[Fiction] Purgatory Part One – Chaining The Titan

[GDP_ST]

He woke slowly, his head muzzy and filled with pain. His thoughts seemed slow, too slow, as if he were doped on morphine; but that was impossible, wasn’t it? Where am I?

He was aware of mechanical sounds: A helicopter, he realised slowly, his mind blundering through the murk of his confusion and pain. The pain. That was another wrong note. He hadn’t had a headache like this since his eruption; even coming under a vicious psychic assault a few years ago hadn’t caused this sort of pain. He tried to open his eyes, but realised he was wearing a blindfold at the same instant he discovered that he was strapped securely to some sort of stretcher, unable to move even his head. He felt claustrophobic panic rising in his gut, that old terror he believed he had left behind. What’s happening? Is this a dream? I don’t dream anymore, though... Do I? Was that the dream?

He became aware of another noise: a rhythmic beeping sound that increased in speed as though keeping pace with his panic. Heart monitor… Am I sick? I couldn’t get sick. I was… Am I still me? Was that a fantasy, a delusion? What is this pain? I’m going to a hospital… Oh gods… Where’s Li? IS there a Li? Through the panicked stream of consciousness he heard people’s voices, then a sharp needle in his arm and a female voice, professional and compassionate. Someone, the speaker he presumed, laid a hand on his chest. Gloved hand on bare skin, but the contact soothed him, brought him down from the panic even as his mind realised that he felt cold. I haven’t felt cold in a long time either… At least I think I haven’t… What’s happening to me?

“Peter? Peter Nord? If you can hear me I need you to relax, Peter. You’re in good hands. We’re not going to let anything happen to you.” A nice voice, an alto. American. Jessica had a voice like that. If everything was a dream, is Jessica alive? Is she here? No. She died. I saw her dead.

He calmed further, trying to concentrate, to focus his mind, but it was too hard. That needle. They’ve shot me up with something. But I remember… Attacked… Novas. He remembered a feeling of nausea: someone had scrambled his equilibrium. Another nova had sprayed something into his face, a mist. And then… Then something had happened… A fire in his node, pain he hadn’t experienced before. He had fallen into blackness, to awaken… here. He tried to speak, his mouth dry as bone. Someone, the woman, placed a straw to his lips. He drank gratefully, noticing a chemical taste to the water. More drugs. But he could speak now.

“Is that better, Mr Nord?” The female voice, gentle and soothing.

“Procyon.” He half-whispered, his voice sounding weak and feeble to his own ears. He tried again, aware that sleep was overtaking him. “My name is Procyon.” As he sank once more into blackness, that calm voice followed him.

“Not anymore, Mr Nord. Sleep well.”

* * * * * *

He woke again, aware of biting cold and the loud noise of a helicopter from the outside. He was being lifted and moved with care, but also with haste, and the jarring forced fresh spikes of pain into his head. He couldn’t think straight: the pain and the drugs combined meant that any thought he tried to assemble was scrambled on conception. He heard men shouting orders to each other over the roar of the turbine engines, and then the noise was cut off and he was inside. Sterile smells, hints of sweat and deodorant from those around him. The distinctive jingle and clack of firearms and webbing. The sensations bombarded him too fast for real absorption, but he was aware that he was being set down again after a short time of being carried. He heard the woman’s voice again, giving instructions, and he was lifted onto a bed with care, if not gentleness. There were footsteps, leaving the room, then silence. A silence that was broken a few seconds later, as more footsteps entered.

“Ah, Mr Nord I presume?” The jovial tone was that of a man who was delighted with this, the latest event in his day. Procyon found it grating, considering the circumstances. He licked his lips as a sign of his dry mouth, and sure enough a straw was held to his mouth. He sipped at first, but tasting no chemicals he drank more enthusiastically. American voice, educated, definitely the chief here, he thought. The drugs seemed to be wearing off too, allowing his thoughts to flow faster.

“I’m afraid not.” He replied in a heavily ironic tone, inwardly wincing at how flimsy his voice sounded. “Your excellent staff have gone and scooped up the wrong man. My name’s Procyon, so if you’d release me from my bonds here and let me go I’ll wish you well in finding this Mr Nord.”

Rather than pausing or being thrown off balance by this rebuttal, the voice laughed. Smug shit. Procyon thought. You know you’re holding the aces.

“Excellent, Mr Nord. I love the dry British wit, though I admit sometimes it leaves me scratching my head.” He heard a chair being drawn up, and felt hands unfastening the blindfold. A puff of perfume, very faint: the woman, being silent for now. “We’ve got the lights dimmed, Mr Nord,” The male voice went on. “But I still recommend you open your eyes slowly once we remove the blindfold. We don’t want to cause you any unnecessary discomfort, after all.”

“That’s good to hear.” Procyon replied with some sarcasm. “I’d hate to think that the assault and my kidnapping didn’t serve a useful purpose.” Under the brave face, however, he felt weak, impotent. He couldn’t feel his node, couldn’t feel quantum singing through his veins and tendons. His thoughts were sluggish and heavy compared to the quicksilver clarity of before. Not mox. Something new. Is this a Utopia operation? If I ever get out of here… He controlled his fear-fuelled anger with difficulty and concentrated on the now.

“I am sorry about that, Mr Nord. And it was necessary, as you will come to see.” Said the woman’s voice.

“So, now you’ve got me. So, is it to be a televised trial with Pax being the official gloater, or am I going to disappear into Bahrain?” He said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice at the thought of Bahrain. And that fear, too, was strange to him. What the bloody hell have they done? It’s like I’m not a nova anymore… Oh crap…

“Bahrain?” The man’s voice sounded amused. “Oh no, Mr Nord. This is not a Utopian venture. They would never have countenanced it. Too afraid of rocking the boat. They’d much rather just keep bailing it out despite the water rising. No, this is a private concern that we hope to take public once we have a demonstrable success. I’m very much hoping that you will be the success that makes our research invaluable.”

The blindfold had been lifted away while they were speaking, and Procyon slowly opened his eyes, letting them get acclimatised to the dim light. Shapes swam into focus. He was in what looked like a private hospital room crossed with a sanitarium cell. The walls were lightly padded, as was the door. The windows were high up, and had a mesh across them on the inside. Leaning over his bed, a soft smile on her lips, was a beautiful young woman with her blonde hair done up in a professional style, wearing a doctor’s white coat. Seated beside the bed was an older man, and a glance told Procyon that the two were related. He was heavy-set, the build of a man who liked his food a little too much, but not dangerously so. A short blond beard and well-groomed hair fit well with his dark business suit.

“So, you think you know who I am.” Procyon forced a smile he didn’t feel. “Who are you?” The seated man smiled back.

“My name is Doctor Harold Wyman, and this is my daughter Laura.” He indicated the young woman, who smiled. “And you are to be our guest here, Mr Nord. For the foreseeable future.”

“You seem very sure that you can hold me.” Procyon said accusingly. Father and daughter shared a smile.

“We are, Mr Nord.” Laura said with quiet confidence. “You see, you’re not really a nova anymore.”

Procyon’s head spun, his eyes widening with shock and words of denial dying on his lips as the girl continued. “You see, you are permanently stuck in a state I believe you know as ‘dormed’. Your node is unable to function, and you can no longer channel quantum.” She smiled at him sympathetically. “I know it’s got to be hard for you, but- …”

“Hard for me? HARD FOR ME?” He had found his voice, rage blasting away the shock as his voice rose in volume, cracking from the lingering dryness still in his throat. “You have NO IDEA what it’s like.” His mind was spinning even as the young woman recoiled from the vehemence of his tone. “What the fucking hell gives you the RIGHT, you fucking monkeys! Do you have ANY idea how much shit I am going to call down on your heads? You think you can play fucking god, WITH a god, and not suffer consequences?” His head hurt like hell, the rage all too human in how it was expressed: with bluster and threats. It was anger born of fear, the lashing out of a trapped animal, and under the red rage some part of him recognised that fact. He fell silent and glared at the woman, who was white faced but maintaining her calm, lips set into a tight line. He switched his glare to Wyman, and saw him sigh and stand up.

“I think, given your reaction, we shall leave you now.” Laura was already heading to the door. “I should tell you, Mr Nord, that you had better adjust soon. You are ‘mortal’ now, or as close to as makes no difference. Better learn to enjoy it, because the process is irreversible. And you won’t be escaping, either. Not without your vaunted power. You will, of course, be made comfortable, and want for nothing except liberty. In time, when more of the dangerous novas are like you and humanity is reassured that we can control rogue elements, you will be released. You will still live a long time by human standards, and healthily too, Mr Nord.” Wyman adjusted his cuffs and turned to go.

“Wyman?” The man in the suit turned back, eyebrows raised as Procyon growled his name. The restrained nova met the scientist’s gaze and said, very deliberately “My name is Procyon, you fuck.”

Wyman flushed, obviously unused to being talked to like that, but his face was otherwise composed as he answered in a similarly precise and cold manner. “Procyon is dead, Mr Nord. If he were not, he would already have escaped. Goodnight.” He left the room, closing the door behind him. Before it closed, though, Procyon saw a guard out in the hall, armed with what looked like a high-tech rifle.

So, they’re not so confident that they leave me unguarded… That’s interesting. He managed to think through his despair before allowing his head to fall back, gazing at the ceiling. Not a nova anymore… Dormed permanently… Is that even possible? Sure it is: look at where you are, genius.

* * * * * *

Harold Wyman took a deep breath as he exited the room, biting back his annoyance. Well, it wasn’t as though he had expected gratitude or acceptance of his deeds, at least not immediately. And the project was working just fine. Their first test subject had been a dangerous nova, but not on Procyon’s power scale. To find that the treatment was working so fast on a nova so feared was gratification enough for the present. He turned left and headed down the hall to the observation room, nodding to the armed guards he passed along the way. Not that they would matter against a nova of Procyon’s power, but even dormed, Peter Nord the man was an impressively built physical specimen who could prove dangerous to anyone who assumed him helpless. All of Wyman’s on-site security force had been special forces trained, then trained further in restraint and security measures. He didn’t want accidental deaths among his inmates, which currently numbered only one. But Harold Wyman was a man who planned ahead. This project was six years in the making, and as he entered the observation room he saw the catalyst for the whole project’s conception hunched over a console, crying quietly. He walked up behind Laura and placed a warm hand on her shoulder. She covered it with one of her own, smiling back and up at him bravely.

“I’m sorry, daddy. He’s so… angry. And frightened. I can feel it like it’s me.” The young lady sniffled quietly, collecting herself. “I know we’re doing the right thing, but it’s horrible to make him suffer so.” Harold squeezed her shoulder gently, his presence reassuring as he reflected on how unfair fate could be. Laura’s eruption had turned a bright vivacious girl into a reclusive genius, who found it hard to stand the presence of people thanks to her empathic gifts. When confronted with strong emotions, she found they affected her as strongly as though they were her own. Coupled with her now hyper-keen mind, and she had quickly deduced that her fiancé of the time had been cheating on her with another man. She quickly came to see her insight as a curse, not a gift. Time and again, she had been unable to relate to people due to her intelligence and empathy. Too much insight was worse than too little, she had concluded, and so she had begun to look into a way to ‘cure’ a person of being a Nova. And now, they had the beginnings of real success. Harold had seen the greater potential of her work, and persuaded her that her research could better the whole world for everyone, and so Laura had reluctantly agreed to wait. But she longed for the day when she could take her own treatment, and return to being a normal young woman. Wyman gave her shoulder another squeeze and gently withdrew his hand. Laura composed herself and straightened up, grateful for her father’s support. He pulled up a chair next to hers at the console.

“So, how are the nanites doing in Mr Nord?” Wyman asked, attempting to focus Laura on the project, but also curious himself. His daughter had done a brilliant job of adapting some blacktech nanoweapons into something with far more peaceful applications. The ingenious little machines attuned themselves to the subject’s quantum signature, making themselves invisible to the superior immune systems of even the hardiest Novas. Then they attached themselves to the subject’s M-R node, seeking out and latching onto the quantum transference pathways and effectively shutting off the node, switching it over into what Wyman called the ‘standby mode’ and keeping it there. The Nova was then, for all intents and purposes, neutralised, most often within 30 seconds of contact.

Wyman was a man of the world, and he knew what governments, various independant organisations, and even Project Utopia would give to own this discovery. But they would use it for their own goals, not his. No, the only organisation to benefit from this would be the ubiquitous Directive. He knew that they would use the technology responsibly, and to stop any faction from growing too strong. He was aware of Laura tapping some commands into the monitoring computer, then studying the stream of data on the screen.

“They’re performing within expected parameters, father.” She said with a small smile. “I was worried that a nova of his level of power would somehow be able to fight the effect, but it seems not.” She frowned a tiny bit. “The power levels are a little high. The node’s still dormant, but not as low as my projections. Some more nanites will sort the problem out. Maybe there’s something about a Nova that’s gone through that Terat transformation thing that makes their nodes more efficient.” She chewed her lower lip, deep in thought, then made a decision. “I’ll run him through some scans in the morning, and dose him with more nanites. The headache should disappear overnight, so he’ll be in less pain and be more rational too, I hope.” She sighed and leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes absently.

“Get some sleep.” Wyman said, patting her shoulder again as he rose. “Tomorrow is soon enough.”

[GDP_ST]

Morning’s light came through the high narrow windows, waking Procyon from the light and fitful slumber he had drifted off into. The night had been bad, very bad. He had dreamed uncontrollably for the first time in more than a decade. He had desperately tried to reach the sanctuary of his mnemonic garden, but found it about as easy as he found flying right now. He knew how it was supposed to feel, but when he leaned into that place inside himself, he found no energy awaiting his call, no power to draw on. And so the nightmares had found him unable to defend himself.

He had awoken several times, doused in sweat or crying, wishing that he was dead. Death would have been preferable to this non-existence. He had strained at his bonds, succeeding only in exhausting himself, to fall into sleep once more, only to suffer another dream. This time it was a memory of flying high above the world, rolling onto his back and facing away into the vastness of space. Only this time he lacked the breadth of mind to comprehend what he beheld; this time he felt small and alone and terrified. He knew it wasn’t right, but he felt terror nonetheless, and self-loathing for his weakness when he awoke screaming. His now-human mind tried desperately to recall the memories of his nova self. He longed for the open sky, to soar and tumble through the air. He missed the kiss of the sun’s rays on him, feeling them sustain his body, and the feel of quantum singing in his very essence, connecting him to all existence. These things felt ephemeral to him now, as though they had never happened. Now he felt alone, his head in pain constantly from whatever they had done to him.

At one point in the night, he had lost control, his frustration and terror bursting the dams of his restraint in a loud scream of furious, mindless denial. He had thrashed in his restraints, not caring if he hurt himself, wanting to either tear his way free or to die in the process. The bed was fixed to the floor, and solidly constructed. He could no more move it than a human could lift a tanker truck. He was too well restrained to do more than tire himself out again, and he eventually subsided, his throat hoarse, sweat running down his face and mingling with the tears he now shed in great gasping sobs, begging over and over again for this to be but a dream, for it to not be true. His sobs gave way to murmured protests, then again to sleep, this time mercifully without dreams.

He opened his eyes (So weak, so lacking in clarity and range!) and looked up at the light coming in through the windows. He moaned slightly, his head still throbbing near the front, where his node should be… was. The light hurt his eyes, and he shut them again. He reviewed his reactions so far with shame, telling himself that he was still Procyon, still a nova. They had dormed him, but he was still Homo Sapiens Novus, and he might be down, but that was a long way from being beaten. It was a tiny little glimmer of defiant hope, but it was better than nothing, and Procyon nurtured that hope like the life-giving flame it was, protecting it from going out.

The door opened, and his eyes flicked towards it. Laura Wyman stepped into the room, her grey eyes regarding him carefully, as though expecting a further outburst. He said nothing, but stared hard at her as she crossed over to him with a clipboard in hand, leafing through the papers on it. She was nervous, clearly so. Her father was self-assured, older and more experienced. Laura was a weak link in this setup, Procyon figured. She was compassionate and had doubts, that was plain. He continued to stare as she stood next to the bed and then looked down at him, an obviously forced smile curving her lips.

“Good morning, Mr Nord. How did you-” She started, but was cut off by a terse correction.

“Procyon.”

Laura blinked and stared at him, her eyes large. Her lips tightened. “But you are not. You’re not the ‘Sun King’ anymore.” She told him, her tone earnest and businesslike. “You’re a grown man, Mr Nord-“

“Procyon.” She ignored him and forged ahead.

“-and you have to face the facts. You have no power, no quantum signature to speak of. You are, for all intents and purposes, human.”

“No” His response was not fearful, or frantic. It was calm and matter of fact. Laura found it hard to meet his blue eyes, found herself noting the tear-reddened whites and the streaks down his face where he hadn’t been able to wipe those tears away. But he was not panicked now. She could sense his fear, his despair, but he held to something in the midst of it, and drew strength from that.

“I’m not human, Laura. It’s not flight or being able to lift a car that makes me a nova. It’s not the power, or the mental clarity, or the ability to see through walls. At the genetic level, I am a Nova. Not human.” He spoke calmly, with conviction. She smiled, a little patronisingly in his opinion, and shook her head.

“Maybe so, but we have taken those powers away. Now you have to coexist with humans, and they won’t be frightened of you anymore. Now you can relate to them, Mr Nord, and-“

“Procyon.” Her eyes flashed and a little bit of temper showed through as he interrupted her once again.

“Stop that! You’re being childish! Your silly names and your stupid games tearing the world apart for normal people. You’re such an adolescent you actually like being far above everyone else! Well, not everyone likes to be special, Procyon! Not everyone wants followers who view them as gods. Not everyone is as deluded as you!” She was breathing hard, her cheeks flushed, and Procyon had to work not to laugh. He kept his face composed, then slowly winked at her.

“You know, Doctor, you’re ravishing when you’re angry.” The effect was gratifying: Laura Wyman made a distinctly female noise somewhere between outrage and embarrassment and stormed from the room. Procyon chuckled a trifle wearily then relaxed. He suspected that the next visitor would not be so easily rattled.

He was right. Half an hour later, Harold Wyman entered, wearing a lab coat and a stone-faced expression. He was accompanied by two athletic-looking men in black fatigues, who stood by the door, leaving it open, and watched him from behind dark glasses.

“The other Doctor Wyman?” Procyon put as much false amazement into his voice as possible. “I’d bow, but you have me at a disadvantage. To what do I owe the displeasure.” Wyman sighed as he took a seat some distance away and shuffled some papers on his clipboard.

“I understand you were baiting Laura.” He stated without rancour. Procyon shrugged.

“I don’t like what you’ve done to me. It’s only fair that both parties suffer in this arrangement, don’t you think?” His tone was light, but the undercurrent was malicious. “She wants to come in here and act like Florence Nightingale, then I’ll be the bitter soldier with syphilis who’s determined to spread it around. Roleplay is a healthy form of expression, wouldn’t you say?”

Wyman sighed again, looking at his captive. “The point is, Mr Nord,”

“-Procyon.”

“-that what has been done cannot be undone.”

“Oh, that’s alright then. Present me with a fait accompli and say Hey, get over it.” Procyon eyeballed Wyman. “Forgive me if I find you more than a little repugnant. And your daughter might be a nice girl and all that rubbish, but as far as I’m concerned, she’s a damn traitor to her species.” Procyon smiled tightly at Wyman as the human glanced up sharply. “That’s right, scumbag. I guessed she’s a nova, and now I’m sure, thanks to you.” Wyman’s eyes narrowed in anger.

“We can do this the hard way, Mr Nord-“

“The name is still Procyon, Harry. Why don’t you get Laura back in here? Half an hour more and I could have her screaming it, if she’s a screamer. Moaning is almost as good.” Out of character though it was to be so crude, Procyon was perversely enjoying this, letting the headache transmute into vicious spite. But he had gone too far. Wyman gestured, and one of the guards drew a taser pistol from his belt and pointed it at Procyon. Before the restrained nova could do more than register the danger, a crackling bolt of electricity hit him in the belly, sending searing pain through his muscles and causing him to arch against his restraints with a scream. The pain spread up through his body and coalesced in his head, and he blacked out.

He awoke what must have been a few moments later. Wyman was checking his pulse and breathing with a stethoscope, his expression coolly clinical. Noting that his patient was awake, he moved back over to his chair.

“That gave me no pleasure to order, Mr Nord.” This time, Procyon tried to correct him, but his mouth wouldn’t move. He mumbled instead, and Wyman shook his head. “You are a prisoner here, and your treatment will depend on your conduct. My guards have orders to shoot to kill only if it appears you are going to take life, but that doesn’t mean you will not be punished for infractions.”

With a supreme effort, ignoring the splitting pain in his head, Procyon forced his mouth to form words.

“Wyman…? I… am… going… to… KILL… you… You… FUCKER!” Wyman shook his head again.

“I’m afraid not. You see, Mr Nord, my daughter is a scientist, but my field is different. I am a psychiatrist and psychologist, and my area of speciality is deprogramming. I’ve even treated some of your cultists over the years, so you could say I’ve been dying to treat the disease at the source. We’re going to treat your mind, now that you don’t have that node impeding your rehabilitation.” One of the guards came forward as Wyman stood, producing a syringe from a case. The guard fixed Procyon’s arm even further in place as Wyman came over. “This is a potent cocktail of my own devising. Hallucinogens and suppressants. It should work wonders in breaking down your barriers, Mr Nord, even with the remnants of your nova metabolism fighting it.”

Procyon tensed and tried to struggle, but the guard bore down hard on the arm, holding him steady as Wyman slid the needle into a vein. He tried to scream protest, but his voice came out as a croak as the world turned to hell.

* * * * * *

Wyman watched on the monitors as his patient moaned frantically in their restraints, twisting this way and that to escape the insistent tones of Wyman’s voice on a looped recording. He was recording the ramblings of Mr Nord for later use, and making notes on the various phrases that seemed to elicit the strongest response. He had made this recording up this morning, basing a lot of the subliminal messages on Nord’s nocturnal murmuring. Over and over, the audio track droned on with constant denials of special status, reminders of Peter Nord’s human origins and his current powerlessness. He threw in messages about those Procyon had killed over the course of his life as a nova, and in particular messages about how if he hadn’t been a nova, his wife and child would have been alive today. He would have seen his unborn son grow up. This one in particular sparked strong responses from the patient, feverish denials and bouts of tears. It wasn’t easy to watch, even for Wyman, and Laura was distraught at what she was witnessing. But she had to be there, monitoring her nanites and Nord’s vitals. To spare her feelings as much as possible, Wyman had the audio feed from the room routed through some earphones which he alone listened to.

“Father, is this necessary?” Laura asked him. Wyman sighed and rubbed his eyes. This phase of the treatment had now been ongoing for 12 hours. He removed the earphones and turned to his daughter, smiling wearily.

“Yes, I believe it is.” He said with quiet confidence. “You see it’s possible that what you can do, another nova might find a way to undo. If Peter Nord misses being a nova badly enough, he’ll find a way to be one again. He has friends out there, some of whom are as powerful as he. If, on the other hand, he become glad to be as normal as possible, and indeed hates the idea of being a nova, he will not want to be Procyon again.”

Laura looked sadly at the monitors. “But it’s so cruel! You’re brainwashing him.” Wyman smiled ruefully.

“Well, if he could be talked round in group therapy, I’d try it. But he won’t, Laura.” Wyman sounded regretful, which indeed he was. “He suffered from chronic India Syndrome. As he stands, he’s a megalomaniac.”

Laura nodded, unhappy but accepting the situation, and Wyman smiled proudly at her. “That’s my girl. Look at it this way: He’ll be happier in the long run. No-one will be looking for Peter Nord. The project will set him up with a new identity, and he’ll have a healthy, happy life. We’ll look after him.” Wyman was distracted by a beeping sound from his daughter’s console. “What’s that?”

Laura looked at the screen, and the expression on her face made Wyman’s blood go cold. It was uncertainty.

[GDP_ST]

“I… don’t know what’s happening, father. The nanites are all weakening, slowly. The degradation has been happening over a long period of time, but has reached warning levels now. It’s as though they’re being attacked…” She gaped at the screen. “But that’s not possible!”

“Relax.” He said sharply. “Think, my girl. What could be the cause?” Laura chewed her lower lip, her eyes narrowing in thought as her brain raced at a speed beyond that of a computer.

“The nanites themselves are tough, and they’re attuned to him. They’re made of eufiber-derived polymers. His immune system will just ignore them. There’s no radiation in there, and his quantum signature is only a small step higher than a baseline’s. But something is killing them off, like a slow poison…” A second warning bleeper sounded, and Laura gasped, now frightened.

“Father, the more they degrade, the more speed the degradation picks up. This isn’t possible! We have to inject him with more, and quickly.” She leapt to her feet. “I’m going to the lab to pick up a batch. Tell the guards I’m coming!” Wyman nodded, his own mind racing as his daughter ran from the room, and reached for the security comm set. He hesitated a moment, realising what he was about to do, but there was too much at stake here. They would just have to start again.

“This is Dr Wyman to prisoner detail. Terminate Mr Nord now!” He knew that Laura would be crushed, but they could find out what went wrong afterwards. The radio crackled in his ear.

“This is Detail Leader, Doctor. Confirm last order, please?” Wyman knew they were being professional, but resisted the urge to curse as he pressed the transmit button once more.

“Order confirmed, terminate Mr Nord, now!” As he gave the order again, the warning beep became a shrill single toned signal, and on Laura’s monitor the various nanite groups’ indicators turned to red almost simultaneously. He gaped at them in horror, then looked at his tv monitor.

* * * * * *

Procyon was in a haze. The voice had been talking to him forever. It had sounded like Wyman’s voice at first, then like his father’s, accusatory and harsh. Then it had started to sound like Jessica’s. He was crying out that he didn’t want to leave, that he never asked to be a nova, when suddenly something changed.

It started as a trickle, and the words coming from around him slowed down as though matching the speed of the trickle. The trickle then became a pulse, in sync with his heartbeat, but more powerful. He felt it, streaming down from his forehead, warm and good and empowering as it flooded through his body, making his nerves tingle with a familiar feeling. The haze of drugs started to lift like a mist in a warm wind, and his thoughts began to move faster, then faster again, approaching the horizon of his subconscious then blasting past it, shattering that most human of barriers, making his mind whole again. He was aware of a bright glow from beyond his eyelids, and knew without looking that the glow was his. He drew in a breath, and realised that he did it just to experience the joy of breathing, rather than out of necessity. He laughed out loud, and the room rang with the perfect tones of a wrathful angel.

* * * * * *

On the monitors, Wyman watched with horrified awe as the glow began to emanate from the prisoner, sparkling motes of sunlight dancing in the corona of solar radiance around the suddenly-transformed body lying on the restraint bed. Highlights of glowing gold gleamed along the surface of his skin, and he began to laugh, a deep rich, inhuman sound as shouting men entered the room, weapons out. They pointed the guns at Procyon, then the screen was filled with a flare of golden light before going black, and a second later Wyman was almost thrown out of his seat by an explosion which rocked the building. He knew without asking on the radio net that those men were dead.

The door burst open, and his security chief came running in with twenty men. “I’ve been watching the situation, sir. We need to leave. Now!”

“My daughter… She’s in the labs!” Wyman stood, but the chief grabbed hold of him and manhandled him out of the room, handing him off to another guard and shoving them both in the direction of the elevator that went up to the roof.

“I’ll go and get her, sir. You leave now, and we’ll take the other chopper. Go!” The chief turned and signalled ten of the men to follow him, and the other ten bundled Wyman into the elevator against his protests. His last sight of the chief was of him running down the corridor away from them, followed by his ten men.

* * * * * *

Laura also heard and felt the explosion, and immediately surmised what had happened. She was saddened more than frightened; they had been so close. She looked at the spray canister in her hand forlornly. It wouldn’t work twice, she knew. He would be watching and waiting: she wouldn’t even get close. It must have been the eufiber polymer. Somehow it had slowly died in his bloodstream. She didn’t know how that happened, but it was too late to go back and try again.

But at least she could choose her own fate now. Whatever happened to her father’s grand design, this, the last dose of the nanites, would make her normal again. She wanted that so badly, to be normal. To see a man smile and not see all his hidden motives. To get to know someone over a lifetime spent together, rather than know all about them after five minutes. She set her lips into a determined line and then sprayed the canister into her own face. Seconds later she was clutching at her own head and moaning on the floor, as the nanites forcibly dormed her down.

* * * * * *

Procyon stalked the halls of the project building, his eyes blazing angrily, his rage all too evident to those luckless unfortunates who crossed his path. He was weak, nearly empty of quantum, but bullets were no impediment to him. He ripped sections from the walls to use as missiles, throwing them with awful force at those he saw.

They have tried to destroy me, as surely as if they had killed me. Damn them to hell!

He knew what he had to do, but the strain would cause him harm, maybe permanently in his weakened state. But it had to be. This project could not be allowed to rebuild, could not be allowed to continue in any form. And if any in the outside world knew of the project, let them see this retribution and think second thoughts about attempting to emasculate the One Race.

He reached into his node, feeding his own life force into the quantum matrix taking shape. He had never done this before, but he knew he could. The only question was: would he survive it?

* * * * * *

Wyman’s chopper took off from the roof, the pilot ignoring his employer’s protests in favour of doing his duty and heading away from the remote facility. The doctor looked out of the rear window, watching the facility roof and the blinking lights of the second helicopter, praying to a God he didn’t believe in.

* * * * * *

The security chief burst into the labs, finding Ms Wyman on the floor and moaning in pain. He slung the woman over his shoulders and shouted at his men to run. They made it to the elevator and piled in, and the chief reached for the roof button. He looked up then, as did his men, as they heard a noise like a thousand freight trains approaching. Then the sound was all around them, and the elevator was shaking like a-

* * * * * *

The tornado was huge, big enough to envelop the whole building as it came twisting down out of a previously unclouded northern sky. The hammer of an angry god, it struck the facility with terrifying force, ripping the building apart into tons of flying debris. Harold Wyman couldn’t make out any bodies, but his nightmares later would show them as he watched in horror. Oh god! Laura!

* * * * * *

It was not enough, Procyon knew. Not enough for the insult, not enough to make his species safe. The twister had shredded the building, but the foul nest needed cleansing. He reached into himself again, his form too bright to look at as he stood in the center of the still-howling storm. The occasional stray debris hit him and bounced off, leaving him unmoved as he slowly summoned up the last spare erg of his strength.

* * * * * *

“Turn around!” Wyman was screaming at the pilot, who was ignoring him as best he could. “There may be survivors… She may be…”

The bright flash cut him short. A perfect sphere of golden fire, so bright it was nearly white, had enveloped the facility. Searing flames the temperature of the sun vaporised the flying debris, the foundations, and the ground under where the building had once stood. The sight seared itself into Wyman’s mind, and he couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. He just watched, silent tears running down his face, as the globe of light winked out, leaving the world darker than it had been for Harold Wyman.

His men were also quiet, none able to speak or even curse in the face of what they had witnessed. They said nothing as Wyman sat down on a seat, crying tears of rage and grief. They stayed silent as the chopper moved out of visual range of the site, the pilot not thinking at all, for now, about what was going on, but just flying the aircraft.