by Paul Cude
With their natural affinity for all things mechanical and armed with a variety of mantras, virtually nothing is beyond a dragon when they set their mind to it. Putting an updated spin on things has become the main challenge over the years, so that things blend into their contemporary surroundings. The piano, for example, had been in Peter's house for many decades, not really unusual at all, whereas the lever that had originally started off atop it had been an old fashioned candelabrum, that most certainly would have looked out of place now, so replacing it with something more modern (the Galileo thermometer) allowed it to blend in and go virtually unnoticed should any unexpected visitors decide to take a closer look. Specially crafted by an expert in modern mantra mechanics, based in Purbeck Peninsula, it was fitted by one of the designers that routinely update dragon abodes across the country.
Glancing at the rocket shaped clock on the opposite wall, it told him he was close to running late.
'Hmmmmm,' he thought. 'Better get a move on or I'm gonna be late for training.' With that in mind, he raced up the stairs to his bedroom and quickly changed into his hockey kit.
A keen hockey player and a member of the local club, he was a stickler for attending training on a Tuesday evening at seven o'clock. Having thrown on his shirt, shorts, socks and loosely laced up his Astro trainers, he grabbed his shin pads off the side, picked up his stick bag from behind the bedroom door, and just before heading downstairs, caught the faintest hint of his reflection in the full length mirror. Pausing briefly to admire the complex mantras that held his false human form in place, he couldn't decide what he was most proud of. The long wavy black hair that adorned his head, straight out of the eighties, that over the course of time he'd have to use another mantra to add just a touch of grey to? The light line of stubble around his chin that he liked so much, the 'run of the mill' face with no really distinctive features, it was all rather difficult to choose. Of medium height, not at all skinny, but certainly not overweight, he decided he looked good in his hockey kit... it suited him, and felt like a second skin... well, third actually. Nodding his head at his reflection, he bounded down the stairs two at a time and headed for his car. Five minutes later he pulled into the car park of the sports club, situated just outside the city limits away from any residential areas, at this very moment standing out like a lighthouse in a storm, with its brilliant bright floodlights blazing across the countryside for all to see. Consisting of a large two storey pavilion overlooking an Astroturf hockey pitch and grass rugby and lacrosse pitches. Picking a space in the large tarmac car park that serviced the pavilion he grabbed his gear and headed towards the changing rooms and sports pitches which were located on the opposite side of the building. Inside, the pavilion consisted of one long bar and dining area on the ground floor that looked out onto all three sports pitches, with a members only lounge, a committee room, the chairman's office, a storage area and a small bar with a balcony used only for private parties, all upstairs on the first floor. Walking past the dark reflective windows, part of him couldn't wait for the training to be over, so that he could wander into the bar in the hope of finding his two best friends. Not only was Tuesday the night for hockey training, but for lacrosse and rugby training as well, which meant that Richie would be here playing lacrosse, and Tank would be taking on all challengers at rugby. Things really didn't get any better than this.
Training went reasonably well, with Peter larking about some of the time with different members of the second XI (his team), before heading to the bar afterwards and spending over an hour catching up with his two best friends. By the time he got home it was late, leaving him with barely enough time to shower before sliding into bed and drifting off to sleep. His final thoughts before he dropped off had him wondering just what the following day at work had in store for him.
3 A Major Disappointment
Woken abruptly by the piercing sound of his alarm clock, Peter rubbed the sleep from his eyes and, almost on autopilot, wandered downstairs to the bathroom and began cleaning his teeth. Aware that most humans have their breakfast first and then clean their teeth, this wasn't really an issue for him, given that everything about his body was a lie. He did however try and get into a routine of doing all the right things to blend in, exactly as he'd been taught during his years of training. So he stood, tried to smile, although the early hour did little to help with that, finished his teeth, smeared a blue globule of gel into his hair, smoothing it back with his fingers before rinsing them off, and then headed back to the bedroom to get dressed. Grabbing a tie off the rack in the wardrobe and slapping the ‘off’ button on his clock radio on his way out of the room, he leapt down the stairs and into the kitchen, feeling much better than he had ten minutes earlier.
Pouring himself a bowl of cornflakes, he grabbed the milk and a strawberry yoghurt from the fridge and sat down at the small pine dining table, smack bang in the middle of the kitchen. He drizzled milk over his cornflakes and munched his way through the whole bowl, before quickly wolfing down the yoghurt.
Earlier than he'd planned on being, he decided to quickly catch up with events in the dragon world. Sitting back in the chair, a contented feeling of a full stomach washing over him, he closed his eyes and began to concentrate. It felt like flying. That was the only way he could think of to describe it. Reaching out with his mind, he searched for the nearest crystal booster, which not only had the power to amplify the telepathic information sent out, but was also able to store that self same information for dragons to access at will. Sitting at the table with his eyes closed, all the time maintaining his focus, small beads of sweat started to form on his forehead as his consciousness soared up and away over the rooftops of the adjacent houses, momentarily hovering uncertainly before suddenly shooting off in a south westerly direction. Even though it was only his mind racing through the cold, morning air, he was sure he could feel a chilly breeze brushing the hairs on his arms, making them all stand to attention. Thirty seconds or so later, he finally caught sight of his target. On the outskirts of the city, beautiful, famed gardens wandered along one of the main rivers, revealing amazing views of the fantastic cathedral and the picturesque water meadows. Twisting paths lined with flowers, punctuated by the occasional bench and a popular playground for young children, stood out for all to see.
Opposite the children's play area, in the middle of the duck laden, lazy river, sat a small island with a huge oak tree growing out of it. Close enough to the bank for older children to jump over to, it stood out as a marked attraction. Swooping down and across the park, strangely, the oak was Peter's destination. His consciousness headed at speed towards a particular branch that instead of tapering off to a point, had a small dark hole in the end of it, through which Peter's wayward mind now dived. The pitch black interior came as something of a shock after the bright, gaudy colours of the playground. Nevertheless, he pressed on, his sense of speed gradually fading. Knowing what to expect because he'd done this hundreds of times before, a sudden encompassing bright light offered up a sense of familiarity. In a virtual room that disappeared off as far as he could see, glancing down row after row of huge wooden filing cabinets, he scanned the italic writing on the front of each for what he was looking for. Sol (April-May), Speculum (March-April-May), Liber (April-May) and Stella (April-May).
Seconds later, he had it... The Daily Telepath (April-May). Using only the will of his mind, he pulled open the drawer, swooped up and dived in head first (well, since his head was back in his kitchen, that wasn't really possible... but you know what I mean), rifling through the thick wad of pages. To him it felt as though he was swimming through a book just as someone was flicking through all the pages. Odd and yet strangely compelling, particularly the smell, which for some reason reminded him of old books. He was so immersed in everything that he nearly missed last month's copies whizzing past him, but not quite. He knew he was close. Grinding gradually to a halt, he found himself right in front of today's copy, grasped it with his mind, and leapt right on o
ut of the cabinet. Immediately an explosion of information wrapped itself around his conscious will and followed it back, exactly the same way it had come, until it plunged back down into his house and forced its way back into his head. With the information downloaded, it was no trouble now to access it inside his head, pretty much, in fact, like turning the pages of a real, tactile newspaper. The front page of today's Daily Telepath looked like this:
After a quick flick through the headlines, he decided to store the rest of the paper to peruse later. Concentrating hard in his mind, mentally he screwed up the paper into a ball, and threw it into a huge green bucket marked LATER on the front. Twice the size of the green one, a red bucket marked RUBBISH looked full to the hilt, on the edge of darkness, deep inside his mind.
Leaving the table, he grabbed his sandwiches from the fridge, sports jacket from the coat stand and keys from the bowl on the table by the front door, before jumping into his car, which, much to his surprise, started first time. He then headed off to work.
His dragon cover involved him working for the biggest employer in Salisbridge, Cropptech: a highly specialised and world renowned supplier of precious metals and valuable stones. Located on the western outskirts of the city, the main facility comprised a large office block, a small industrial area and a warehouse and logistics setup. The office complex housed the company's marketing, accounts, payroll, sales, administration, technical support, training and web management departments. The industrial aspect of the site dealt with the polishing and cutting of gems, refining and experimenting with rare and unstable metals. Responsibility for both the distribution of the newly cut gems and the safe delivery of the raw materials required, fell on the shoulders of the warehouse and logistics department.
Cropptech's interests didn't just extend to the site here. They had numerous mines, small specialist production facilities, experimental bore holes, as well as tiny satellite offices dotted all around the globe, making them one of the leading experts in their field. Set up some one hundred and twenty years ago, it has been a family run business ever since. Currently in charge was the last living descendant of that family, a confirmed bachelor in his late forties by the name of Al Garrett. Plain enough that he wouldn't stand out in a crowd, his lean frame and shiny bald head with just a few etchings of grey hair around his temples were neatly complemented by a ferocious looking, matching grey moustache. Known affectionately by his staff as the 'bald eagle', he never seemed to miss anything that was going on inside his company. On inheriting the firm twenty five years ago, it didn't take long for Garrett to figure out that it was on the verge of bankruptcy, with very little in the way of future prospects. He was, however, a driven man and the thought of letting down the significant number of workers that he now employed, spurred him on to single-handedly turn the company's fortunes around, making it now one of the most financially prosperous corporations in Britain. As well as having brilliant business acumen and acquiring a substantial personal fortune (most of which he donated to charity), Garrett had become renowned for his generosity and the favourable way in which he treated his staff. Everyone who worked for him always thought of him as approachable and caring, with a wicked sense of humour that was almost legendary.
Richie and Peter both worked for Cropptech and had started there, straight out of the nursery ring, some three years ago. Working in the training department, Richie regularly ran courses on anything from the latest payroll software to new health and safety requirements. Positively thriving in that environment, she'd been promoted twice in her short tenure. Starting off as a guard on the nightshift in the security department, Peter's dedication and enthusiasm for the job had seen him promoted to Assistant Security Co-ordinator, working mainly days, with the odd night shift when holiday cover required it. He had his own tiny, ground floor office in the main block, just across the road from the main security gate outpost. A desk with a workstation, an array of grey metal filing cabinets, a bank of security monitors and a great view represented everything that kept him company while he was tucked away.
Peter's promotion into his new role thrust an enormous amount of responsibility onto his very young and inexperienced shoulders. Just as well he was a dragon, with a bucket load of training behind him. All that stood between him and Garrett in the chain of authority was the chief security co-ordinator, who had been off sick with a mysterious virus for a matter of weeks now, resulting in Peter reporting directly to the head honcho himself. Dealing with Garrett on a daily basis had led Peter to re-evaluate his opinion of his boss. He'd thought the rumours of his generosity and kindness were all exaggerated, only to find out now that they were indeed all true, having witnessed some firsthand, as well as finding himself unexpectedly on the end of some of it. He now felt as though he had a rapport with Garrett, especially when the man himself constantly berated him for not using the term 'bald eagle', something Peter just couldn't get used to.
With everything going swimmingly at work, Peter couldn't wait to get to get in every day.
Parking his car, he walked briskly across the car park in the biting wind towards the security lodge at the main gate. Although no real need presented itself for him to go to the lodge, it was something of a habit he'd gotten into, to check that everything had gone smoothly the night before and that there were no outstanding issues. Smiling, he was reluctant to even admit to himself the other reason, which was the cheeky banter the staff threw his way, first thing in the morning. Having learned not only to take it, but to dish it out as well, it had become one of the highlights of his day, and his own personal mark that he'd put on the department in light of his direct superior's absence.
'Just as well they're excellent at their jobs,' he thought, twisting the handle of the white, double glazed door to the lodge. Squeezing through, out of the wind, he strode up the short corridor, past the water cooler, toilets and photocopier and rounded the corner, drawing to a halt at the open plan area.
"Good morning slaves," he announced sarcastically, ready for any and all x-rated replies. All he got instead, was a mumbled, "Morning."
Turning to Jessica Freeman, currently in charge, but also the closest, he leaned in towards her and whispered,
"What's going on?"
Jessica replied in a low voice,
"Not sure, but Mr Garrett wants to see you in his office, ASAP."
"Mr Garrett?" replied Peter.
"Hmmmm... that's right," whispered Jessica, looking straight at Peter and rolling her eyes.
"Okay, ahhh, thanks, I think. I'll catch up with you a little later," said Peter, heading back the way he'd come in.
'Odd,' he thought as he crossed the road that separated the security lodge from the complex that housed his office. Sensing that something was out of the ordinary, he paused briefly in his office to hang up his jacket and put his lunch in the top drawer of his desk, before heading for the lift that would take him up to the fourth floor and Al Garrett's plush set of offices. On the way up in the lift, Peter caught his reflection in the mirrored walls and straightened his tie, determined to look professional as he strode down the long, oak panelled corridor, past Garrett's personal secretary whom he smiled at, all the while his feet sinking into the plush, expensive carpet. Stopping outside the oak door with a brass plaque on it that read 'Al Garrett Chief Executive', he took a deep breath and knocked twice. A growl of "ENTER," reverberated through the door from deep within. Letting out his breath, he turned the handle and went in.
Overpowering darkness was the first thing that struck Peter as strange, particularly given it was after nine am, and a beautifully sunny day outside. The second was not only the large, stocky figure peering through the drawn blinds of the window, behind Garrett's desk, with only his back on show, but the peculiar aroma that hung in the air throughout the room. All sorts of possibilities ran through his head, without much success. It was then that the seated Garrett peered up from behind his reading glasses.
"I've implemented some changes, effective immediately
, that you need to know about Mr Bentwhistle," Garrett declared, very much out of character.
"Until further notice, every department head, yourself included, will report directly to Major Manson."
The man stood at the window turned round to face Peter, a charmless grin smothered across his face.
"Major Manson is from Darktech Technologies," continued Garrett, "a leading security consultancy. He will be carrying out a review of our security and operational procedures. I expect nothing but full co-operation from you and your staff. Do I make myself clear?"
"Absolutely Al," answered Peter, smiling.
"That's 'Mister Garrett' to you," announced a haughty voice from behind Garrett, dripping with condescension.
"He's right," added Garrett.
Looking straight into the unnaturally dark eyes of Major Manson, Peter needed all of his self control to keep his temper in check. Difficult to see in the lightless environment, he quickly applied his enhanced dragon senses to get a clearer picture of this uppity newcomer. Manson appeared stocky, but was about the same height as Peter. He had straight brown hair, or 'used to', Peter thought with a smirk. The left and the right side were now clearly having a race to see which could get to the back of his head first, that's how badly receding it was. Clean shaven with a square jaw, Peter hadn't been mistaken about his eyes. There was something just... wrong.