The Prometheus Effect

by Jonathan Davison

  “Get out! How dare you do this to me after you know what I've been through!”

  Joshua stood and knew he had to talk fast.

  “Just listen to me! I'm not saying for one minute that your experience didn’t happen or that it was a figment of your imagination. I'm saying that your experience was a savage act of terror carried out by a government organisation... in order to convince you and in turn others that the alien threat was very real and very present. You were the victim of torture and psychological warfare for God's sake. You are a tool of the governments propaganda machine. If you only give me five minutes, I can tell you thinks that will make your toenails curl, things that will make you think differently about your whole life. There are no aliens, you don't need to fear them anymore!”

  Jimmy stood open mouthed and for a moment, Joshua feared that he may be about to have a seizure or a cardiac arrest. His hands shook noticeably as he clutched the tumbler and slurped up a large mouthful of scotch.

  “Where the proof?” He said sternly.

  “I have no material evidence but I have friends who are in highly privileged positions, I can explain if you let me?”

  Jimmy sank back down to the stained mahogany table and blinked hard. Joshua was grateful for the opportunity to talk more and took his seat once more.

  Joshua carefully and slowly explained step by step how he had come to his conclusions. He trod carefully not to preach his own beliefs but stick to the facts at hand. The most compelling evidence being Coffey's revelations, he tried to explain the most simplest of terms how this was at all possible. It was only when Joshua began to reveal his 'facts' that he realised what a flight of fancy his whole story was and how easy it would be to swish it away and discredit it.

  “Remember back in the hotel, the room service, the young chap who brought us our drinks?”

  Jimmy nodded whilst still staring into the golden depths in his glass.

  “Remember you said that the perfume smelled like the alien who tortured you? Is it possible that maybe the alien you saw was in fact a human in a suit. Under the terrific strain of pain and the effects of drugs, your brain would bombarded with all manner of sensations. Your hearing and vision were impaired, your sense of smell maybe heightened? Under extreme stress, maybe the smell of the perfume was intrinsically linked to the feeling of agony and fear? Your subconscious mind learned to fear the smell which it associated with your horrible ordeal?”

  Jimmy shook his head, it was so much to take in.

  “I know this is difficult but I actually have with me a sample of the perfume. I know this seems totally sadistic and unethical, but I’d like you to take the time to smell the perfume, make the connection and then realise that this is a cheap Eau de toilette that I bought from a department store in Kensington.”

  Jimmy began to shake his head vigorously.

  “This is too much, you're going too far.”

  “No Jimmy, I'm trying to break the hold that these people have over you. You've been their puppet. They targeted you from the start, they no doubt chose you because of your highly personable nature, your close contact with a large number of people from all walks of life. Your an honest person, a genuine fellow to the 'nth' degree. You were perfect for their needs. Now, break the emotional bonds and set yourself free from it all.”

  Joshua handed out the small vial of perfume. Jimmy took it in his grasp and studied it.

  “If what you say is right, then the TV interview... it was all set up. The others that were there, they all had the same experiences.”

  “Jimmy, it wouldn’t surprise me if all the UFO sightings and suppose abduction for the last forty years have all led up to this point. This is a grand deception on an unprecedented scale. These people are patient, they are calculating, they have stopped at nothing to get what they want. They've even murdered their own people for the sake of perpetuating the grand illusion. Why would they care about a humble taxi driver from Ealing?”

  Jimmy looked at Joshua and then slowly prised the cap of the bottle. Taking a gentle sniff at the aromatic contents, his face contorted and a visible shiver ran through his body.

  “It's disgusting.” Jimmy said.

  “Too right. It's the kind of stuff my aunt buys me. Better of drinking it.”

  Joshua smiled at Jimmy who took a deep breath and allowed the merest sign of contentment to be exhibited on his features.

  “So it's all bollocks then?” Jimmy asked with a sense of illumination.

  “Yup, total bollocks.” Joshua replied laughing.

  “So what are we going to do about it?”

  Jimmy seemed bent on revenge.

  “You're going to do absolutely nothing. You're going to get your health back, get back to work and get back to some kind of normal life. You leave the conspiracy cracking to me.”

  Jimmy grunted and acknowledged the fact that he had let himself slip almost into oblivion.

  “How do you convince the world that their governments are lying, murderous scum?”

  Joshua shook his head.

  “I've no idea.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The Messenger, Fleet Street

  January 2nd 2021

  Joshua sat on the edge of his seat in the large conference room which had been rearranged to house as many chairs as could be found in the office complex. The usual lengthy table had been dismantled and now all the chairs faced the direction of the large projector screen, much like a university lecture theatre. The hubbub of journalists muttering to themselves heightened as their impatience grew until a slight, suited man stepped up the podium, his forehead sweaty despite the cool air conditioned atmosphere.

  This was the government spokesperson, sent with the intention of outlining what was now tolerable and indeed printable in the current climate of secrecy and war. Joshua was of course highly sceptical of the spectacled man and had dismissed his words before they had even been formulated in the tiny man’s head.

  The Christmas period had been one of consolidation. Joshua had fought his own ambition and remained inactive during the holidays. Knowing full well that he would be under close scrutiny, he ensured that he laid low for a few days, settled in to his new flat and generally took his foot of the accelerator despite his eagerness to move forward. He was even more relieved that his revealing phone call with Coffey had apparently gone without interception, the proof perhaps being his continued existence.

  Joshua had acquired at some cost an access key which allowed him to log on to the Internet and utilise it's now diminished services. It's usual comfort, the speedy transmission of text mail was present but due to the inaction of the media, many of the sites were months out of date and had not been updated since the red dawn. It was as if time had stood still and nothing had happened in the time that had passed since. The headlines still lamented a close defeat suffered by the England football team in their quest for World Cup qualification and yet another drug fuelled celebrity had died at the age of 27.

  At the very least the Internet was still a source of some entertainment as he could log on to a video game or watch a movie, however, it was quickly apparent that any social networking sites or shared movie sites were now unavailable. It was clear that the government did not want people to start uploading their own take on the events of the past weeks. Even Wikipedia and other online archive's were down such was the paranoia of the powers that be?

  A painstaking log in process was enough to remind Joshua that his every move was likely to be traceable, if not monitored. The chip in his arm was linked electronically to every keystroke. With his anonymity lost, after twenty minutes he was at a loss as to what to do next. Without the freedom to research his investigation and unwilling to draw attention to himself by keying risky search phrases, he logged off and cursed the system. It was now almost useless to him as a tool for the acquisition of knowledge.

  Joshua had given a great deal of thought to how he was to move forward and expose the lies of his country's leaders. Pu
blic opinion had not changed noticeably over the festive season. It seemed that the longer the scenario perpetuated, the more people accepted it as the norm. The state run television channel continued as before and Joshua wondered how the thousands of people who made their living from the visual media were coping whilst their roles were becoming increasingly redundant and the likeliness of their return to work growing smaller by the day. Considering Britain was regarded as being a nation of television obsessed couch potatoes, it was interesting to see how the public had become accepting of the loss. Perhaps they had finally realised finally that there was more to life that a daily dose of reality madness or depressing soap operas. If the 'war' had achieved anything beneficial, then perhaps the return to a more 1940's way of community life was one of the more pleasing aspects. People talked to each other on the street. Was it just Joshua or was the average person just more personable and willing to engage in smatterings of small talk?

  The news had continued it's depressing updates; more cyber attacks, explosions, power outages and oil pipeline breaches. Joshua wondered if most of it was a fallacy or if these things were taking place under the watchful eye of the conspirators. It seemed that these explosive reminders were perfectly timed to jolt the public consciousness and perpetuate the terror. More footage was being drip fed, the occasional victory counterbalanced with a grim defeat. The channel revelled in showing mutilated bodies of human victims of the terror attacks. It seemed that those that ran the channel were pushing the boundaries with every new episode. The watershed was now a thing of the past and daily doses of horrific reality was now beamed into the homes at any time of day, ready to fill the public with shock, horror and vengeance.

  Joshua's wait for the presentation allowed him the time to daydream a little. He imagined a brighter future, one where the myths had been expelled and the sky was once again blue. Joshua had also become rather more pessimistic of late. Recalling his previous investigations that had not ended with a thrilling breakthrough, he wondered how a conspiracy on this scale could possibly be broken. Even the historic conspiracies with clear smoking guns and inconsistencies a plenty were often impossible to shatter. He realised that even with the Internet in its former uncensored state, some lies can go uncontested with the careful manipulation of the very people that seek to expose them. Discredit those that seek the truth and suddenly even the best prepared, most intellectual and credible of cynics can be swept aside and branded as 'nuts'. Joshua had learned that it took an act of incredible bravery and resilience to remain firm in the face of public disdain. The tipping point of public perception sometimes just cannot be reached despite the presentation of the most compelling evidence. In this case, that tipping point seemed impossible to envision. How could he and likeminded others reach out to enough people to make a difference? Without the ability to communicate freely, the task seemed impossible. His greatest gift, the ability to write and inform through the avenues of the press was about to be snuffed out and it angered him.

  The small bald suited man read from his notes as he flicked through a number of projected images showing flow diagrams and other charts which seemed to show the new model for information management. The hushed audience of journalists jeered loudly at points increasing the clear levels of stress upon the government spokesman’s face.

  “What you people don't seem to understand is that we are at war here!” He called out at one point as the noise levels rose.

  “Our enemies are not flying their craft over our cities bombing us into oblivion, they are using calculating, guerrilla tactics. Their purpose is not to obliterate us, their aim to subjugate us, enslave us. A free press would allow them free reign to access the thoughts and opinion of the public and that cannot be allowed to happen!”

  Joshua listened with huge interest at the profound statements by the government representative. It was perhaps the first time he had heard from the 'horses mouth' what it was that the aliens were apparently trying to achieve. It was also clear that the man was passionate and utterly convinced by his own words. To others he may have been rather affecting but to the more cynical he was just another government stooge. When the noise levels rose to the point where his words began to be lost in the melting pot of hostility, several large, dark suited men appeared at the door. Their menacing size and body shape instantly quelled any further noise and their pistol shaped bulges beneath their jackets ensured that the rowdier fellows bit their lips and stifled their protests.

  Joshua frowned and sneered at the thought of feeling threatened by these smart looking thugs. The spokesman continued his presentation in silence and the journalists looked around at each other shaking their heads. The proposed guidelines were profound. In essence, the Messenger was to be little more than a government run propaganda machine. The incentives to continue as an independent venture were clearly still monetary, however its funding now being subsidised heavily by the government. Joshua objected naturally as did others. Each and every one of the writers gathered had now lost any incentive to continue in their work. The experiences they had gathered, the creativity they had nurtured, the competition with their counterparts all counted for nothing under the new regime. The spokesman expanded on the theme and throats were very dry as he announced that there would now be a government attachment to the writing team, a team of approved editors who would no doubt have final say of proposed copy. One brave writer Ian Mitchell, a burly outspoken journalist stood and interrupted the well rehearsed speech.

  “This is outrageous! Why don't you just write the fucking stories yourself!” He yelled with real and heartfelt disgust.

  “This is fascism!” He continued.

  “Sir, If you do not sit cease and desist, you will leave the room.” The spokesman sneered glancing over to his henchmen.

  “You have no right to tell me what to do, this is a free country and we are a free press. I have the right to voice my opinion and you cannot take that away from me!” The outburst had brought raucous agreement from his peers, and had enraged the small man enough that he sent forward his minions who grasped hold of Mitchell and proceeded to force him aggressively from the room.

  Joshua looked on with trepidation, he wanted to join in the venting of anger and frustration but he was also cautious. He knew he could not afford to tangle with anyone and arouse further suspicion. In secret silence he begged Mitchell to halt his protest, he envisaged only hardship for the bolshy reporter if he were to continue.

  Mitchell was dragged from the room to the disgust of many who shared his views. Mr Fernandes who was sat front and centre looked on in quiet contemplation as he saw the beginning of the end of his newspaper and to freedom of speech itself. Much to Joshua's surprise, the big ruddy cheeked man calmly took his seat and continued to listen to the last rights being delivered to his empire. Joshua felt a great sense of sorrow for the usually bold and verbose man who now seemed very small and fragile.

  Joshua knew that under the new management, his role would soon become redundant. Time was now not on his side. Action was necessary if he was to make use of the tools at his disposal, action that could enlighten the nation and wake them up from their ignorant slumber.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Cambridge Heath Road, Bethnal Green, London

  January 3rd 2021

  Joshua sat at his desk, his eyes burning, a cup of cold coffee at his side. The bright monitor lit a darkened room and a driven writer was hard at work. The television was on in the background, the sound down low. The noise of a passing train was regular and the steady flow of traffic outside lit up his room periodically with their headlights.

  Joshua did not feel that this was a fruitless task despite there being no obvious outlet for his work. He had begun to compile every aspect of his previous research and all he had learned over the past months into some kind of presentable product. He nervously tapped in the information into a desktop publisher, being sure to not only having the Internet modem disabled but also the cable unplugged from his com
puter. He knew that if this information was discovered or fell into the wrong hands, he would soon disappear without trace.

  As far as his planned distribution of this epic piece, he had no clear idea as yet. The paper now seemed too difficult but local distribution was limited and a public show of defiance would lead to the inevitable arrest. Knowing that he could not write the piece without implicating Roger Coffey, he continued anyway. Coffey was no doubt in enough trouble as it was in the States and any further evidence to support his rebellion would surely not count for much. Without scientific proof of the Prometheus effect, sceptics might try and discount Coffey’s theory but the point of his writing was not to crack the conspiracy single handed, it was just to apply a little stress in the machine that maybe one day would lead to a build up of fatigue and result in the dismantling of the plot. The fact that Joshua had no kind of evidence to suggest who was ultimately behind the show or what organisation they represented also mattered little. What mattered was to sow the seed of doubt into the public’s minds and invite them to question what they had come to believe as a savage reality.