The Psychonaut_Book 1

by Tom G. H. Adams

  “It had to be the aide. I’d place money on it.”

  “Bravo. Absolutely correct,” Karapetian said, bringing his hands together in front of him and pointing them at Merrick. “Now perhaps you can understand why we’re interested in you.”

  “Well, I’m flattered but—”

  “It’s fascinating you know. The way you employ your talent. You don’t even know you’re doing it, do you?”

  Merrick put his glass down on the desk. “I think you’re reading more into it than is there. I know, given the nature of your order, you believe in mystical powers and influences, but my skills are simply borne out of refined logic.”

  “Okay. So tell me which branch of science enables you to smell and taste the emotional changes in the people around you?”

  Merrick looked down, puzzled. “I’m not aware I do that.”

  “Come now, Merrick. You’re being disingenuous with yourself. The eastern mystics have a name for what you have—they call it the third eye. Our order names your kind Psychonauts.”

  Merrick laughed out loud—and carried on laughing. Finally, when he had composed himself he said, “I’m sorry, Lazlo, but you had me going for a while there. Maybe you’ve spent too long in this Order of yours, but you should hear yourself. There’s such a thing as delusion you know.”

  Karapetian wasn’t laughing.

  “Sorry,” Merrick said, rubbing his chin. “That wasn’t called for. But seriously—Psychonauts?”

  “It shouldn’t surprise me that you are skeptical. But before you dismiss it, let me show you something. Come with me.”

  Merrick picked up his drink and followed Karapetian out. They walked down carpeted corridors lined with byzantine wall hangings and other exotic ornaments, until they reached another door. Beyond this was a helical staircase winding downward into the bowels of the building. At the bottom they passed through double oak doors and emerged into a cavernous hall, two stories high. Light streamed down from a stained-glass ceiling and illuminated the marbled area with a tinted hue.

  People of all cultural types involved themselves in activities peculiar yet mundane. Nearest to him were two young twins engaged in a game of chess. Merrick couldn’t tell which of them had the upper hand but sweat poured from their foreheads in copious amounts. He wasn’t sure in the subdued light, but one seemed to have a crimson tear on her cheek. Over to his left, two figures fenced. The muted clangour of their sabres carried across the floor as they parried and thrust with determination.

  “What are you running here—a school or something?” Merrick said.

  “Of sorts.”

  Merrick looked over at another table. Round it were sat a motley assortment of characters, all watching an old man with an overly long, white goatee recite the names of cards. A blindfold covered his eyes as a woman confirmed their identity from a pack in front of her. Lined up at the side were several card shoes and, by Merrick’s calculation, each could hold at least four decks. The man spoke quickly, his voice rattling like a locomotive on the tracks. His memory was flawless.

  “How long can he keep that up for?”

  “He’s been recalling cards for eighteen days now. I believe he’s got another two thousand packs to go.”

  “Okay, I admit I’m impressed, but thousands have used memory palace techniques over the centuries to recall card sequences or decimal places for the numerical value of pi. It doesn’t mean there’s anything metaphysical involved.”

  Karapetian leaned over him and spoke in a gentle whisper. “What if I was to say that he memorised ten thousand packs—that’s over half a million cards—in just under twenty four hours.”

  “I would say it’s impossible for anyone to move their hands fast enough to manipulate every individual card in that time.”

  “Ah, but you see, he doesn’t. Watch this.”

  Karapetian approached the table and the spectators turned to him.

  “Soon it will be time for your break, Svetlanov. You’ll need to replenish the calories you’ve expended this morning. But do show us how you learn the cards.”

  The old man took off his blindfold and reached for a shoe of cards behind him. He withdrew four packs and placed these all between the digits of his right hand. Separating his two hands flat on the table, he tossed the first pack up in the air. It somersaulted without displacing a single card and landed in the palm of his left hand. He immediately spread the cards out, perfectly spaced in front of him. Simultaneously, he flicked the whole pack over and scanned the array. Before Merrick could catch his breath, the man swept the pack to one side and another pack flew through the air. In fast succession the packs were sequentially dealt, all within the space of some fifteen seconds.

  His audience had no doubt seen this before but applauded nonetheless.

  Merrick turned to Karapetian. “He memorised them, just like that?”

  “An empirical mind like yours won’t be satisfied with our word for it. Tabata—the recitation.”

  An oriental woman turned over the cards rapidly while the man read out their identities blindfold again. He finished in a trice and all Merrick could do was stare.

  “I can tell you’re not completely convinced,” Karapetian said, pulling away.

  “It’s all well and good,” Merrick said, recovering himself, “but what possible use could this skill be? He wouldn’t survive more than an hour in Las Vegas before the manager tagged him for card counting.”

  “You attribute such lowly motives to us, Merrick. No, Svetlanov’s value is in his ability to recite. The memory is but half of his treasure. In order to carry out some of our more complex acts of magick, the requisite words must be pronounced with every inflection and accent intact. Otherwise the incantation does not work, or worse still—results in unfortunate consequences. Svetlanov will have to master the text of a forty thousand word grimoire. The language is ancient Sumerian and he must recite it with the correct tone and gravitas. He will be ready in six months.”

  “ I hope he’s getting paid well,” said Merrick.

  “Ah—Mammon. The principal deity of the western world. It holds little attraction for Svetlanov. He has other rewards in mind. Now, I have something else to show you.”

  ~~~

  Chapter 7

  Push

  They walked past enclaves of what Merrick supposed were students. Some held discussions, some meditated, while others concentrated on objects of curiosity; such as a gyroscope standing at right angles on a needle, or a praying mantis about to devour a bug. An octagonal door at the far end of the hall gave them access to a tunnel. The appearance on the other side was disorienting and Merrick halted, unsure if he should proceed. The walkway was cylindrical, sculpted ornately in wooden spirals lit from a glow at the end. Merrick wasn’t clear where he should step.

  Karapetian beckoned. “Don’t worry. You need not fear the Tendrethan corridor—that is, provided you have a guide. Walk in my footsteps on the track lined with rams horns.”

  “I’ve never had a fetish for goat appendages,” Merrick replied, and stepped forward.

  As he picked his way, he found himself traversing up the sides of the tunnel and, eventually, the roof. Round and round he proceeded, like a corkscrew, yet at no time did his inner ear sense he was upside down.

  Up ahead, Karapetian walked perpendicular to the side of the tunnel.

  “This has to be an optical illusion,” Merrick said, his mouth dry and his stomach churning.

  “A rather clever one perfected by the Babylonians, actually. I found the design in a book I acquired from a collector in Iran. It was quite by chance, but a rather beneficial happenstance I might add. It’s rather useful in separating the advanced classes from the initiates. If you choose the wrong track, you end up at the beginning of the tunnel again.” Karapetian’s voice echoed like a tap delay in the wooden enclosure, adding to the surrealism.

  “So, you’re extending me a rare privilege?”

 
“I am indeed.”

  “That’s ... trusting of you.”

  They emerged into a small room, lined with hangings depicting civilisations in all their glory, worshippers of deities both familiar and obscure, even armies waging war in tableaux that shocked and fascinated Merrick. On closer inspection, Merrick saw that the room was as an atrium with five passages leading off from it.

  “I’m going to trust you even more,” Karapetian said, his hooded eyes sparkling in the subdued light. He strode down the nearest passage and Merrick followed in a bemused state. It curved round until they found themselves in a panelled room. Sat behind a desk was a squat man with jet black hair and beard. He leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, reading a book.

  “May I introduce Jason,” Karapetian said. “Jason, this is Merrick Whyte, the man I was talking about yesterday.”

  “Merrick,” said the diminutive man, getting up and shaking his hand across the desk. I see Lazlo’s giving you the full guided tour.”

  Merrick felt a subtle fizzing in his hand and an accompanying sense of unease, like water sliding over a weir.

  “Yes, I felt that too,” Jason said. “You’re going to have to learn to disguise your flux a bit better if you want to remain undetected. What did you read into it by the way?”

  Merrick looked at Karapetian, then back at Jason. “I would say that you’re a man of hidden depths. But then, it could be just an intuition.”

  “You were right, Lazlo,” the man said. “He’s in a state of self-denial.”

  “Meaning …?” Merrick said.

  “Meaning, that you need to open your eyes—all three of them,” said Karapetian. “Maybe another demonstration will help.”

  “For sure,” Jason said. “Merrick, if you wouldn’t mind, take out one of these.”

  He tossed Merrick a small plastic box labelled Toothpicks and Merrick removed one. They were wooden and tapered at both ends, one wider than the other. Jason tied some cotton between two table lamps on the desk. He adjusted the tension in the thread until it was taut.

  “Now,” he said, “ I’d like you to balance the toothpick on the thread.”

  “That’s impossible,” Merrick said.

  “Well it won’t happen if you don’t try.”

  Merrick ignored the curt reply and placed the pick on the thread, widest end down. He bent over to judge how perpendicular to the line the pick was, then worked his finger up to the top slowly and let go.

  It fell to the desk surface below.

  “Try again,” Jason said, a smug grin playing across his pock-marked face.

  This Merrick did, five more times. The result was the same. “Like I said, Impossible.”

  Jason lifted the pick and stared straight at Merrick. Eyebrows arched as furrows of concentration appeared on his brow. With a sudden flurry he tossed the pick to his right like one would a coin. Not once did he look at the thin tightrope on his desk. Merrick watched as the pick tumbled end over end in an arc. It alighted on the thread and remained stationary like a dipole, completely vertical.

  “That’s good—very good,” Merrick said. He looked at Karapetian and reached out to the pick, flicking it casually. The pick rotated round the thread, came up the other side and stood up again.

  “That, that’s ...”

  “That’s probability thaumaturgy,” Karapetian said.

  “What? The power of telekinesis?”

  “Not quite the same thing,” Jason interrupted. “All objects have an equilibrium point. One can calculate the forces impinging on it at any given time. Gravity, electromagnetic, weak nuclear, forces resulting from convection currents and the effects of the wind. If you know the resultant of these then it’s possible to influence them on a quantum level. A quick calculation of probability can yield the odds of an object falling or remaining in balance. If one applies the will correctly then these odds can be loaded in its favour. Quantum effects accumulate to phenomena on a macro-level and—voila.”

  Merrick felt a tug on his consciousness as Jason held the pick on the thread. He pushed in his mind and the velvet blanket of Jason’s will gave, ever so slightly. It was mischievous, he knew, but he hated smart-arses.

  The pick fell to the table.

  “You caught me by surprise there,” Jason said. “But did you expect this?” A force like an invisible hand pushed backwards on his chest while the back of his knees were chopped forwards. His arms flailed like windmills as he lost balance, and Merrick expected his head to crack against the floor. Yet, Jason was merciful and arrested his descent a gnat’s whisker from the floor.

  He was nothing but a toothpick, manipulated by a short man’s whim, hovering in helpless, horizontal defeat.

  ~~~

  Jason stood over him and stroked his beard. He flicked his eyeballs to the right and Merrick rose upwards again. He recovered as if finishing a routine on the parallel bars.

  “Okay, okay, I yield,” Merrick said, holding prayerful hands in mock supplication. “Well thanks for that, Jason. I’ll chalk that one up on my list of humiliations I’d like to forget.”

  Karapetian’s shoulders shook with laughter. “You’ll have to forgive Jason. But do you accept now that you’re dipping your toes in the deep waters of something you’ve barely acknowledged?”

  “I’m reserving judgement,” Merrick said, stretching his neck. “If—and I am saying if, there is something going on here, then how do I fit in?”

  “Have a seat,” Karapetian said, and they all pulled up chairs round the desk.

  “I understand you had a brief foray in the world of politics in your younger, idealistic days?” the bald man said.

  The constant references to what Merrick had thought was a well-hidden past, were beginning to get under his skin. “Yes?”

  “Why didn’t you pursue this? You were moving up in the political world, even ran for local council office.”

  “I guess I got bored with it. Pursued other avenues.” He knew as soon as the words passed his lips that it was another self deception. Karapetian remained silent, waiting.

  “All right,” Merrick continued. “Maybe I got frustrated with the bureaucracy and the impotence of the establishment.”

  “Democracy, the western paradigm,” Jason said. “It yields government serving neither rich nor poor. However, the world which we live in, paves the way for emperors and queens.”

  “Now you’re sounding like a super-villain again. All you need is the cat on your lap to complete the picture.”

  Now it was Jason’s turn to show irritation. “I warned you, Lazlo. Our Mr Whyte is a clown, we can do better than this.”

  Karapetian held up his hand. “Patience, Jason.”

  “Yeah, back off Blofeld,” Merrick said with an impudent smile.

  Jason leaned back in his chair with barely concealed chagrin.

  “I think you may be seeing a picture which we aren’t painting,” Karapetian said. “We’re not seeking to subvert this country’s political system, nor even embark on world domination. To be honest, our influence is greatest in other realms.”

  “Other realms?” asked Merrick.

  Karapetian paused and looked at Jason.

  “Are you familiar with the concept of parallel universes?” Karapetian asked.

  Merrick shrugged. “I’ve read a bit of Hawking, yes.”

  “It’s an area of intense debate in the scientific community,” Karapetian continued. “I’ve followed the writings of Weinberg, Greene and Tegmark, but opinion is much divided on the matter. There are many who say it can never be proved because the theory is unfalsifiable.”

  Merrick nodded. “I would agree. In the absence of any hard data, it remains a philosophical question.”

  “But where science is rendered impotent, magick can fill the void. Keep your skepticism in check while I explain.”

  Karapetian stood up and walked over to a chalkboard on the wall. He wiped away some a
rcane symbols and drew a series of overlapping ellipses.

  “Our order has been studying these worlds intensively over the last fifty years. We have employed the use of mathematicians, quantum physicists and magi.”

  Merrick raised his eyebrows. Magi?”

  “Merrick, humour me. Crowley defined magick as the science and art of causing change to occur in conformity with will. You have seen demonstrations in this very room.”

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “In the past, communication within and between these realms occurred solely using the practice of magick, albeit, rarely. But since the turn of the millennium many advances have been made through quantum mechanics also. The quantum multiverse manifests a new universe when a diversion in events occurs. As a result of our practices we have identified repeatable rituals that could open up portals. Through these gateways it is possible to observe and even travel. They are represented by intersections between the ellipses, as you can see.”

  “Assuming this is true,” interjected Merrick. “What use is this to mankind and, at risk of repeating myself, how the fuck does this involve me?”

  Karapetian put down the chalk and brought his gaze to bear on Merrick. Dark light danced in his eyes.

  “Why—he who holds the key to the gateways, has the multiverse at his command.”

  ~~~

  Chapter 8

  Feed my head

  Merrick attempted to calm his thoughts, but it was as if a wild energy scattered them free. His rational mind rebelled against Karapetian’s suggestions but he couldn’t deny the reality of what he’d experienced. In the depths of his brain, the pine cone of his perception secreted its rich cocktail of hormones, acknowledging the truth he heard, even as his cerebrum rejected the arguments.

  “I think one more revelation will be enough to convince you. Let’s go to our labs. You’re a man of science after all,” Karapetian said.