A WIP speculative fiction novel.
The plot centers around a being from another dimension that is pulled into ours. This being cannot be perceived by other people, as he is like software running on the wrong CPU. Make of that what you will!
Chapter 1.
It feels trite to call what happened to me a transition period as written in my case file. I was no recently promoted salaryman struggling to fit in amongst his peers. My transition was far more literal and no less absolute than the transition of ice to water and water to steam.
My case file starts at my earliest memory, and de-facto beginning of my life. I came into the world fully formed with faculties not typically acquired until adulthood. Like all new life, the event was marked with pain.
I stood in the threshold of a room inside a room. The inner room I would come to know as the capsule. A metallic pill fed with copper pipes and bundles of cables, designed to keep the occupant of the capsule in a state of homeostasis. Inside that pill was where my transition occurred, where every quantum of my being was deconstructed and shifted through states of matter my captors hadn’t even contemplated of. Sadly, all memory of the instant of my transition was expunged, leaving only a lingering sense of emptiness. A sense which becomes an ache if I attempt to cast my mind’s eye back before that day, as though the memories were ablated from my mind so perfectly as to leave nothing but void. And yet my memories since that time are present in exquisite detail and—as far is I know—indelible.
An instant after the void, I observed the outer of the two rooms, populated as it was by people in white coats. The white-coated people were screaming in primal terror. As naive as I was at the time it didn’t occur to me that they were screaming at me, and I found myself alarmed by their palpable fear. One man was on his knees, hands over his face, bloody fingers pressed into his eye sockets as he screamed. The others who flanked him where shaking violently, their screams quietened only when they buckled over to vomit. I thought to offer my assistance in banishing the awful thing they must have witnessed, but at that time I was unable to articulate my fine intentions and understood I moaned and made guttural noises in lieu of words—which seemed to distress them even more. The man with the bloodied face rose to his feet, still screaming. He charged at me, covering the ten paces or so with remarkable swiftness. A man that size, moving as fast as he was, had all the momentum necessary to lift me off my feet when his shoulder hit my chest. The force sent me hurtling into the capsule where I collided with the far-side wall. The capsule door slammed shut with an metallic clang that reverberated around me.
There I remained, in darkness, gulping to regain the breath that had been knocked out of me. I could hear muffled cries and wails of distress from the other side of the capsule wall, gradually reducing in volume in response to other more authoritative sounding voices which subsequently entered the room. I was not able to discern what was being said, but the new voices appeared to calm the afflicted. Soon all was quiet and I presumed that the white-coats outside of the capsule had left.
As I lay there in an undignified heap I had nothing but my own thoughts as companionship. I tried to dissect the previous few minutes before I was barged into the capsule. What had distressed them so? The bruised chest I still felt suggested that I was what they were afraid of. Only that one individual seemed able to overcome the horror that paralyzed the others like exhausted gazels cowering in front of lion. But what was so terrible about how I looked? Even with a lack of memories (which extended to my own appearance), I did not believe I could be all that appalling to look upon. Exploring my face with my finger tips seemed to confirm this; all features were present in the same configuration as the people from outside the capsule. I was not so different from them. Perhaps I was ugly? But ugly enough to make one want to claw their own eyes out of their head? No. That was too much.
I had a sense that answers wouldn’t be forthcoming any time soon. As desperately as I wished to know what had terrorized those white-coats, the workings of their minds were opaque to me. Dwelling on those traumatic minutes felt unproductive—I could never know what they saw or what they were thinking while I was trapped in the capsule.
I thought it better to attempt to answer the more immediate question of where I was. There wasn’t a glimmer of light, but I could at least feel my way around. The curved walls were cold to the touch and responded with a metallic ping when tapped. At points there were protrusions I took to be bolts or rivets along a seem in the walls, further confirming the impression I was in a metallic cylinder. At either end of the cylinder, only two or three body lengths apart, the walls were terminated with curved plates. A discovery which lead me to dub it the capsule. The walls were broadly featureless with the exception of a box at one end, the purpose of which I couldn’t determine. It felt plasticy to the touch, and could be moved a millimeter as though it wasn’t an extension of the wall, but something attached to it. I suspected I would be able to rip the box away from its housing without too much effort, but decided against it. If I was a prisoner here, and that very much seemed to be the case, I thought it unwise to attempt to destroy my cage before I knew what my captors intentions were. The last thing I checked was the door which was barely distinguishable from the walls if it weren’t for a handle. Of course I attempted to open the door, with more than a little trepidation. The white-coats clearly wanted me in here, and I doubted they would be pleased if left the capsule of my own volition. Unsurprisingly, the handle didn’t perceptively moved when I applied pressure. And I applied as much force as I was able.
There didn’t seem much else to discover, so I paced the capsule, walking from one end to another, arms outstretched in the darkness. After a while of doing this I could judge the extent of the capsule by memory alone which allowed me to lower my arms. The pacing helped me think, and using my legs felt good somehow, like walking-off a cramp. While I paced, I couldn’t help but return to thinking about what the people in the outer-room could have seen, but reluctantly had to acknowledge their thoughts were as opaque to me as mine surely were to theirs. All I could say with any certainty was that they were afraid of me. As preposterous as that was. I had no ill-will for any of them. Even the man who knocked the wind out of me, I wouldn’t harm. But they couldn’t know that, and most assuredly considered me a threat and a tangible risk to their safety. At that very moment the must surely be discussing what to do with me. If they still considered me a threat, the safest response would be to destroy me. I doubt that would be difficult. They could destroy the capsule with explosives, or melt it in a furnace, or fill it with toxins. All without ever again having to view the horror within. Yet again, they could simply leave me until I expired, entombed in this capsule like a comically large coffin. With oxygen the only essential for life I was afforded, the lack of drinking water would kill me first. I was already thirsty and would have begged for a glass of water. Would I die for the lack of one?
I had been pacing for hours and needed to rest. I laid down on the capsule floor and closed my eyes. Sleep followed.
Naturally it was the first moment of my new memories that proved fertile ground for my dreams and not the later hours of pacing in the capsule. Every dream ended with me being body-slammed and the door closing, only for me to re-emerge from the capsule as the dream started anew. There were differences in each cycle; the number of white-coats and their locations reconfigured in every dream. Details like the color of the walls and the style of office furniture also changed. It could have been a blue carpet with chrome and leather chairs, or a beige carpet with wooden furniture. In addition to the surroundings, details of the happenings would also change from my memory. It was as though my dreams were a canvas to be painted by a different artist each time. In one dream it was a woman that charged me. She had flowing red hair that streamed behind her like ribbons. Rather than shoulder-barge me, she kicked me square in the chest with the same force as the man, even though she was a fraction of his size. In another iteration I emerged from the capsule on a beach of blanched sand, to the horror of the white-coats clustered around a blazing camp-fire. None of these change in details seemed to offer any insight to what happened, nor did they influence the outcome, which was always the same: screams, charge, hit, door.
As maddening as the dreams were, I did come to something of an epiphany when I awoke. Throughout all that repetition, the only constant aspect of every dream was my starting position. My memories started in the threshold of the capsule door, neither inside nor fully outside of the capsule. Prior to that there was void. And yet I must have existed in some form or another during that void time. Logically, I couldn’t have spontaneously sprung into the world as a fully formed human male with the ability to walk, talk, and manipulate the world around him. My dreams were further evidence of this. How could I dream of a beach with sand, palm trees, and ocean, if I hadn’t lived some kind of life?
This was the epiphany: I was myself a white-coat. I could feel I was wearing a coat that extended to just above knees, in addition to a shirt, tie, and trousers. I had never seen the coat, and in darkness, still hadn’t. But I knew it to be the same coat as worn by the others. I even found a badge attached to my breast pocket where I expected it to be. How I wished there was light to read it by!
My epiphany lead to another logical leap. Their reaction was so visceral because something awful had happened to their friend or collaborator. Something which resulted in my creation, while simultaneously rendering me monstrous in their eyes. I still had no answers as to what it was they had seen, but knowing that they were distressed by the loss of a friend gave me hope that they could extend some of that empathy to the thing that replaced him.
What had started as a headache had blossomed into an unbearable throbbing in my temple. Movement amplified the pain, so I remained where I was on the capsule floor. Desperately thirsty, I tried to lick my desiccated lips, but without saliva it brought scant relief. I would die if I didn’t drink something soon—another fact I must have learned in the void time. The white-coats were surely as aware of this as I was. The next few hours would reveal wether they were going to let nature take care of their problem, or if they would intervene before that. I preferred the former, but it was just as likely to be the latter.
My answer came when a static buzz emanated from the plastic box fixed to the capsule wall, followed by a voice which revealed the box was an intercom.
“I’m speaking to the entity in the isolation chamber. My name is Doctor Reynolds. Please respond.” The voice was female, with an air of calm authority.
Truthfully I felt like remaining there. I knew from experience that the exertion of rising to my feet would amplify the pain in my head. But I did stand up, enduring all discomfort, and staggered to the intercom. I bent over so that my mouth was close to the box and spoke.
“Hello,” I said. There didn’t seem much else to say.
Moments passed without a response, before I heard another voice. This new male voice was quieter as though the speaker wasn’t close to the intercom and didn’t intend for me to hear. “You see, it’s not human. Whatever that is, it is not John. We should incinerate it.”
Not human? Perhaps my throat was so dry that my voice had become hoarse—although it seemed a stretch to suggest I didn’t sound human. Clearly I needed to try again, and hopefully avoid the incineration they had planned for me.
“Hello,” I began, “this is … the entity.” I wasn’t quite sure how to address myself, so I used their words. I continued. “I am friendly. I wish you no harm.”
The reply came quickly this time, from the original female speaker who had introduced herself as Dr Reynolds.
“We can’t understand you. Tap the intercom if you can understand us.” Reynolds said.
How infuriating to have your life hang in the balance due to a technical flaw, but I did as they requested. I tapped the intercom once with my finger.
“Tap once for yes, and twice for no. Do you understand?”
I tapped once.
The muffled voice spoke again. “Coincidence. It may as well be pecking the intercom like a chicken.”
“What is two plus three?” Reynolds asked.
I tapped out five orderly taps. I heard Reynolds say off microphone: “Smart chicken.”
“Are you John Aitkins?” Reynolds asked.
This was a difficult question. If John Aitkins was the name on my badge, then perhaps he had lost his memory while transforming into a monster, to become… me? I couldn’t say for certain, but I didn’t want to hesitate to think about it. I tapped twice for no.
“Is John alive?”
They were enquiring about their friend. I found it heartening that they possessed this level of compassion, and I wished I had an answer for them. Perhaps John’s heart was beating in my chest, and I should answer yes. Although John may have died in whatever catastrophe brought me to this place, and I should answer no. With no confidence in either response, I took a risk. I tapped three times.
The response came a little slower, but I think Reynolds understood. “You don’t know?” she said.
I single tapped to confirm.