as he came around from behind me. “Poor sod’s scared enough already, I reckon.”

  I shook my head as I tried to work out what he’d said. I’d never done well with Turner’s accent. Some Scots have a soft accent that isn’t much more than a slight burr. Turner was Glaswegian to the core and there have been times when I’ve wondered if he’s even speaking the same language as me.

  “Fuck that,” I muttered as I worked it out. “He’s dead, I’m the one tied up in here with you lot wandering around at will.”

  Turner shrugged, coming closer to look over the frame.

  “You’re pretty well screwed I’d say, yeah.” He crouched slightly to look at the steel band over my torso. A rivulet of fresh blood ran down over his face, tracing a path from the hole in his forehead to where it dripped from his chin. The blood splashed down onto the floor, and then the frame, as he moved over to examine the manacles on my wrists.

  The blood wasn’t real. Hell, neither of them were real; but the prospect of Turner’s blood dripping onto my skin bothered me more than I could explain.

  “God, Turner. Can’t you piss off? You’re bleeding everywhere.”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” Turner told me, dripping sarcasm. “Maybe it’s from the hole in my head. I wouldnae want to get your pretty skin all messed up, now would I?”

  I didn’t have the patience for this. I’d pissed all over Rule Three pretty thoroughly by now and I’d just had enough.

  “Bugger off, Turner. Get the hell out of here, and take that bastard with you too!” I growled, jerking my head at Pearson.

  They vanished almost before I finished speaking and I let my head drop back against the frame. I was losing my mind. PTSD is one thing, but this was taking things to the next level. I was slowly going insane, and there was nobody to notice who would care. God only knows what the people on the other side of the smoked glass were thinking. The speed with which they’d rushed in after Johnson stopped the tennis ball made it pretty clear there was always somebody watching.

  The door hissed open as I lay there. I’ve never really been one for wallowing in my own misery, but now seemed like a good time to try it.

  “Mr Carver, that was quite the display.”

  I didn’t look up. I was pretty sure I recognised the voice, but there was nobody there I wanted to talk to. I closed my eyes as footsteps brought the speaker closer.

  “Tell me, when you stop the ball like that, do you feel it?”

  That was enough to make me open my eyes, and I gave Afridi an incredulous look. I’d just been ranting away at Turner and Pearson, which must have looked like I was screaming at thin air, and he didn’t seem to have noticed.

  “Carver,” Afridi repeated. “Do you feel it?”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s not like that.”

  “What is it like then? Walk me through the process.”

  I sighed, giving Afridi a weary look. “It isn’t like that because I’m not the one doing it.”

  It was Afridi’s turn to give an incredulous look, but he opted for one of mild disgust instead. “Do not mock me, Carver. Tell me how you stopped the ball.”

  “Would you believe that I just asked the voices in my head?”

  Afridi’s eyes went flat as his lips tightened.

  “I did not come here to be toyed with, Carver.” He spun in place and strode to the launcher. “Perhaps some more practice will make you more inclined to explain the process.”

  The machine rumbled to life as he adjusted the settings and my heart thumped in my chest, as if it were trying to make a matching bruise on the inside.

  Oh shit.

  “The balls were travelling at thirty miles per hour. They will now travel at fifty. Do try and stay aware of what you are doing, Carver. This can stop just as soon as you tell me how you are doing it.”

  I should have called out. I should have said something; begged or pleaded with him. Instead I lay against the frame like an idiot, and watched him as he left.

  The first ball launched before I really knew it was coming. The impact left me gasping as it slammed into the swollen and bloody welt on my chest. I blinked back the tears as my eyes watered at the pain, looked at the clock still hanging from the wall, and swore.

  “Johnson?” I called. I don’t know that I was really expecting an answer. I’d never called any of the visitors before and even as I did it, I didn’t expect it to be this simple. The result was about what I’d expected—nothing.

  I tried again, calling out inside my head. If the visitors were aspects of my own fractured mind, this was probably a good place to start.

  Johnson! I need your help.

  There was no response. But then I hadn’t really expected one. I closed my eyes, concentrating on calling out to the man I’d watched bleed to death. The darkness seemed to help, and I almost felt like I was getting somewhere until the machine rumbled into life again and the next tennis ball slammed into me.

  I’m not sure if I passed out. If I didn’t, I certainly got close. My vision narrowed until it wa
s just a hazy image at the end of a dark tunnel that seemed to get smaller and smaller. And then I was blinking at the light, looking around and trying to make sense of what I saw.

  Everything seemed at once too crisp, sharp, and bright. I stared at the launcher, feeling time pass as I called out to the visitors.

  Johnson? Turner? Fuck it, answer me!

  The answer was more an emotion than anything I could call a verbal response. It wasn’t anger, or even animosity, but it was pretty clear Johnson was telling me to piss off.

  The rumble of the machine brought me back to myself and my vision snapped into focus as I glared at the hateful thing. My anger uncurled from a quiet place inside me, and all rational thought left me as I raged at the contraption.

  My thoughts were already dark, and my anger snatched at them, gathering up all of the resentment and physical pain, using them all as fuel for its own fire. I screamed out as the ball launched, throwing my hatred and anger against it as I willed it to stop.

  The ball stopped dead, but only for the merest second before it flew backwards, slamming into the glass wall and splitting into pieces. I didn’t give myself time to wonder at that, but instead turned my gaze back to the launcher, letting my anger rule me as I lashed out again.

  I could feel the impacts as the thing toppled over, and then I was smashing at it, tearing it as my rage ran free, unfettered as it gloried in an orgy of violence. Somewhere a small part of me was horrified at the spectacle as my anger became a force unchecked, a law unto itself; but the rest of me revelled in this, and my grim smile grew until a maniacal laugh escaped my lips.

  I sank back against the frame, sagging down against the wrist restraints, and just hung there like a puppet on its strings. I wasn’t breathing hard, though my pulse was racing—I was just done in.

  The technicians rushed in, fussing over the electrodes on my head and taking photos of the wrecked launcher before they swept up the pieces.

  I was only dimly aware of them. The exhaustion I felt was almost overwhelming. There is a march during selection for Special Forces called the Fan Dance. Don’t get excited, there’s nothing sexy about it. It’s named after the mountain on the course, Pen Y Fan. It’s a fifteen-mile TAB, or Tactical Advance to Battle, which is a load bearing march, over rough terrain, in the Brecon Beacons mountains in Wales. The rough translation of all that is that it’s a bloody miserable hike, carrying sixty-five pounds of kit, which has to be finished in under four hours. It sounds bad but, despite the fact that it’s actually worse than it sounds, it’s far more about mental strength than physical fitness. The course is designed to knacker anyone out, no matter how fit they are. The test is whether you have the mental strength to ignore your body’s bitching and whining, and just push through to get the damned thing finished in time. You need to concentrate on your pace. Too fast and you’ll burn out. Too slow and you won’t have the strength to finish. It’s easy to let things slip, like drinking often enough. A few people have died over the years. Most people cross the finish and just drop. There are worse exercises, but it’s the Fan Dance that stays with me.

  Until I destroyed the ball launcher, that TAB was the most wiped out I’ve ever felt. The fatigue that hit me made that hike feel like a gentle stroll. I ignored the techs as they poked at me. Part of it was exhaustion; but something far more powerful was calling, drawing all the attention I had left to me. I could feel the power, curled up in my mind like a poked bear slowly going back to sleep. I was done. Fatigue reached out and took me. I couldn’t care less what they did to me right now. I slept.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Mackenzie’s head jerked back as she lurched awake, rattling the metal in her restraints, and blinking her eyes open to the blackness of the cell. Her neck felt strange. The thought fought its way through the fog inside her head until she really took note of it. She twisted, tilting and turning her head as she felt at the thing encircling her throat.

  How had they even got this thing onto her? Somehow, they’d drugged her again, she realised.

  She reached for the feeding tube without thinking and took a mouthful of the grainy, hummus-like substance before the fact of its existence registered with her.

  When had they connected that back up?

  She sipped at the water and stiffened. Of course, she realised; they’d simply drugged the water. It wasn’t as if she had any choice but to drink it. They could drug her any time they liked. It would be easier to simply inject her, but maybe they didn’t want to risk getting too close. At least, not now she had harnessed her power.

  As if they were somehow connected to the food tube, the lights flickered into life and Mackenzie blinked at the brightness as she squinted around at the room. Nothing else had changed other than the feeding tube, so far as she could see. She looked herself over as best she could. The IV board had gone from her arm, along with the needle in the back of her hand. The wrist restraints had been removed as well, the leather cuff replaced with steel bands. An ugly bruise spread from the back of her hand, mute testament to the sloppy work of the technicians.

  She curled her lip at the state they’d left her in. Any nurse worth the title would never have made a mess like that, though she’d known a few doctors that she wouldn’t dream of letting near an IV kit.

  The food was helping already, though she only dared to take small amounts. She sipped at the water again and looked across the room at the glass wall. They’d replaced the panel she’d melted, if she’d ever melted it at all. The worry that this was all some kind of delusion or hallucination was still with her. It clung to her, ever present.

  For a moment, the fear gripped her fiercely and she searched the featureless wall in panic until her eyes caught on a tiny reflection at its base. A tiny globule of glass that must have run down the panel, only to cool and set hard on the cold floor.

  Mackenzie drew in a deep breath and let out a heartfelt sigh. In a way she could cope with the pain, the endless aching of her back and shoulders as her muscles protested at being bound to the frame. She could even cope with the cycle of food deprivation, and Janan’s strange attempt at befriending her, and winning her cooperation. It was the fear of her sanity ultimately breaking, and her descent into madness, that haunted her.

  Her sanity was all she had left to her. They had taken her body away from her. If they took her sanity as well, then they would have finally won. She would be broken.

  She ate as much as she could stomach and then dozed, taking the opportunity to recuperate where she could, until the door woke her. She let her head loll back to one side, keeping her eyes as slits as she watched it slide open.

  “There is no point in pretending, Mackenzie. I know you are awake,” Janan said with a faint curve to his lips as he made his way over to the frame.

  Mackenzie shrugged, barely hearing him as her gaze followed the second figure. Elias walked close to Janan, almost hiding behind him, as he avoided Mackenzie’s gaze.

  “You can’t hide, you bastard!” she shouted out at him.

  “Now, Mackenzie, that’s not fair,” the big man began.

  “Fair?” she cut him off. “How fair does this fucking look? Look at me, get a good look, everyone else has.”

  “This is all very interesting, but we do have some more important things to discuss,” Janan said, cutting her off in mid-flow. “By now, I am sure you have noticed the collar around your throat,” he said, waving a small, black, plastic device at her. “After your assault on the window and observation suite, we have been forced to take steps. The collar will prevent any more unfortunate incidents.”

  “It’s a shock collar, Mackenzie,” Elias explained, responding to her confused look.

  Janan shook his head with a pained expression. “I do wish this wasn’t necessary. I had hoped you’d moved beyond all of this. For a time, it looked like you were ready to cooperate, and even participate in this programme; but you’re not the person I thought you were. You’ve gained some control over your power, but
you’ve become violent, even dangerous…” he fell silent, looking at her as horror mingled with the sorrow on his features.

  A shock collar. They’d tied her up like a violent bloody dog. Maybe they were right. Maybe she was dangerous. She turned her face away, closing her eyes for a moment as she sought to shut out the world.

  “There has been some good come from this debacle,” Janan continued. “Elias, tell her.”

  “Erm… Really? Now?” He shrugged in response to Janan’s look. “Okay, well we did manage to collect some interesting data from the sensors in the room as you melted the glass. The temperature in here dropped four degrees.” He grinned at her, his enthusiasm crashing against the cliffs of her blank expression and retreating, as undeterred as the waves.

  “The room should have heated, not cooled,” Elias explained, as if this were somehow not obvious. “This implies that you somehow draw some of the heat energy from the air around you.”

  “Do you feel it?” Janan demanded, stepping in front of Elias. “I need to understand the process if we are to replicate it. Did you feel yourself drawing in the heat?”

  Mackenzie shook her head in silence as she glared at him. There wasn’t a process to this. On one level she understood that the heat and the fire had to come from somewhere, but he was asking for things she didn’t have, and she wouldn’t give them to him if she could. They had bound her up like a wild animal, strapping this shock collar to her as if she were a danger to others. And she was. She made a silent promise to herself then as she stared into his eyes. She would be that danger. Just as soon as the opportunity arose, she would burn him down to his fucking shoes.

  Janan stalked away, slamming a fist into his palm.

  “We cannot find any biological component to this!” he said, spinning around to face her. “I’ve had your DNA analysed—no mutations, no abnormalities; you are as human and normal as any of us.”

  “Unlike Armond,” she said then, her eyes flashing as she looked back and forth between the two of them.