by Darrell Bain
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Unforseen Reward
by Darrell Bain
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Science Fiction/Suspense/Thriller
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Double Dragon Publishing
double-dragon-ebooks.com
Copyright ©2005 by Darrell Bain
First published in DDP, 2005
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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UNFORSEEN REWARD
Copyright © 2005 Darrell Bain
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Double Dragon eBooks, a division of Double Dragon Publishing Inc., Markham, Ontario Canada.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from Double Dragon Publishing.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published by
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A DDP First Edition November 1, 2005
Book Layout and
Cover Art by Deron Douglas
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UNFORSEEN REWARD
By
Darrell Bain
“Hi, Dylan boy!” Jeffrey Crowder said to his son, mustering as much enthusiasm as he could upon arriving home for the day and greeting his only child.
Dylan Crowder, Jeffrey's ten year old son, said nothing in return. He was sitting in the middle of the living room floor, turning a small robot dog over and over in his hands, examining the toy from every possible angle.
Jeffrey looked over at his wife, just coming into the room from the kitchen. She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced at her son. She smiled at Dylan but he was just as unresponsive toward her as he had been with his father. She came on over to her husband. They kissed in the affectionate fashion of long married couples.
“How long has he been doing that, Marge?” He nodded his head in the direction of the boy.
“Oh, a couple of hours now. You know how he gets."
“Hasn't he even tried to talk to the dog or get it to wag its tail or bark like we showed him?"
“Jeff, I've gone over the basics of that dog thing with him more times than I can count—when he lets me take it away from him, that is. He still just holds it and examines it like he's trying to see inside the thing.” Her voice held a tinge of irritation, not an infrequent occurrence in homes with autistic children.
Jeffrey Crowder sighed wearily. It had seemed like a good idea, buying Dylan a simple little robot dog. He had thought his son might relate to a programmed toy, since he seldom showed any desire to interact with him or Marge—or anyone else, for that matter. He had even paid extra to get the version that was covered with artificial fur, thinking the tactile sensation might help pique his interest. So far all Dylan had done was twist it around in his hands, for hours at a time, even after being shown how the little toy dog could bark, move its head and tail and roll on its back. Even when it barked to be petted without prompting, Dylan ignored the sound and continued looking at it from different perspectives. It was impossible to tell what Dylan's thoughts were; he didn't talk much when he was focused that way.
Jeffrey checked the time then asked “How about a drink before dinner?"
“I'll go for that. It's been a long day."
Jeffrey touched his wife's cheek with his fingertips, knowing Marge wouldn't have complained unless Dylan had been difficult. He realized it was harder on her than it was on him, being with the boy all the time, but neither of them would have it any different. They wanted what was best for him, always, and Marge had given up a promising career in business to stay home with their son.
She and Jeffrey continued their conversation as he stepped down into the den and went over to the little bar. He poured gin and vermouth over crushed ice and shook vigorously, mixing up enough for two martinis each. Once they were ready, he filled their glasses, added an olive to his and a couple of little pearl onions to his wife's. He brought them over to the big couch where they could watch Dylan. He was still turning the robot dog over in his hands, peering intently at its various surfaces.
“I wonder what's going through his mind?” Jeffrey asked. “Is he trying to figure out where the barks come from?"
“I asked Doctor Whitman about it today when we were there. He said he didn't know."
Jeffrey sipped at his drink. “Did he have anything new to say about Dylan?” he asked hopefully.
“Just that we have to be patient and keep trying,” Marge said. Her face, once fresh and pretty, was beginning to acquire permanent worry lines from coping with her son, day in and day out.
“How many times have we heard that?"
Marge glanced at her husband, at his prematurely graying hair and tired eyes. She knew it was hard on him, having his only son—and only child—turn out this way, but it was hard on her, too. She was home with him all day, every day. She was glad this was Friday, so she could have a weekend with her husband around to help.
“Jeff, you have to admit he's shown a lot of improvement since he finally accepted Doctor Whitman."
“I guess it's better than nothing. Probably my expectations were too high to begin with."
“Mine, too but it's all we can do. Just be glad we can afford all the treatment and therapy. Most parents can't."
“There's that, yeah. I just wish there was more I could do for Dylan personally."
Jeffrey Crowder was head of the electronics research lab at Brannigan Energy, a firm heavily engaged in cutting edge technology that might reduce the nation's dependence on oil. With the present financial burden on the nation from imports, he had an almost unlimited budget and was very well paid.
Marge smiled at her husband, the first one she had granted him since arriving home. “I know you'd like to do more, Jeff. So would I. And Doctor Whitman told me the robot dog was a good idea. He said that sometimes the kids he works with do improve a little when they're given an unusual toy."
“There's not much new about a robot dog, sweetheart. They've been around for years.” He glanced over at his son, who had finally put the toy dog down and appeared to be listening attentively to their voices. Jeffrey knew he might or might not be paying attention; it was hard to tell. But while there was a possibility that he was, Jeffrey told Marge what he was going to try next. “I do have something new for him, though."
“Oh, good. What is it?"
“It's not an it, it's a them. Remember me telling you how we were experimenting with transformers and magnets in various configurations?"
“Uh huh,” Marge nodded at him.
“Well, I got to thinking about how fascinated I was with magnets and electric motors and transformers when I was Dylan's age and—"
“You still are,” his wife interrupted with a grin.
“Well, yeah.” He sipped at h
is martini, finishing the first one, but waiting a moment for Marge to catch up with him before getting refills. “Anyway, I went shopping on my lunch hour and bought a big bunch of toy magnets and little electric motors and transformers and stuff like I used to play with. I thought tomorrow we could see what he does with them."
“It's worth a try,” Marge said, holding out her glass. She didn't want to take a negative attitude toward anything concerning Dylan. The oddest ideas had paid off with their child a couple of times, like the 3-D picture books that had taught him to recognize some words. He would read children's books now, so long as the pictures were three dimensional and the subject matter wasn't of the babyish Dick and Jane variety.
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Saturday morning after breakfast, Jeffrey broke out the new toys. He took them out of their boxes in the master bedroom first, since he knew Dylan didn't care for opening packages. Next he fooled around with the dozens of magnets and little transformers and wire and motors, making sure there was nothing that could really hurt his son. As he arranged the magnets in different patterns, he watched them jump around from like poles repelling each other and unlike poles attracting. He smiled to himself at the memories the toys brought back. That set of magnets and motors he had gotten as a child had probably guided him toward his present profession. This was a much more elaborate and advanced set, though. Jeffrey had chosen carefully since Dylan was extremely intelligent in his own way. Jeffrey thought he could handle them—if he showed any interest at all.
Once Jeffrey had refreshed himself with memories, he gathered all the things he had bought into a cardboard box and took them to the den.
Dylan was already there, sitting on the floor. The little robot dog was nowhere in sight. Dylan had the television turned to The Learning Channel and was staring fixedly at the screen where an exposition on the arachnids was being aired. Marge was nearby, sitting in her easy chair reading and keeping an eye on Dylan.
Jeffrey caught Marge's glance toward him and winked. He waited, all too familiar with what would happen in a moment. Soon enough, it did. A commercial came on and Dylan immediately began rocking back and forth and making a low keening sound. He always did that when commercials interrupted a program he was interested in. Sometimes he would wait it out, but other times he lost interest and wouldn't look at the screen again that day. This time Dylan decided he wouldn't watch any more. He clicked off the television and continued to sit and rock, which provided Jeffrey with the opening he wanted. He had been standing there, waiting.
Dylan didn't appear to be paying any attention when Jeffrey sat down opposite him and emptied the box of magnets and little transformers and battery operated toy motors, but Jeffrey didn't let that hamper him. Sometimes it took a long time before the boy would show an interest in new objects—and of course, sometimes he never did. It was just the way of autistics. They lived in their own world and the degree of interaction with other people, even their parents, depended mostly on the severity of their affliction and the peculiarities of their individual minds. Dylan was about in the middle, less attentive to outside influences than children with Asperger's Syndrome, but more so than classic autistics who rarely reacted to events beyond their own minds. Middle level autistics could become very focused on certain subjects and were able to learn quite a lot, but almost never were they able to function in society on their own.
Today, Jeffrey was lucky. He carefully demonstrated the actions of magnets, motors and rectifiers and showed how wrapping a coil of wire different ways around a magnet could induce different current strengths. Midway through his exhibition he noticed that Dylan was watching him intently. Good. He finished up, then began going through it all again so Dylan could pick up the first part of it. Jeffrey knew he wouldn't have to repeat his actions. Dylan had a memory verging on the eidetic and was extremely bright—as near as the psychologists could tell. As soon as Dylan reached for the first magnet, Jeffrey got up and left him alone.
For the rest of the day, Dylan played with his new toys. He refused to eat at the table and Marge had to bring his dinner to him. She didn't mind; that happened fairly often and she was pleased to see him having a good time.
Jeffrey was happy, too. Dylan caught on very quickly to what the motors and magnets and transformers did and didn't do and seemed to be having a lot of fun playing with them.
When bedtime came around, Dylan refused to be parted from his new toys. He insisted on taking them into his bedroom. He placed them on one side of his bed, obviously intending to sleep with them. Even when he reluctantly brushed his teeth, he left the bathroom door open and watched from the corner of his eye to make sure they didn't go anywhere.
Jeffrey was delighted with his choice of toys for his son. Dylan would almost always examine articles brought home for him, but he rarely displayed much interest in the mechanisms of how they worked. This was almost unprecedented.
Marge wasn't quite so happy. As they lay in bed reading before turning out he lights, she asked “Jeff, are you sure those things are safe?"
“Sure, sweetheart. They're designed for kids to play with."
“I know, but ... well, remember the time you gave him the little tool kit and he dismantled the phone with it? Along with the staplers in your office and my bedside clock."
Jeffrey chuckled, remembering. He hadn't told Marge about Dylan getting into the garage the following Saturday and rendering the electric hedge clippers and his car vacuum into their component parts. “I don't think there's anything he can hurt himself with, babe. The motors and transformers both are just little fellows, designed especially to show kids how electricity works. And the magnets are certainly harmless. Besides, he's careful with electricity now after ... well, he's careful."
Marge nodded doubtfully. Sure, Dylan was careful—so long as she was watching him. Still, Jeff was an electrical engineer. If he said the toys weren't dangerous, she would leave it at that. Especially since Dylan was showing such an avid curiosity about the playthings, particularly the magnets. As she turned out the light on her side of the bed, she hoped his interest would continue for a few days. Or longer. It would be nice to be able to relax and let him enjoy himself while she caught up on some reading.
* * * *
The noise began as a shrill warbling, barely discernible as sound. It woke Marge first, attuned as she was to Dylan. At first she thought it was their son keening as he did sometimes in the night when he wanted to do something but had to wait on daylight. She was quickly disillusioned as the sound grew louder, waking Jeffrey, too. Now the warbling quickened, rising until the waves of varying sound came so close together they blended into one steady shrill screech that was painful to listen to.
The Crowders both threw back the covers at once, knowing instantly where the commotion must be coming from. As they rushed toward Dylan's room, the siren screech changed into a deep thrumming, like the sound of the last three keys from the bass end of a piano, magnified and amplified to a volume that could be felt in their bones.
Marge got to Dylan's door first. Her heart skipped a beat as she saw the light streaming from the crack at floor level. Dylan wasn't supposed to turn on his lights during the night! She pushed the door open and stepped inside. Jeffrey, coming up behind her, almost knocked her down.
Their son had shoved his twin bed to one side of the room and was on his hands and knees near the electrical outlet with his magnets and transformers and motors. Marge's hand came to her mouth. She gasped with undisguised terror as she saw that Dylan had somehow sneaked out without either of them hearing him and scrounged up a couple of extra extension cords and had them plugged in. She was even more horrified when she saw a spot about halfway up the wall steaming as if it was about to burst into flame.
“Dylan!” Marge exclaimed loudly, rooted to the spot. She was scared to go to her son for fear of electrocuting them both, and scared not to. Her husband, being more analytical, quickly scanned the arrangement Dylan had constructed with the magnets and motors. H
e couldn't figure out where the noise was coming from, but on the other hand he couldn't see anything dangerous in the connections, either. However, he had no explanation for the steam emanating from the wall. It originated just below Dylan's framed picture of an electrical circuit he had seen in one of Jeffrey's trade journals and decided he liked. Possibly the lines and symbols intrigued him; neither of the Crowders knew and Dylan never talked about it.
Marge started to run and unplug the extension cords but Jeffrey grabbed her arm. The vapor from the spot on the wall was dissipating and the noise was either abating or getting beyond the audible range of human hearing. So long as Dylan wasn't in danger, Jeffrey wanted to see the outcome of his nocturnal experiment.
Dylan hadn't reacted at all to Marge's shout, although he sat back on his haunches rather than remaining on his hands and knees. Now he stared fixedly at the wall where the puff of steam had been a moment before, as if he was expecting something else to happen in the same place soon. It did.
A narrow beam of blue light suddenly appeared, originating from within Dylan's arrangement and impacting on the wall of the bedroom that had previously been steaming, or perhaps smoking. There was nothing like that now, nor did the light appear to have any other effect on the wall. The noise could no longer be heard.
“Jeff, look!"
Marge's gaze was fixed on something outside as seen through the window's curtains. Jeffrey was out of Marge's line of sight, but as soon as he moved closer to her he saw what she was excited about. The beam of blue light passed through the wall and through the three foot trunk of the huge oak in their yard, doing no apparent damage to either. It continued from there undiminished and finally became lost somewhere in the vastness of the clear starry night. From the looks of how it went unimpeded through the wall and tree, Jeffrey doubted clouds would have had an effect on it even if any had been present. But what could be causing such a light?
“Jeff, do something!” Marge urged. “He's liable to set the house on fire!"