The Prometheus Effect

by Jonathan Davison

  The Prometheus Effect

  by

  Jonathan Davison

  Copyright 2012 by Jonathan Davison

  All Rights Reserved

  The characters depicted in these stories are wholly fictional and any resemblances to those living or dead are purely coincidental.

  Cover illustration by Chris Cold

  About The Author

  Jonathan Davison was born near Portsmouth, England in 1975. He lives with his wife Mandi in Newton Abbot, Devon. Jonathan began writing in earnest in 2010. He is also a musician and writer of radio drama and musical theatre. He currently works as a technical specialist for the police.

  Previous novels by Jonathan Davison

  The Observer (2010) Wartime intrigue meets paranormal suspense and science fiction in a tale about a humble soldier with a galactic destiny. Set in World War II, it is a story about one man with the unwitting power to change everything.

  Sanctuary (2011) Crime drama and mystery meets outrageous science fiction in this story of faith, hope, destiny and redemption.

  In Space No One Can Hear You Rock! (2011) A futuristic, adult comedy about a virtuotic musician attempting to find fame in a stale and homogenised society. Will he be able to save the planet, get the girl, rekindle the halcyon days of Rock n Roll and take the galactic tour before his own ego eats him alive?

  Dark Phase (2011) A compelling and atmospheric science fiction story of a Silicon based life form as he explores his past, present and future whilst attempting to understand his own evolution as a sentient being. He is the only one who can bring about order to the chaos. A poignant tale of self discovery.

  PROLOGUE

  Tula, Mexico City, Mexico

  July 12th 2010

  Alberto Di Santo inhaled deeply and sat gingerly upon the cushion lined wooden bench. The night air was warm. Moths fluttered around his head, drawn inexorably towards the luminescence of a nearby lamp. It emanated just enough light to allow him to read the small print on the sodden paper label of his beer bottle; a well earned reward at the end of a long and tiring day in the fields.

  Alberto leaned forward and rested his arms upon the smooth wooden beam of his balcony and marvelled at the distant sight of the city. In the stifling humidity of the night atmosphere, the far off lights of the metropolis burned so fiercely, they radiated a vast orange glow defeating the blackness of the night sky. It was an uncomfortable evening; cloud cover ensured an inescapable stuffiness that perpetuated a sweat that had began early that morning and had not yet ceased.

  Alberto sat bare-chested upon his veranda, his wife and children were inside the house transfixed to the television set. He did not feel compelled to join them however, a quiet period of reflection after his daily rigour was a habit that he was unwilling to change. There was something compelling about the expanse of darkness above his head. He was not a keen stargazer, just an ordinary man who occasionally questioned the reason for his existence by contemplating what lay beyond the boundaries of his imagination.

  Alberto swatted away a mosquito that persisted in antagonising him and in doing so, spilled a frothy mouthful of the precious amber liquid upon his lap and the dusty boards of the patio. Cursing silently to himself, he stood and brushed himself down and inspected the spillage to ascertain how much he had carelessly wasted. He only then noticed that his shaking of the bottle had caused the contents to fizz and rise over the lip and unwilling to waste another drop, Alberto slurped up the froth and licked up the side of the glass vessel to catch the small dribbles that had almost escaped.

  It was at that very moment that something caught his full and undivided attention. So much so that his efforts to stem the flow of his beer immediately ceased and he no longer noticed that his revered libation was dripping to the floor, splashing over his worn leather shoes. An unnatural and fleeting light appeared in the periphery of Alberto's vision and unlike a distant star which grows dimmer the more you stare at it, a prolonged gaze only served to make the throbbing light burn more furiously.

  The Mexican leaned forward over the balcony and craned his head to get a better look at the curious oddity. Its behaviour erratic as it dashed across the sky; stuttering in its movement, it would linger for a number of seconds then shoot off in a seemingly random trajectory only for it to cease sharply again. At first, the bemused farmer pondered if it was a helicopter or light aircraft but there was no discernible noise with which he could associate with it. The low cloud cover seemed to rule out a shooting star or celestial event. At no point was he concerned to the point that his safety might be in question, however, the bizarre sighting did bring him to call out half heartedly for his wife who was oblivious to his request and continued in her worship of the small screen.

  Alberto traced the movements of the bright object with his eyes for thirty seconds or so before realising that he had the capability to film the unfurling mystery with the mobile phone he had secreted in one of his deep pockets. As he unlocked the phone and fumbled at the buttons to engage the camera mode, it only then occurred to him that he was witness to something with potentially extraordinary public interest. Like countless others who had seen such events and had their claims of validity scoffed at, Alberto suddenly felt a wash of empathy and a buzz of excitement that he too had been witness to the sighting of an 'unidentified flying object'.

  Still endeavouring to utilise the phones camera, he glanced up to ensure the light had not vanished. It was still there. Alberto was not a technophile, he had used the camera function on his phone only a couple of times since he acquired it and only then to photograph static objects such as his wife in scant dress and an extraordinarily large bug he had unearthed whilst harvesting. Pointing the phone into the abyss, it was clear that it did not hold enough sensitivity to light in order to get a clear shot. Engaging the video mode, he struggled to keep the device steady as a combination of shaking hands and the objects seemingly random patterns made a quality film almost impossible.

  Alberto had only enough time to capture a few fleeting seconds of film when the object was gone as quickly as it had appeared. It was almost as if it appeared just long enough to capture the attention of curious onlookers and then vanished leaving those that were mesmerised by its extraordinary allure yearning for more. The Mexican fumbled at the phone to replay the images and wondered how many others shared his extraordinary sighting.

  Within an hour, Alberto's video was uploaded to the public domain and presented for the delectation of the discerning internet surfer. It could be viewed by billions of cynics, enthusiasts and those individuals who had just stumbled across it whilst searching for increasingly visceral entertainment to quench their thirst for a cheap thrill.

  Alberto would continue to bore his work colleagues for days and weeks to come with his extraordinary vision. At times their vehement scepticism would almost convince him that he must have been either tired, drunk or deluded, yet deep in his consciousness Alberto knew what he had seen. His experiences ensured that each night from that moment forward, he would sit on his balcony and continue to gaze out into the darkness in the hope of a re-occurrence and more importantly, vindication.

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, England

  February 2nd 2011

  “Alright mate? Where you going to?”

  “Whitehall.”

  “Right you are.”

  Jimmy Stock reached forward and engaged the fare counter, checked his rear view mirror and waited impatiently for a gap in the relentless traffic before belligerently pulling out in front of a double-decker bus. A distant parp of a horn indicated that his forceful entry into the flow of vehicles did not find approval but it did not unduly worry him, it was all part and parcel of being a London ta
xi driver.

  Glancing in his mirror once again, Stock realised he had picked up a 'suit', one of the thousands of grey haired, pin striped, po-faced business men who frequented wine bars and drove the latest Mercedes.

  “Where abouts' in Whitehall mate?”

  Stock again glanced to the passenger who stared with vacant eyes out of the window, his gaunt face telling a tale of too many hours in the office and not enough time on the golf course.

  “Downing Street.” The man replied not once taking his gaze away from the window.

  “Blimey, I guess the Rolls is in for its MOT is it?” Stock laughed at his own comment despite their being no natural wit to it. If anything it only served to provide a more uncomfortable silence which followed the jovial cabby's remark.

  “I guess it's the cuts. You guys having to get taxi's an all'. Well, we're all in this together I suppose eh? I was just saying the other day...who was I talking to again?”

  Jimmy was interrupted sharply by the suited man, ambivalent to his driver's friendly yet surplus to requirements small talk.

  “Look, I don't mean to be rude but if you could concentrate more on driving the vehicle, I would not only reach my destination more quickly but I would also arrive without a head ache. Thank You.”

  The suited man had made it clear to Stock that he was in no mood for idle chatter. Jimmy tutted, shook his head and muttered quietly under his breath and the drone of the engine.

  “Arse hole.”

  Jimmy continued in silence, the suited man stabbing at his mobile in the passenger compartment. The traffic was heavy and the clock ticked over nicely as the vehicle rarely exceeded ten miles per hour as it trundled along the Embankment.

  “Bloody traffic today is horrendous innit'? Hope you're not in any hurry!” Jimmy gabbled on. Despite his apparent question, he knew that his passenger was unlikely to answer. Driving a cab was often an intolerably lonely vocation and it was only the interaction between the driver and his customer that made the day seem to go more quickly. Jimmy would admit that he often talked for the sake of talking, it was not a pre-requisite in his job description but it added to the charm and the tradition of the London black cab driver. Unfortunately his passengers were not always so captivated by the incessant waffle.

  The suited man turned the corners of his mouth down and it was clear that he was weary of his driver's interactions.

  “Probably faster and cheaper to get out and walk I reckon.” Jimmy said.

  “Oh, what am I saying! Talking myself out of a fare I am!”

  The suited man leaned forward and poked his faced through the gap in the Perspex which divided the taxi cab.

  “What is your name?”

  The suited man's request was an odd one. Jimmy immediately tensed up, there was only one reason for this sinister question and that was some kind of subsequent complaint. A black cab licence was not easy to come by, the knowledge required to effectively drive the streets of London was a skill acquired over many years. Dutifully, the reticent driver answered.

  “James Stock. What's yours?” Jimmy answered with caution and a hint of sarcasm.

  “Why do you need to know?” He continued, curious as to why he was being interrogated.

  “No reason. Pull over here. I will walk the rest of the way.”

  It was an unexpected reply but Jimmy had tired of this well-to-do character anyway. Good riddance he thought as he dived over to the kerb.

  “Eight pound.” Jimmy called out in a classic cockney twang and turned back to see the suited man filing through his wallet which was bulging with large brown notes.

  “I don't have the change, keep the rest.”

  The suited man whipped out a large brown fifty pound note and stuffed it into his drivers grateful palm. Jimmy did not even have chance to say thank you for the generous donation as the suited man had already slammed the door and had shuffled off down the Embankment. Staring in amazement at his good fortune, he ran his fingers over the large fragrant note which wreaked of expensive cologne.

  “Oh yes! Take-away tonight!” He muttered to himself in glee. In the excitement, he had almost forgotten his apprehension of the previous moments. It did not linger in the drivers mind why his passenger had asked for his name, surely he must have been satisfied to have left such an extraordinary tip?

  As he pulled out into the traffic once more, a few spots of rain fell upon his windscreen followed by a more formidable deluge which caused Jimmy to engage his wipers on full speed.

  “Ha! Bet you wish you hadn’t of gotten out and walked now eh? You stuck up twat? Jimmy bellowed with a broad smile as he passed his passenger who was pacing along using a sodden broad sheeted newspaper as an umbrella.

  Jimmy Stock's day was generally a long one. Stretching regulations to the limit, he worked all the hours he could. James Stock was a solitary man. He was not married although he had been a number of years ago. It was an unsuccessful relationship; his wife's personality had changed greatly in the seven years that they were together. A formerly devoted and loving partner ended their marriage with an affair with a close friend. It was a bitter episode that disenchanted Jimmy to the point that he never pursued another relationship.

  Jimmy Stock was forty two, he was a popular face amongst his fellow cabby's who knew him as a talkative and kind hearted individual but not the brightest spark. Jimmy's colleagues knew that they could share a joke with him and sometimes about him without fear of reprisal. If asked about 'Stocky', they would no doubt mention his deep passion for West Ham United football club, classic racing cars and his penchant for a cooked full English breakfast. They would also describe him as a short man with a paunch, a mouthful of yellowed teeth with some missing and a mop of grey brown hair which often looked unruly, particularly early in the morning as if it had not been tended to since he had arose from his bed.

  There was nothing extraordinary about Jimmy Stock. Try to find him in a Google search or on a social networking site and you would be hard pressed to find a trace of him. He had no desire to be anything greater than he was, he was not a failed novelist, a wannabe pop star or a rejected soccer youth, he was one of the few who were satisfied with who they had become and did not pander for anything more. The only thing that concerned Jimmy at the end of the day would be what time the betting shop closed, and what was on the television that evening.

  At the end of the day, Jimmy had stopped by the 'Tasty House' Chinese fast food shop on the way home. His usual order of Sweet and Sour Hong Kong style was inevitable. The proprietors knew him by name and always gave him a free bag of prawn crackers. Jimmy lived on fast food, his kitchen at home was almost surplus to requirements. Mugs of tea and coffee were usually the only products of the dilapidated kitchen in the Victorian style terraced house, deep in the suburbs of Ealing.

  The house was large and mostly unused, a smaller flat or bedsit would have served Jimmy's requirements but it was a left over from his earlier married years. Many of his wife’s possessions still remained, forgotten in the hurried escape, dusty and undisturbed.

  Jimmy sat down in front of the television in a large, old brown leather chair. The chair sat directly in front of the screen barely three feet away. It was surrounded with empty drinks cartons, mouldy mugs and sweet papers. Remote control in one hand and a fork in the other, Jimmy surfed the channels offered by the satellite stream in the hope of some light entertainment to accompany his mound of orange, iridescent food.

  The brown, floral and threadbare carpet bore the brunt of drinks carelessly spilt over the years or food which had slid from the plate as tiredness set in. Jimmy could barely keep his eyes open as the chipped porcelain plate slowly made its way from his tired grasp, down to his knees before finally plummeting to the floor. Jimmy was too tired to notice as the toll of driving in heavy rain drained him of his consciousness. It was rare that Jimmy ever made it up the steep stairs to his cold and stark bedroom. The brown leather chair seemed to offer the same levels of comfort.


  CHAPTER TWO

  A significant amount of time had elapsed before Jimmy realised that he was conscious. An oppressive nausea emanated from his midriff, there was a foul taste of bile in his mouth and an aching from the nape of his neck. It signified that this was more than just a dream. A swirling darkness enveloped him, he was not sure if his eyes were open or if they were tightly shut, so tight in fact that his optic nerves were being stimulated as to create perplexing and kaleidoscopic patterns in his mind.

  Jimmy was aware that he was aware, but barely. Like leaving a vivid dream, he could not tell with any certainty that he was fully conscious. He moaned with discomfort, he could feel his body attempt to writhe around but there was something restraining him, something inexorable but physically soft. The darkness ensued as Jimmy became aware of more physical pain, this time from his testes which throbbed furiously causing his lower belly to ache as if someone were trying to blow up a balloon inside it. It was a pain that could not be eased with movement, he struggled to turn upon his side and curl his body into the foetal position but something held him down and prone. Jimmy called out yet he could not hear his own voice. What was this that dulled his senses one minute then fired them off in the most excruciating way the next?