"Hello," he said when he drew closer. She turned to him again, and he extended his hand. "Steve Davison."
She smiled and accepted his offered handshake. She was an attractive woman, with short hair, a petite frame, and a nice smile. Steve guessed she was in her mid-forties.
"Ardette Blounts," she said. "I was terribly upset by what happened to your father, to your family. And I think it’s very fitting that you are our implant recipient."
"Yes," Steve said, forcing neutrality onto his face. "And thank you." He had a feeling one of the toughest parts of the time he’d be spending here would be the cloying condolences from others. He would just have to keep reminding himself that they meant well, and that they cared for his father enough that many of them were potentially risking their careers, or maybe even time in prison, by helping him in secret. If the PCA found out, there would be hell to pay.
"Are you ready, Steve?" Alan asked as he joined them.
"And willing," Steve said. Removing his jacket, he added, "I guess we’ll see about ‘able’ soon enough."
"I have confidence in you, Steve," Alan said. He removed his own jacket and rolled his sleeves up to the elbow.
"I have standard targets set up across the bay," Ardette told Alan. "And two reinforced blocks for the vortex test."
"Very good," Alan said. Steve caught just a hint of warmth in their exchange. A relationship? "All right, Steve, we’ll try your lasers first." Reaching onto a shelf, he collected the now-familiar eye-band and walked over to Steve ...
After the initial programming, he stepped back. "Okay, Steve, face the steel blocks in the middle of the bay and pick one."
Resting on risers some twenty yards away, the blocks were about two feet wide and three feet tall. Steve randomly selected one just off center. Without looking away from it, he gave Alan a thumbs-up.
"In the same way that you change light spectrums, think ‘laser.’"
Steve followed Alan’s instructions. After a moment, the letter "L" literally appeared in front of him, then quickly changed into the cross-hairs of a target sight. Guided by his mere focusing, the sight settled in front of the chosen target.
"Got it."
"Now fire," Alan ordered.
Steve pushed, and twin, red beams sliced through the air and into the block. The block sizzled, smoke rising from the metal, and the lasers slowly burned through it. By the time they reached the far wall, their power was diminished beyond cutting through to the outside. The lasers maintained their flow until Steve relaxed.
"Excellent," Alan applauded, grinning ear-to-ear.
"It took more effort than I expected," Steve commented.
"That’s a safety feature," Ardette explained. She turned away from her monitors to speak to him. "We’ve configured your implants to minimize the possibility of accidental firing. Likewise, your weapons will always discharge at minimum power unless urged to a higher level. Your lasers could have easily destroyed that entire block instantly, but you’ll want to work up to that. Also, your weapons will not function when your eyes are closed — you’ll never have to worry about firing them in your sleep, and you can blink freely during their use without damage to your eyelids."
"Thanks. I was going to ask about that," Steve said with a grin. "Alan, how are these things powered?" He tapped his temple. "And I don’t just mean the eyes. Where did the energy for those lasers come from?"
"The eyes themselves — their basic functions and non-weaponry features — are powered by twin packs just underneath your frontal lobes. They’re a significantly compact, light-weight, and advanced new design based on the plutonium-two-thirty-nine oxide frequently used for pacemakers—"
"Woah, hold on a minute," Steve cut in. "Are you telling me I’ve got radioactive isotopes in my head?"
"They’re perfectly safe, Steve," Ardette assured him.
"They’ve been using them for decades for heart patients," Alan agreed. "And these are perfectly shielded, so you’ll experience no problems with microwave ovens or—"
"But what if they’re ruptured?"
"There would be the danger of radiation leakage," Alan admitted, "but then, the only way that could happen is if the front of your skull were shattered or punctured. Under those circumstances..."
"... I probably won’t be around to worry about the leakage," Steve concluded. "All right, I see your point." He wasn’t comfortable with the idea, but he supposed he would get used to that in time, just like a heart patient. "You said they power the ‘non-weaponry.’ That doesn’t explain the lasers."
"That’s ..." Now Alan looked a little hesitant, which made Steve even more uneasy, as Alan had popped off about the plutonium without any reluctance. "That’s where we had to get a little ... creative."
"Sounds encouraging," Steve grumbled sarcastically.
"The plutonium packs help with some of the initial charge, but not much — with luck, we hope to never worry about changing them out. The rest of the energy is charged and retained in energy cells throughout the implant structure. Almost every part of your mechanical eyes are capable of energy storage. It’s very efficient."
"Uh-huh. And where does this efficiently stored energy come from, Alan?"
Alan glanced at Ardette, perhaps for help. If so, he didn’t get it, as she suddenly found her clipboard absolutely fascinating. "From you, Steve."
"... excuse me?"
"The human body generates more bio-electricity than a one-hundred-twenty-volt battery and twenty-five-thousand BTUs of body heat—"
"I know. I saw The Matrix. Are you telling me you’ve turned that science-fiction bullshit into a real science?"
"It wasn’t really ‘science-fiction’ even back then, Steve, and it was never ‘bullshit,’ but ... yes, we’ve turned it into practical science."
"What will it do to me?"
"There are no long-term side-effects," Ardette insisted. "You will feel the effects during extended use of your weapons. The implants can charge to full capacity in less than twenty minutes. At that point, you’ll be able to emit a five-second burst of your lasers, as you did just now, at minimum power levels. The same goes for a three-second vortex wave. But if you fire these weapons again before full recharge, or push them up to higher power levels, you’ll feel the drain."
"Meaning what, exactly?"
"It’ll tire you out." Ardette said it with a shrug, and Steve sensed that she was stressing the simplicity of the situation rather than blowing him off.
"That’s one of the reasons I felt you’d make an excellent choice for this venture, Steve," Alan insisted. "You’re in superb physical condition. I know you’ll be able to handle it."
"That’s easy for you to say, Alan. I just learned that my new eyes are radioactive leeches." The sharp tone lowered Alan’s gaze. "You should have told me before, Alan."
"Steve ... if you’re having second thoughts about this ..."
"No," Steve sighed. "I’ll just ... need time to adjust to all of this."
"Of course."
Steve glanced across the bay at the practice targets. "Can we continue this a little later? I think I’d like to visit my dad’s office, if that’s all right."
"Sure, Steve. No problem. Just be sure to keep your ID badge with you at all times. Do you remember the way?"
"Yeah." Steve picked up his jacket and started to walk off. "Oh. Didn’t you mention some ‘new development’ you wanted to show me, Alan?"
"Yes, but ... it can wait."
Steve stood silently for a moment. He really did want to retreat into himself for a while, but he was already feeling bad for snapping at Alan — and Ardette, whom he had just met, no less — and he knew that Alan had been exceedingly patient so far. "Will it take long?"
"Not really, no. I just want you to take a look at something."
"Go ahead."
Moving quickly, Alan produced a box from underneath Ardette’s work table. "As good as your eyes are, we can’t forget the rogues’ own dangerous abilities. To hel
p insure your safety, we’ve created this." The box top was off and from within Alan produced a creme-colored fabric. He lifted it out and handed it to Steve.
Steve examined the material carefully. It looked like thermal underwear with much smaller pores, but it felt noticeably heavier. "What is it?"
"The closest comparison I can give you," Ardette answered, "is micro-chainmail."
Steve looked at her. "Really?" It felt heavy, but not anywhere near that heavy.
"Closest comparison," she reminded him. "It’s designed to diminish concussive force, energy, or even heat or cold much more effectively than Kevlar armor. For example, if exposed to fire, the outside’s temperature would inevitably rise, but the inside could maintain body temperature for a short period of time."
"Mmm." Steve looked at the material, ran his fingers over it. A stray thought, some free-floating idea danced through his mind. The possibilities for this material were perfect for ... but no, he wasn’t in the mood to think about that right now. "It’s very impressive," he told them, letting the idea go with a mental shrug. "Congratulations. I’m sure it’ll be extremely helpful in the fight against the rogues." When he finished speaking, he thought back on his words and cringed at how forced and two-dimensional they sounded.
Oh, well.
"Now," he said, dropping the material back into the box, "if you’ll excuse me ..."
PCA
In his dad’s office, Steve sat in his dad’s chair and stared out his dad’s window. That’s how he thought of it — each time that little voice tried to pipe up and remind him that it all belonged to him, he slammed it back down into the recesses of his mind.
From where he sat behind the desk, Steve could barely make out the next closest building, which just happened to be the second building his dad built on this property. Steve allowed himself a bitter-sweet smile ...
The structure was just taking shape, and his parents stopped by on his dad’s day off to see how things were going. Alan kept assuring Joseph that everything was fine, that he didn’t need to be such a mother hen, but those were the days before his dad could suppress the urge to micro-manage.
The Davisons owned a station wagon back then — their first Mercedes was still a few years off — and they left John and Steve in the car. After all, they weren’t going anywhere. They just stepped out for a minute or two, talking to Alan and shading the sun from their eyes as they marveled at their latest investment.
John sat in the very back, stretched out across the bed of the wagon as he read a Dungeons & Dragons manual, or something like that. Steve, on the other hand, clambered over the seats and slid behind the wheel. At four years old, his feet didn’t come anywhere near the pedals, but he enjoyed going through the motions of driving, which to him pretty much culminated in steering all the way to the right, then to the left, and back again, and so on.
Yet somehow, he managed to get the thing into Neutral. The engine wasn’t running, but the key was in the ignition. Either he turned it enough to free the gear lock, or his dad had rotated it just enough to kill the motor when they parked. They would never know for sure — he was too frightened to remember!
Regardless, Joseph Davison glanced back their way just as the station wagon began to roll backward. That edge of the property was on a slope back then, before the ground had been leveled out to allow for easier expansion. Piles of supplies — bricks, wood, steel — stood in precarious stacks at the bottom of the little hill, and the car was headed right for it.
Joseph was on the move before his wife and vice-president even realized what was happening. Steve gaped out the windows in shock, while John, his mind contemplating chilly tunnels and fire-breathing reptiles, remained oblivious. Joseph reached the car fairly quickly, but a quick jerk of the handle revealed that Steve’s playtime had also managed to lock the doors.
Amazingly, somehow, his dad performed the acrobatic stunt of reaching through the open window, finding the doorlock, opening the door, shoving Steve over as gently as possible, and leaping into the car ... all while running sideways at ever increasing speeds! He hit the brakes, bringing the car to a halt less than ten feet from the various building materials ...
Over the years, of course, that distance managed to shorten with each retelling. The last time Steve remembered his parents telling it — two Christmases ago, if he wasn’t mistaken — the gap had closed to the point where the back bumper actually dinged! lightly against the bricks as Joseph completed his miraculous save.
But that didn’t matter. Whether his parents chose to exaggerate later or not, the fact was that they could have easily been hurt, especially John in the very back. Little Steve had considered his father The Six Million Dollar Man for a long time after that.
Steve smirked now as he recalled the joke he’d made in the hospital, when he first tested his thermal vision. Steve Austin, astronaut, a man barely alive. We can rebuild him ...
... which included, along with two legs and an arm, a bionic eye.
Steve glanced down at his hands and flicked his thermal vision on and off. Fate, it seemed, was not without a sense of irony.
A damp feeling drew Steve’s attention. He wiped the back of his hand across his cheek and realized that he had been crying. It was the first tears he’d shed since receiving the implants. What a strange sensation, to cry without feeling it or having it affect your vision.
Even grief can’t reduce their digital accuracy! Two more points for the radioactive leeches!
A sudden buzz shook him from his acrid reverie. At first, he glanced around in confusion, until the sound came again and he realized that it was his dad’s intercom system.
Depressing the only button, he spoke, "Um, sorry, Alan’s not here. It’s just me."
"Actually," his dad’s receptionist — what was her name? — replied, "I was looking for you, Steve. There’s someone here from the PCA to see you."
"The PCA? To see me?" For a moment, he felt a swarm of butterflies take flight in his gut. What did the PCA want? They couldn’t have learned about the implants ... could they? But he supposed there was only one way to find out. He would just have to play it by ear — nothing would come across as suspicious as refusing to see the agent. "Just, uh, send’em on in, I guess," he told her, trying to sound as unconcerned as possible.
A moment later, the main doors opened, and an Asian man entered the room. He was surprisingly young — couldn’t have been much older than Steve himself. He wore a long coat, and Steve wondered how many hi-tech toys he might be carrying on him ... and how many of them had been developed by his dad’s company.
Stay focused, Steve ...
"Steven Davison?" the Asian man prompted as he approached the desk and Steve stood to greet him.
"Yes."
"Michael Takayasu," he said by way of greeting. He extended his hand and met Steve’s firm handshake with a not-inconsiderable grip of his own. "If this is an appropriate time, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your recent experience with the rogue."
Steve shrugged and sat down while gesturing for Takayasu to do the same. "Sure, I guess. I’ve already told the police everything I know."
"I understand that, Mister Davison," the agent said smoothly as he made himself comfortable. "I’ve read the report. However, I’ve been indirectly assigned to your case, and I felt it prudent to acquire all my information as directly as possible. I’m sure you understand."
Steve shrugged again ... then wondered if the apathetic gesture was a bit too much. Inside, his heart was pounding, and he kept hoping that Alan would suddenly waltz through the door. He wanted to leave as little an impression upon the agent as possible, but he didn’t want to behave as though he didn’t care. "I’ll help you in any way possible, Agent Takayasu."
The man smirked, although it did not feel as though it were directed at Steve personally. "It’s ‘Ensign,’ actually. How about you just call me ‘Michael?’ "
"Sure."
Takayasu — Steve wasn’t ready to
think of him as "Michael" just yet, and he didn’t invite the man to call him "Steve" — produced a little notepad and began asking questions. Most of them were standard no-brainers, nothing that Steve hadn’t already disclosed. Then the ensign popped out with, "The electricity that struck the tire — could you describe it?"
Steve hesitated out of nothing more than confusion. "Well, as I just told you, it was pretty much like a bolt of lightning."
"I understand the ease of that comparison, Mister Davison. But, if you’ll indulge me: Was it narrow or broad? Did it appear purely white or bluish-white, or did it perhaps appear like a prism?"
Paranormals (Book 1) Page 12