REACTION
THE END OF THE IRON AGE, BOOK 1
by
Seth M. Baker
Reaction is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
2012 Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2012 by Seth M. Baker
Cover by Ranilo Cabo
For more about the author as well as information about upcoming books
please visit www.sethmbaker.com
Storrs, Connecticut
Spring, 2023
1
Amadeus Brunmeier vomited into the urinal. Acidic brown flecks splattered onto the index cards on which he had written his speech outline, soiled by anxiety. He heard the bathroom door open. Someone grabbed a clump of Amadeus’ loam brown hair and pushed him forward, smashing his forehead against an unforgiving white wall. His body crumpled like a deflated balloon. On the cold tile, he vomited again, just as a kick went into his back, near his kidneys. He rolled over. Davy loomed above him, his eyes bulging from his fat pink face like a frog’s.
“I told you I’d find you,” Davy said.
“We both know you won. I already told you.”
“Not what the judges said. This is grad school at Penn we’re talking about. Penn State.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s not my fault they figured out you hired Pakistani freelancers to do your research.”
“Somebody told them. I think it was you.” Davy spit on Amadeus just before kicking him in the stomach. Amadeus wheezed. “You’re lucky there are people out there, Brunmeier.”
The bathroom door opened, and he saw a familiar figure step in: his old friend, Grassal Delgado. Grassal stood a head taller than Davy and just as wide and carried himself like a bull.
“Especially me,” Grassal said, grabbing Davy by the belt and tossing him against the wall. Davy cried out as his face slammed against the white tile. “Clean yourself up, you’ve got a speech to give…valedictorian.” Grassal had his hands on his hips. Davy started to stand. Grassal placed a foot over the small of his back and held him down.
“No. No way. I’m not doing it,” Amadeus said. “I’m shaking, my stomach is sick, my face is bloody, and there are so many people, thousands of people. They’ll be watching, looking at me, waiting for me to screw up.”
“You worry too much,” Grassal said. “Just do the speech. It’s easy. We’ve practiced it a hundred times. You sound fine,” Amadeus remembered the crowd he saw only moments earlier, an echoing arena packed with well-dressed relatives. Amadeus sighed as Grassal helped him to his feet. He gave Amadeus a paper towel and put his arm around Amadeus’ shoulder, guiding him out of the bathroom, leaving Davy on the floor. Amadeus tore a bit of the paper towel off, stuck it in his mouth, and started to chew.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” Amadeus said, dabbing at his nose, allowing himself to be led out the door. As soon as they stepped through the door to the concourse, however, Amadeus pushed Grassal’s arm away. He ran through the fire exit doors and onto the sidewalk, leaving Grassal panting and bent over, hands on his knees. Amadeus found his motorcycle in the parking lot and roared away from the crowds, Gampel Pavilion, and the terror. His stuff was already moved back home, and he had had enough of UConn anyway. Amadeus decided someone else could give the valediction.
Two hours later, back in Stamford, Amadeus sat on a stone bench under the gnarled oak tree across from his mother's grave. When Amadeus heard the car he sat upright. Though his first instinct was to run, he stayed and watched, expressionless, as his father walked up. He smiled at Amadeus, his smile making his slight face appear full. Amadeus felt the shame all over again.
“I let you down,” Amadeus said. “I let Mom down. I let everyone down.”
“Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. It was just a speech. Scoot over.” He sat down next to his son and put his arm around him. Amadeus’ shoulders tensed then relaxed.
“She’d be so proud of you. You’re still valedictorian, even if you didn’t give a speech.”
“Now everyone knows I’m a failure.”
“No, Amadeus. You failed at your speech, you’ve got blood on your face, you smell like puke, but you’re not a failure. Every failure is an education, and you just graduated. Now you can fail even bigger.” His father removed the band from his pony tail, letting his long, grey hair dangle over his shoulders. They sat in silence for a while. A spring breeze swept over the hill, making the plastic roses quiver. “But I still wish you were just a little more ambitious. I mean, geovisual analytics? That's technician stuff.”
“Geography is a great field, and I can continue my work on health mapping. Plus, I won’t have to give speeches or present papers. I’ve got five job offers for this fall, and I intend to start working as soon as I’ve had a couple months to decompress.”
“You’ll either get bored or rusty, Amadeus, and I don’t just mean this summer. Study quantum physics. You’ll need a couple prerequisites, but it’s not too late to get you into Cal Tech. This old man still has some friends at university.”
“I’m not like you, Dad. I don’t understand systems I can’t see, can’t handle and analyze. I struggled with Newtonian physics. But computers, systems, data visualizations, these things somehow make sense to me. Calculus doesn’t. Quantum physics makes my brain melt.”
“It doesn’t make your brain melt.”
“You’re disappointed. With me.”
“Come on, kid,” Tommy said, standing up. “Let’s go home. We’ve got relatives to entertain.”
2
On his motorcycle, Amadeus followed his father back to their three-story house outside the city. Inside, the floor was covered in balloons the color of blood and concrete. Jazz played on the stereo, something from the middle of the last century, cacophonous and frantic. The saxophone reminded Amadeus of a ball bouncing down a stairwell. His aunt and uncle, Mark and Annie, sang a processional as he walked in the door. Dah duh dah duh... Amadeus’ stomach grew queasy; the anxiety from earlier returned.
Amadeus looked at his father, sitting at the big blond oak table with his brother, and wondered how much time his father had spent locked in his room, studying and learning. He would’ve been a young man in the early days of the internet, so he never would’ve been short on access to research and people to contact. Amadeus would have to ask his father sometime. Amadeus’ own childhood had been so quiet, just the three of them, then later just the two of them, though Grassal spent so much time at their house that Amadeus decided he should count him as well.
“Hey hey!” Amadeus heard Grassal yell in the hallway. “I’m glad everybody made it down here for our boy’s graduation afterparty! Where’s my weak-stomached friend?”
“You hacker trash,” Amadeus yelled back. “I made a reasonable decision based on the circumstances.” He heard Grassal plodding down the hall towards him. Amadeus gave Grassal his best defiant look.
“Bullshit on two counts. One, hackers aren’t trash, we’re respected information security professionals. And two, you gave up and let your anxiety get the best of you. Man, you should’ve seen the dean running around just before the ceremony. She looked like a little girl who’d just lost his puppy. But whatever,” Grassal said, throwing a big arm around Amadeus’ thin frame. “You’re still my brother, even if you act like a terrified conejito.”
“You’re an asshole,” Amadeus said. “What’s a conejito?” Grassal just shook his head. Amadeus tried to slip from Grassal’s grasp, but Grassal led Amadeus to the kitchen. Amadeus cringed when everyone turned toward him.
“Ah, there they are. Everyone,” Annie said, “I believe Uncle Ma
rk has an announcement.” She held a half-eaten baby carrot in her hand. She motioned to her husband to start then shot Amadeus an apologetic look. A boot-sized object covered in brown cloth sat upon the table. Mark placed one hand on the cloth.
“Now, in honor of our brilliant nephew Amadeus, I commissioned a work from our friend. He likes to capture people in transition, when they’re at a big milestone or a turning point in their lives, ready to begin new adventures. His work is quite popular in…some circles in New York. So, we told him about our little Amadeus, how he was valedictorian at UConn and getting ready to start his adult life. Our friend, his name is Twiggy, by the way, Twiggy said, ‘give me a picture of him, I can make something good.’ So we did, Amadeus, and Twiggy...made...this!”
He removed the cloth to reveal a statue, about ten centimeters high, of a young man, sinewy and naked, one hand at his side, the other holding a sling draped over his back. The statue had Amadeus’ face but, Amadeus thought, the rest was idealized and familiar.
“Oh god,” Amadeus said. For the second time that day and the fourth time that week, he felt vomit escaping his stomach and racing towards his throat. No, he thought, they really, this is just a cruel joke. I have to pretend to like it. I can’t puke. Have to lie, have to lie. “I mean, wow! It’s, uh, wonderful. Wow!” He leaned in closer to examine the statue. The genitalia were larger than his own; maybe the artist was trying to do him a favor. A plaque at the bottom read “Amadeus Brunmeier: Onward and Upward.” Who the hell, Amadeus wondered, was this artist? Surely his uncle had better taste than this. But maybe not.
“Watch this,” Mark said. He pressed a button on the statue’s back and said “record.” He picked up the statue, panned it around the room, then set it on the table. The left nipple flickered and the scene Mark had just recorded projected itself onto the table, a bemused family and one embarrassed child.
“This would be great for a video journal,” Mark said. “Think of it like talking to yourself. Sure, it’s not got the fastest processor, but it’s all off-cloud, non-Tivooki, just like your father likes, and can hold a ton of data. The sling extends into a USB plug.” Mark pressed on the sling and a plug protruded from the small of the statue’s back.
“Vintage,” Grassal said. From his pocket, he pulled out a pink USB stick attached to a key ring. “Mine’s more talisman than anything else, but it feels good to store my stuff on something tangible.”
“Wow, thanks Mark,” Amadeus said, looking over at Grassal. Grassal was trying not to laugh. Amadeus slunk back, almost out of the kitchen, covering his mouth, fighting his reflexes.
“Speech!Speech!” Mark said. Amadeus looked down at his feet. He felt his face flush. Amadeus started to back out of the room with its thin air and stifling heat, the five sets of occupying lungs taking all the oxygen from the room and replacing it with something noxious, definitely not carbon dioxide. Amadeus felt light headed. All their eyes were upon him, waiting, expectant.
“Thank you, it’s very nice. But…excuse me,” he said as he ran to the bathroom. His internal organs felt like wet nylon rope and someone was trying to wring the water out. In the bathroom, he didn’t puke but he locked the door, turned the lights out, sat on the toilet, taking deep oxygen-rich breaths, enjoying the blurry, forgetful feeling that came along with so much oxygen. Between breaths, he tore off scraps of toilet paper and shoved them into his mouth, chewing them up and spitting them out. He expected some well-meaning knock at the door, but thankfully none came. After about fifteen minutes, his breathing slowed and he was ready to return to the kitchen. There, everyone was eating and talking as if nothing had happened. The statue sat in the center of the table, projecting a recording of Grassal contorting his face.
“There he is!” Mark said. “Annie, get this boy a plate of food.”
“No. No.” Amadeus put up his hands. “I’m fine. No, really.” Annie got up from the table and started making him a plate. “You really don’t have to do that, I can make my own food.”
“You sit there, mister. Today’s your big day, and maybe you can relax for at least one day of your life.” A minute passed. She poured some sweet dip into a bow and sliced up an apple. She lowered her voice. “I’m sorry about the statue,” Annie said, her tone confiding. “That’s all Mark, you know. The artist is his friend, and you know how he is, wanting to make everybody happy. I said to him, Mark, what’s he going to do with a statue of himself....and a naked one at that, just give him a little flex-screen, or some money,’ but he went on and on about Michelangelo’s David as an ideal for any young man.”
“I thought the torso looked familiar,” Amadeus said, thinking back to his art appreciation class. While some parts of the class were fascinating, he thought the real art was in making improvements on the works of the past. The most important inventions today were only new adaptations and improvements of some primitive predecessor. The thought of making only for the beauty of it seemed an arcane, old-fashioned notion. He thought that, maybe in simpler times, doing something like this would be worth the time. But not today.
Besides that, what would he want with a naked statue of himself? He already had a fine computer. Maybe his father would let him leave it here in the house.
Annie sat that plate of food down. “We’re a lot alike. Mark likes to drag me to these society parties. So many people around, it looks like everyone is having fun, but I’d rather be in my office, alone, working on another piece.”
“Still freelancing for the Times of America?” Amadeus said.
“I love it,” Annie said. “It's a small operation, but we have a million page views a week, and that's just enough to get me some really interesting interviews. Maybe one day they'll make a position for me."
“Sounds terrifying.”
“It was, at first, but I worked my way up. It’s not like one day I was forced to speak before all those people. But I’ll leave you alone, Amadeus. Try and relax.” Amadeus smiled for what felt like the first time in a week and said he would, but instead of joining everyone in the living room, he picked at the fruit plate, rolling a pale green grape around like a glass marble. After a few minutes, his father came in the room and piled several cubes of pungent, crumbly blue cheese on top of some roast beef slices.
“Amadeus, won’t don’t you come in here and join us? It’s not like you get to see your uncle Mark often. You seem so sad, just hiding away in the kitchen all day.”
“I’m okay, it’s just...well, after today, I’m kind ashamed of myself.” His father frowned then put his arm around his son.
“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of. You’re still the smartest boy in the class. Just because you freaked out, ran away, and let six thousand people down doesn’t make you any less of a person,” his father said, smiling like a salesman.
“Oh, thanks for that,” Amadeus said, but he realized he was smiling, too. “I feel so much better. Fine, I’ll come in. Are Mark and Annie staying here tonight, or are they staying at a hotel?”
“You think I want my drunken brother doing things to his lovely wife in the room next to me? You bet your ass they’re staying at a hotel. Come on, kid.” Tommy put his hand on Amadeus’ elbow. Amadeus allowed himself to be led by his father and, together, they joined everyone in the living room. Amadeus eventually forgot himself and became caught up in the familiar rhythms of family banter. Hours later, when the roast beef trays sat empty, rubbish overflowed the bin, and Mark was staggering and slurring, the party was declared a success. Amadeus walked Annie and Mark to their car.
“Don’t worry about the speech,” Annie said. “The worst is over. Sorry about the statue. Keep in touch.” She gave him a little kiss on the cheek. Amadeus blushed, thankful no one had bothered to replace the porch light that burned out months ago. He went inside to find Grassal and his father finishing off a bottle of rum. Tommy grinned at his son.
“Guys, let’s go to the basement,” Tommy Brunmeier said. “I’ve got something cool to show you.”
&nb
sp; 3
The basement was long and cavernous, divided into three parts: a storage area, a workshop, and the lab. The storage area held parts and components, neatly labeled in boxes and drawers. In the workshop, fabrication tools: a lathe, drill press, and smelter. A closet filled with scroungable antique electronics.
The lab took up the most space and was a basement unto itself, complete with lead-lined walls, server racks, a separate control room for experiments, and a small cyclotron Tommy had installed several years ago. For as long as Amadeus could remember, a Union cavalry sword hung over the lab door, right below the M4 Carbine rifle his father used in Afghanistan.
In the lab, Amadeus and Grassal watched as Tommy pried open a wooden crate. From it, he removed several black metal rods and a glass cylinder in a metal housing that glowed blue. He handed a couple of the rods to Amadeus. “A graduation gift from Jones. Amadeus, you remember Jones. We could use these fabricate new pistons for your bike.”
“That could be interesting,” Amadeus said. He had considered selling the bike and using the money to take a trip to California.
“What’s this other stuff?” Grassal said, pointing to the glowing glass cylinder.
“Kipium. It has a negative mass but stays stable. Used to be called exotic matter. Some miners in West Virginia discovered their vacuum lasers were creating small amounts of it. Now the coal mines scrape the stuff off their ceilings.”
“The same kipium you used for the teleportation research?” Amadeus said.
“I didn’t ask him to send it. I told you I brought that work to an end.”
“What work?” Grassal said.
Reaction Page 1