Pencil in hand, he observed it with mystery until Inaya called his name. She stood outside his bed, just watching. “What?” he asked.
She quipped, “Time for school, little boy.”
Books he’d lent from the library rested on a table at ground floor. Mezox knew he was in trouble.
The pace of learning felt comfortable to begin with. However, Inaya didn’t quite grasp the rate at which one can commit their newfound knowledge into long-term memory. She pressed on with little care for re-capping any material.
Mezox found her increasingly tiresome with every passing minute. She had compressed a month’s worth of natural learning into the space of an hour.
“Slow down,” he pleaded – several times.
She accepted his pleas, which lasted for merely minutes, but her annoyance also grew with each subsequent request.
Mezox’s temper broke first as he stormed off back to bed.
Inaya followed after five minutes of quiet time. “Have you thought about your actions and ready to apologise?”
Mezox snorted. “Your height doesn’t make me the child.”
“And I am?” asked Inaya.
Bewildered, he replied, “How are you so smart and yet so dumb?”
Her response was a silent stare.
“Somehow, you think I possess the same skills you do. I cannot learn to differentiate or integrate in ten minutes.”
She spoke after a further pause. “Then I apologise. You’re different in many ways.”
“Different from what?”
“Never mind,” she said firmly. “You say what’s manageable and we spend the day on that.”
He considered it a fair deal and accepted. Yet, back at the table, Inaya laughed when Mezox proposed the six pages he felt comfortable covering that afternoon.
And so, learning in manageable chunks improved Mezox’s memory retention. A run in the morning followed by breakfast and lessons became the new norm. His focus grew in Joe’s absence, who’s work training had begun.
On the seventh day, Mezox’s lesson was disturbed by Professor Jones’s unexpected arrival.
Jones handed over Alex’s notebook. “I reread it and understood your points.”
“Does that mean we get those resources?”
Jones responded with a sense of sympathy. “Not quite.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My admission is not one of agreement concerning its validity. However, I do believe you deserve a shot to prove otherwise. It’s for that reason I can, at least, offer you a private facility.”
Mezox couldn’t believe his ears. “But what use is an empty lab?”
“It’s no mystery that Joe’s offered to help – and not to worry, nobody will oppose the move. I just ask that you’re careful.”
“Of course,” said Mezox before shaking his hand.
Inside Alex’s notebook was an additional piece of paper. It detailed the new research site’s location and miscellaneous information. It was an empty residence tower situated almost a mile further North East. Recently constructed, they and immediate neighbouring buildings were uninhabited.
To coordinate one’s day without circumnavigating that of coinhabitants was too irresistible. With belongings on their persons, and without hesitation, the transfer was made. Distance was their one disadvantage. Meals required collecting every evening along with breakfast for the following morning.
Joe returned to his former residence and found a note, inviting him to live at the new site. Remoteness was also an issue for him. It meant a longer walk to work and back each day. Instead, he would stop over from Friday to Sunday evenings.
Even then, Mezox’s focus sharpened with a tolerance for extended periods of learning. He had little time for anyone.
The race was on. The immediate construction of a prototype would generate the same results as those built before. Inaya, therefore, urged Mezox’s slight tangent toward additional concepts.
An hour was designated for brainstorming the issue. Inaya had him aim to understand why a move to insulate outer segments resulted in a change of hypertron behaviour.
The pressure began to mount once again. He complained, “It’s like you know the answer.”
She fervently contested such a notion. “I want two minds as opposed to one working on a solution.”
He construed her words as though it were a race. A competition that, if won, would validate his worth and potential. Post-study, he would reread his father’s notes, focusing more centrally on particle behaviour.
A particle isn’t plate-shaped but rounded by a circumnavigation of looping energy from the disk’s edge to the core. An electron wields less spin than its positively charged counterpart; the positron. The reduced spin of electrons equals a smaller centre. Those returning loops drown out the core’s effects at its poles.
A higher spin allows for a larger core and positive potential. Polar returns cannot drown said potential, allowing external objects to be directly influenced by it. This core yearns for more sustenance, drawing in negatively charged particles if necessary.
A magnetic field is analogous to the vibrating units of spring-like features that have yet to find a place within its fabric of space. A particle may accept the feedback loop through one pole and out the other, forming a unidirectional flow and a magnetic field.
Annihilation of an electron and positron occur because their combined characteristics are at oddities with nature’s balance.
Repulsion occurs as a consequence of two identical particles bridging energy between them. In the nucleus, quarks spin with eddy currents. These miniature units can be exchanged between neighbouring quarks as mesons and their by-product gluons. A swapping of spin potential alters the quarks’ behaviour and, ultimately, their flavour.
The core’s pulsing action allows it to snag and chomp the feedthrough for incorporation. Energy exceeding its state of stability is lost at the equatorial juncture.
Two mornings later and Mezox found a connection while out for a run. He’d visualised the particle in slow motion for ten minutes. The dramatic intensity had him sit on a grass verge while his imagination ran wild. The insulation reduced the feedback loops, allowing the core to adopt more income from its polar surroundings. This permitted simultaneous energy storage and profit without additional input.
Mezox drew an illustration of his grand vision and posted it through a gap in Inaya’s pod.
An hour later and Inaya discovered Mezox kicking back under the summer sun. She sat on a nearby boulder with the paper in hand.
Mezox asked, “What do you think?” with a mild gloat.
She glanced at the drawing and said, “Simple, elegant and correct.”
Mezox sighed exhaustively. “How can you know it’s ‘correct,’ Inaya?”
“Maybe I knew the answer already,” she said before walking away.
But he smiled and responded with a mumble. “Sure you did.” And since the trip with Joe was a day away, he spent it revelling in his accomplishment and relaxing. This didn’t turn out so well. In the grips of a heatstroke, he spent the night vomiting and suffering from powerful migraines. Regardless, delaying the trip was not permissible.
By morning, his condition had waned somewhat. The air was also pleasingly fresh as he went to meet Joe.
They spoke little, but upon reaching Joe’s vehicle, Mezox had plenty to complain about. The dashboard, footwell and passenger seats were littered with paper wrappings from another variety of cereal bar. Apple chunk flapjacks were Joe’s favourite. It didn’t help that the carriage also smelled funky. Then again, the truck was decades old. Fresh bouts of queasiness sapped his strength.
As his knees and arms trembled, he employed whatever features were available to elevate himself onto the seat. A good sleep throughout their journey was the plan.
Goal achieved, he slid along more centrally when his right hand grasped a long and cold metal stick. He glanced over to determine the object’s nature and found a s
hotgun perched between seats.
“Okay, what’s that for.”
Joe had just clipped in his seatbelt. “Protection.”
“Are they used often?”
“Rarely from what I understand. Northern cities might be friendlier than London, but their hospitality suffers once they sniff you out.”
“All flatbeds seem generic. Won’t they be on the lookout?”
Joe tittered. “Oh yes.”
The vehicle started along with Mezox’s concerns.
“And if anyone asks,” said Joe handing over a fake beard. “We’re from Manchester.”
“Can we trust your cousin?”
“He moved north to escape our family years ago. Our story’s not for his ears.”
“So he’s aware that you’re an Hypatian?”
Joe began reversing out the yard. “Not exactly.”
Hypatia held no direct road networks with outside territories. Dirt roads led South West until an artery between Carlisle and Newcastle-Upon-Tyne became visible, dominated by heavy goods vehicles. With so few goods and development, transportation lasted for two hours before dying away. A little early, Joe paused nearby, awaiting an easing of traffic.
Roads lacked uniformity, dashing Mezox’s hopes for extra sleep. Their temporary stillness on a quiet street offered an opportunity to review the shopping list.
“Will this be too much?” asked Mezox.
Joe glanced at the near sixty lines of items and their description. “No, it’s fine.” He opened a compartment to reveal a wad of cash.
“I can’t help but feel guilty at having you depart with it.”
“I saved in the hopes of a better life. Well, now I have that and money,” said Joe before sealing away his funds. “Just make sure that thing of yours works.”
A dusky horizon wasn’t from the city as presumed, but an approaching storm. It was welcomed by Mezox. A sunny summer’s day within any municipality was an intolerable affair for anyone. Either way, fewer people would walk the streets.
At Carlisle’s outskirts, rain accumulated, from puddles to scattered floods. An ash-rich waste deposit wasn’t hard to find. Joe jumped out and began scooping.
Still queasy, Mezox joined him if not to speed up the process. It took five minutes to stir an episode of regurgitation. Forced back into the vehicle, sleep found him for the next hour.
He awoke to discover the vehicle already in motion for an unknown period of time. And before he could request their location, a scrapyard became visible ahead. Its extensive size alone was cause for a lot of excitement.
No person was visible from the gates. Joe parped his horn as the smell of metal and oil aroused Mezox’s senses.
Minutes later and a figure approached from behind a mountain of metal, followed by another individual. The gates opened to Mezox’s relief.
Joe parked near the entrance, lifted the handbrake, and hopped out with joy at seeing his cousin, Simon, for the first time in a decade.
“I hear you’re here to make me a rich man,” said Simon.
“Well that depends on how many items you can tick off,” said Joe waving his envelope of money.
Another character approached with a bottle in hand.
“That’s Graham,” said Simon. “He’s your handyman. There were more, but they couldn’t handle the rain.”
“But he’s pissed.”
“Why do you think he’s still here?”
Graham had a different concern. “Why did you come through the North gate?”
“We got a little lost,” explained Joe.
Simon seised the list and gently slammed it against Graham’s chest. “Just get on with it.”
It signalled the commencement of their search, for which Mezox made a concerted effort.
Graham’s willingness to communicate was found wanting. Like a guide at a safari, he would point and wait. Joe and Mezox would obtain their chosen objects and carry them without further assistance from Graham.
Back and forth they went for four hours. Mezox searched an older mound of mangled rust. A few glimmers of silver proved irresistible. The partially buried pieces of cutlery were tested with a handheld magnet. It didn’t stick, hinting at their silver content.
The truck bed filled rapidly with metal sheets, frames, poles, wire and transformers, switches. Simon had pre-purchased welding materials, gas canisters, solder, Teflon, ceramics, and glue passed on. Much of the ash had washed away.
Graham grew increasingly agitated when Simon objected to his lazy approach. By this time, Mezox felt satisfied with what was acquired, likening it to an all-you-can-eat buffet, and awaited Joe’s return in the truck.
Murky windows offered little visual acuity. Mezox opened the driver-side door and relaxed.
Joe hung around the gatehouse, engaging in chit-chat with his cousin. Graham trailed behind swigging his moonshine. And as he stared, something began to stand out. Unsure, he approached further yet, squinting and tilting his head. A small flap of Joe’s beard hung loosely from his upper sideburn thanks to the damp conditions. Graham reached out and snagged it, plucking some of Joe’s real hairs.
Joe instinctively pushed Graham away with a slap to his sternum. His beard came off in Graham’s hand.
Graham held it up and grinned at Joe. “I knew it. A beardless man can only be an Infidel.”
Joe snatched it back, “Or someone that dislikes beards as you do being sober.”
“You’re lying,” screamed Graham. His stumbling became more erratic before shouting, “You think I’m stupid?”
Joe’s eyes pointed upward before looking back to him. “You nailed it.”
Graham whipped out a handgun from his right pocket and pointed it at Joe’s face. “I dare you to say that again.”
Mezox hit auto-mode by pulling out the shotgun from its stock. Its iron-sights caught Joe’s seat stitching, preventing his ability to raise the barrel. He couldn’t peel it back. However, the harder he raised the barrel, the slacker it got.
Meanwhile, Simon attempted to lower Graham’s arm and confiscate the pistol, only to receive a swing of the bottle on his nose. He tumbled to the floor clutching his face.
Joe saw it as an opportunity to run back and retrieve his weapon. Graham discharged two shots before Joe could hide behind the truck.
Graham caught a glimpse of Mezox pulling up the shotgun and lined a shot his way. Mezox leaned against the door when Joe opened it, causing him to accidentally press the trigger. The gun fired, thrusting him backwards, only to land on Joe.
Joe sprung to his feet with a firearm in hand. He peeked over the bonnet to discover Graham laying in a puddle turned red. “You got the sod,” he laughed.
Mezox believed himself to have missed the shot.
Joe approached with caution and kicked Graham’s leg. There was no response. He established that, “A few pellets through one’s chest tends to do the trick.”
Mezox felt a sense of guilt and sympathy at having expired a human. “I’ve never killed anyone before.”
They helped Simon back to his feet. “He’s not worth an ounce of regret,” said Joe.
Distant sirens became audible and heading their way. Joe dragged his cousin toward the truck. “What are you doing?” asked Simon.
“You’ll receive the blame if they don’t catch us,” explained Joe.
Simon feared not only the prospect of incarceration and the loss of his business but Joe’s undisclosed plan. He was quickly coerced between the two seats when Joe sped off.
Mezox handed Simon some paper to control Simon’s nosebleed. He didn’t explicitly fear arrest but remained fixated on the ethical wrangling of having killed someone. Concerns of capture did dominate once a passing police car turned and gave chase.
Joe threw the shotgun onto Mezox’s lap. “Make use of those shooting skills,” he demanded.
He responded in a pedantic fashion. “You want me to kill them, too?”
“No, I want you to go out there and tickle them with
it,” said Joe with an elevated voice.
The truck’s rear bumper was rammed by the cop car, prompting Mezox to act. He cocked the weapon and stuck it through the open window. The side mirror offered a means to aim behind his position. His left hand held the weapon’s shaft for stability with his right thumb on the trigger. He ordered Joe to, “Hold it steady.” A perfect shot of the car’s hood came into sight. When fired, the weapon jolted from his grasp. Its rocket-like recoil was enough to remove the side mirror, and the firearm flung several more feet before landing on the street.
Joe witnessed the whole thing. “Only you, Mezox.”
Mezox had struck the car’s hood as intended, but the afflicted damage proved insufficient. A few shots from small arms fire was the response.
Joe became desperate and slammed the brakes. The car slammed into them. A few objects fell out of the truck’s bed. He flipped the gears into reverse, crushing their pursuers’ vehicle before speeding off again.
Their opponent’s clear incapacitation spurred a howl of excitement from Joe. “You see boys. That’s how it’s done.”
It took a few moments for silence to return. They were to return with damaged property while accompanied by a non-Hypatian. A fresh set of ‘what next’ questions came to spoil the mood.
Mezox broke it by telling Joe, “I require a welder if you want the job?”
Joe nodded in silence, aware of his driving career’s inevitability.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Otherworldly
Hypatia faced an ethical issue of its own; What to do with Simon. He proposed a return to England and stay with any of two siblings.
Sallace agreed and began preparations. However, a colleague placed a temporary halt on such plans. Summanus was about to air in relation to the scrapyard incident. A nearby community restroom housed a television. It filled with various military and on-site personnel in the twenty minute wait.
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