The Forever Man: PULSE

by Craig Zerf

  Hogan raised an eyebrow. ‘Cool.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the Prof. ‘Exceptionally cool. Which brings me to your condition, sergeant. Your, shall we say, miraculous recovery. I have a small laboratory here. Unfortunately much of it has been rendered useless by the current circumstances but I can still do a great amount of research. I wonder if, after dinner, we might spend some time there. I’d like to take a blood sample, some tissue samples and other general readings.’

  ‘Sure thing, Prof,’ said Hogan. ‘But first some chow. I’m still starving.’

  The Professor laughed and then led the way to the dining hall.

  Over dinner Hogan fielded many questions about the outside. It was generally agreed by all that the pulse was a natural, or perhaps super-natural, occurrence and the marine was impressed by the maturity and stoicism shown by the scholars, many of whom were only sixteen years old. Food consisted of potatoes, eggs, green vegetables and a little goat’s milk. Bland but filling and nutritionally well balanced.

  The girl with the copper hair sat at the next table, chatting to her friends. Hogan couldn’t stop himself looking at her. She was tall and self-possessed, her movements confident and economic. Eyes a clear hazel flecked with green. Every now and then she would catch Hogan’s glance and smile shyly.

  The Prof noticed the marine’s interest.

  ‘That’s Maggie,’ he said. ‘Maggie Turner. Final year scholar. Her parents live in London. Used to…might still. Lovely lass.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Hogan. ‘Very.’

  Hogan and the Prof helped carry the crockery back to the kitchen and then the marine followed the academic to his laboratory. It was dark now and the Prof illuminated the way with a gas lantern, its small white flame remarkably powerful due to a polished reflector at the back and a large magnifying lens attached to the front.

  The laboratory was more of a study than a hospital room. Wood paneled walls, leather chairs, a single stainless steel table with washbowl ran the length of the room, pushed up against the wall. On the one side of it stood a huge standard optical microscope.

  ‘I wonder if you wouldn’t mind rolling up your sleeve, right arm, Sergeant?’

  Hogan rolled up his sleeve to expose his arm while the Prof rummaged around in a drawer and came out with a needle and small syringe in aseptic packaging. The marine held out his arm and the Prof didn’t even bother with a tourniquet, as Hogan’s median cubital vein stood out on his arm like a steel cable. He drew a full syringe and Hogan pressed his thumb over the site after the needle had withdrawn. Next the Prof asked Hogan to open his mouth and he swabbed the inside of his cheek with a q-tip that he placed into a sterile bag. Finally he opened a single pack, large scalpel blade and took a scraping off Hogan’s forearm.

  ‘What now?’ The marine asked.

  ‘Now,’ answered the Professor. ‘I spend a few hours doing my thing. You, good sir, are free to do whatever you want.’

  Hogan spent the next couple of hours wandering around the grounds. It was dark but there was a full moon so he had more than enough light to see by. He noted points where the forest was close to the walls, he noted weaknesses in the construction and he figured on how he would take the place if he needed to.

  After that he went to bed and slept well, deep and dreamless.

  The next morning he rose early and stood next to his open window, trousers on but still shirtless, while he smoked a cigarette. Behind hm someone knocked on the door and then walked in. It was the Professor.

  ‘Good day, marine.’

  ‘Back at you, Prof. What gives?’

  The Professor walked straight up to Hogan and stood close. ‘Do you mind if I take a look under your bandage, good fellow? Should be about time to change the dressing anyway.’

  ‘Sure,’ acquiesced Hogan.

  The Professor unclipped the safety pin that held the dressing tight and nimbly unwound it. As he got below the first few layers the fabric was crusty with dried blood. He finally pulled the last length off with a flourish. A Vegas magician. The big reveal.

  ‘Aha!’ He shouted.

  Hogan flinched.

  ‘What? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said the Professor. ‘Everything. Buggered if I know.’

  Hogan stared down at the wound in his neck and shoulder. But it was not there. His skin as smooth and unblemished as a supermodel.

  ‘What the hell?’ He managed.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the Professor. ‘Very what the hell indeed.’

  Chapter 11

  Sam was six years old. Although, if you asked him he would disagree. He would inform you, quite seriously in his clear firm voice, that he was six and a quarter years old. And he would be correct.

  It was pulse plus one week. Sam’s father had not come home from work after the pulse. He worked in London in a huge glass building that went up so high that it was on the same level as where God lived. Sam’s dad used to say that all decisions made on the top floor went from God, to mister Jenkins to him. The little boy had no idea what his dad actually did but he knew that he was important. Anyone who is removed from God by only one person (mister Jenkins) must be important. Very.

  Sam’s mom was a stay at home mother. Sometimes dad used to call her a ‘Domestic Managerial Engineer’, and she would look cross even though Sam thought that it was quite cool being a domestic managerial engineer.

  Sam’s mom’s name was Beverly. Dad used to call her, Lovely.

  Lovely had been dead for two days now. Bad men had come to their house and mom had hidden Sam in the secret cupboard under the stairs behind the ironing board. The men made mommy scream and cry for a long time and then they went. The next day Sam had come out of the cupboard. He had tried to give his mommy some water. But it just dribbled all over her face and she didn’t move.

  The bad men had taken all of the food. But they had left a bag of dog food. The dog food was old. Mom had bought it for Sasha the Labrador but then Sasha had got cancer and went to doggy heaven. No one had thrown away the dog biscuits.

  The dog biscuits were very hard but not so bad if you mixed them with water. And Sam had lots of water that he collected from the rain water butt outside the back door.

  Sam had put some in his mom’s mouth but she didn’t eat them. She was beginning to smell bad now. It made Sam feel ill so he took a bowl of dog biscuits and water and crept back under the stairs.

  Chapter 12

  Commander Ammon rolled up the maps of the kingdom that lay scattered on his campaign table. They were actually unnecessary, used more as a point of focus than actual reference. He knew every square inch of them by heart.

  And it didn’t matter how many times he looked at them, the outcome was the same. He was winning the battles but, ultimately, he was losing the war. The elves had tried four more mass assaults in the valley and he had repulsed them. For the loss of a mere two hundred warriors he had slain eight thousand of the enemy. Eventually the fallen lay so high and deep as to form a wall of death, preventing any more frontal attacks by the hive. And now, even more than two leagues from the valley, the stench was a palpable thing. An oily taste that coated the back of the throat.

  Now, however, the hive had started sending smaller parties, six or seven hundred at a time, over the mountains, seeking out any passable route. Some got through, many did not. But when a group did make its way over the passes the information was immediately known by the rest of the hive and thousands would advance on the same route.

  The Commander had formed small mobile groups of fast-reaction Orcs, squads of one hundred including twenty goblin archers. Trolls were too slow to be incorporated. As soon as news arrived of a breach then a century would be dispatched at forced march speed to engage. It was working and, thus far, all encroachments by the hive had been met with total annihilation. But the constant need for preparedness was taking its toll. Not only on the troops but also on the commander himself.

  He was not sure how much longer they could continue and,
every day, commander Ammon expected another full frontal attack through the valley but this time combined with a few mountain encroachments as well.

  If he had been in charge of the hive that is what he would have done,

  But then, maybe they were hurting as much as he was.

  Maybe.

  Seth Hil-Nu, paramount mage, stepped into the commander’s tent, pulled up a stool and sat down. He looked exhausted; the skin around his mouth an unwholesome pink instead of the dull gray of health.

  ‘How goes, commander?’ The mage asked.

  ‘It goes as the gods will, mage. We win. We lose at the same time. Ultimately…I fear that we are a dying race, the very last of the Fair-Folk. And you, my friend?’

  ‘Tired. However, I have some good news. Perhaps. Well, not really sure, I may be grasping at straws.’

  ‘Straws will do if that is all that we have left to grasp at,’ said Ammon. ‘Tell your story.’

  ‘I think that I have found a source of Life-Light.’

  ‘You think, or you have?’

  ‘I have. However, I am struggling to track it down. I can feel its pull. It’s presence. But it is immeasurably far away, in both space and time.’

  ‘Explain, my friend. Pretend for a moment that I am but a commander of troops and have little knowledge of the arcane workings of the Life-Light and its mysteries.’

  ‘I see,’ said Seth wryly. ‘You mean, distill four hundred years of bitter study down to a teaspoon of syrup.’

  Ammon laughed, the sound a dry cough. Short staccato bursts. ‘If possible, my friend. If possible.’

  ‘Well, Ammon, you have used the Life-Light before.’

  ‘Yes, in my own limited way.’

  ‘And how does it feel?’

  Ammon thought for a while. ‘Powerful. Uneasy. Slightly out of control…’

  ‘Carry on.’

  ‘Discombobulated.’

  ‘A good description, disconcerted. Confused. The reason for that is, the Life-Light itself, although visible to us, is not part of our direct time and place.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Let me explain, and please bear in mind that I am attempting to describe an ocean using only a single drop of water. Where does the Life-Light come from?’

  ‘Easy,’ said the commander. ‘Our sun.’

  Seth shook his head. ‘We say that, to avoid confusion. However, it comes from a time and place far removed from our sun. By the time it reaches our sun it has already been traveling for some hundred million years plus. When it reaches our sun, which, as we know is simply a massive ball of fire, it affects it in such a way as to distill the Life-Light into an energy that we can use. This is given off in the form of sun flares that manifest themselves visibly as Life-Light. As you know, our mages can convert this Life-Light into the raw energy needed for our magiks. Now, as far as we can deduce, we are dealing with a raw energy that has traveled around ten million trillion leagues and started its trip countless millions of years before we even existed as a culture, we then take this energy, convert through arcane means and release it. To cut to the quick; there is bound to be some fallout. That it what a top mage spends his time controlling – the fallout. Creating magik is easy. Surviving the casting…not so much.’

  ‘Thank you, master mage,’ said Ammon. ‘Now I am slightly more confused than before. However, if I gloss over my obvious lack of knowledge, you are saying that you think that you have found another source of Life-Light, but you can’t pin it down?’

  ‘Yes and no. I will be able to pin it down but, and this is a big but, there is no way that we can use it to effect things here, in this time and place.’

  ‘So, pray my good friend, what is the point?’

  ‘The point, commander, is that I could use it to create a gateway for us to cross over. To go to another time and place where we would be able to use the Life-Light as we did before.’

  ‘You mean – run away. Retreat?’

  Seth shook his large gray head. ‘No, commander, I mean retire gracefully from a war that we cannot win. It is simply time to move again, as we have done before in our history.’

  Ammon said nothing. There was nothing to say. One didn’t have to be a genius to work out that, in the long term, the fair folk’s position was untenable.

  ‘So, tell me, my friend,’ continued Seth. ‘How long do we have?’

  Ammon took a deep breath. ‘It depends on a few factors. If the hive continue in the exact same way, sending forays into the mountains and such, well then…a couple of months. Tops. However, if their queen decides on an all out push, hits us from the mountains and the valley…two, three days. Maybe a week.’

  ‘Worse than I thought,’ said Seth.

  The two sat in silence for a while. Ammon, thinking. Seth waiting.

  Finally, Ammon spoke. ‘Find it, Seth. Find our gateway out of here. I will fight as long as I can, but you shall save us. How soon can you do it?’

  Seth stood up. ‘It will be a tight run race, commander. I will go to my tent now to begin preparations.’ The mage bowed formally. ‘By your leave, commander.’

  Ammon stood and bowed back. ‘May success be yours, mage.’

  Seth left the campaign tent and Ammon sat back down and prepared to fight a losing war.

  Chapter 13

  Hogan sat down on the edge of the bed and lit another cigarette, idly noticing that there were only three left in the pack. He hoped that he had another pack in his webbing but wasn’t sure.

  ‘It’s the FoxO gene,’ said the Professor. ‘You know, the Hydra longevity gene that I spoke of earlier?’

  The marine nodded. ‘I remember.’

  ‘Well,’ continued the Prof. ‘Your bloodstream is awash with it. Chock-a-block full of longevity genes.’

  ‘But, won’t that give me cancer? You said that the FoxO gene grows out of control and creates tumors and cancer and crap. And how have I lasted this long? I should have been dead ages ago.’

  The Professor nodded. ‘Well, usually. But that’s a bit of a broad statement because I’ve never seen a case like yours before. The only explanation that I can come up with, is that you are a natural carrier of large numbers of the FoxO gene and that, somehow, the Gamma radiation from the pulse has mutated your FoxO genes in some fashion. You see, sergeant, it’s not simply that your system is flooded with the FoxO gene, the gene itself is mutating. It seems to have attached itself to a virus. This virus is reproducing by taking over the reproductive process of its host cells, you being the host cell. No, the interesting thing is, the virus is living in you in an entirely symbiotic way. In other words, if you die, then it dies. It knows this, so, by using the FoxO gene, it will do its best to prevent you actually dying.’

  Hogan thought for a while. ‘So, what you’re saying is…’

  The Professor finished the sentence for him. ‘Sergeant, to all intents and purposes, you are immortal!’

  Hogan said nothing. What was there to say? There is no social situation or past experience that could have prepared him for such a revelation.

  Eventually he settled on. ‘Oh.’

  The Prof smiled. ‘Look, when I say immortal, I could be incorrect. You may very well be susceptible to disease. Also I am not sure how you would respond to massive physical trauma, such as losing your head. You could probably still starve to death and I would assume that oxygen is a necessity. Perhaps, instead of the word immortal we should say, Extremely durable.’

  ‘What, you mean like that bunny in the battery adverts?’

  The Prof laughed. ‘Actually, sergeant, more than you know. It actually brings me to the second point that I need to make. Do you remember much about the fight that you had before you were stabbed and we brought you in here?’

  Hogan nodded. ‘Yep. Got attacked by a bunch of desperate people. Didn’t want to shoot them so I laid them out instead. Got stabbed. Had to shoot. That’s pretty much it.’

  ‘Do you remember how many people you knocked out?’
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  Hogan shrugged. ‘I only had a few seconds. Maybe three. Four?’

  ‘Twenty five,’ said the Prof.

  ‘Impossible,’ denied Hogan.

  ‘Yet you did it. I saw it with my own eyes. You were supernaturally fast. I could barely keep visual track of you. The fact that you were stabbed at all was simply sheer bad luck. And as well as the speed there was the heat. I could see waves of it pouring off you. Like the heat haze from a jet engine. When we dragged you in you were still hot to the touch.’

  ‘Why?’ Asked the marine.

  ‘Well, it’s conjecture again but I figure that the virus has an ability to react to any circumstance that puts the host body, you, in danger. It then uses whatever methods it can to combat this danger to you and, therefore, to itself. In this case, I surmise that it increases adrenalin flow into the body at a geometric rate causing an Adrenergenic storm. This will heighten your senses, speed up both strength and reaction time and dull any sense of pain. Usually this would result in an almost instantaneous event of acute myocardial infarction as your heart literally tears itself apart within a couple of seconds. However, the FoxO virus/gene seems to repair your shattered heart microsecond by microsecond, thus allowing you to function at massively increased rates of strength and speed for relatively prolonged periods of time. This, in turn, gives rise to an exothermic release in the form of heat.’

  ‘So, I’m some sort of Duracell bunny, vampire, human radiator, Hulk-type freak?’

  The Professor thought for a while before answering. Finally he said. ‘Yes. That about sums it up.’

  ‘Could be worse,’ said Hogan. ‘I could be trapped in a foreign country with no way of ever getting home due to the fact that a solar flare has smacked us back into the dark ages and the entire world has gone to crap.’

  The marine lit another of his dwindling supply of cigarettes.