Scales

  SCALES

  Anthony G Williams

  On Line

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  An Authors OnLine Book

  Copyright © Anthony G Williams 2007

  Cover design by Oleg Volk ©

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission of the copyright holder. Nor can it be circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on a subsequent purchaser.

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  19 The Cinques

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  This book is also available in e-book format ISBN 0 7552 0266 X

  details of which are available at www.authorsonline.co.uk

  Anthony G Williams is a military technology historian. He is the author of 'Rapid Fire: The Development of Automatic Cannon, Heavy Machine Guns and their Ammunition for Armies, Navies and Air Forces', and the co-author of 'Assault Rifle: the Development of the Modern Military Rifle and its Ammunition' (with Maxim Popenker) and the three-volume series 'Flying Guns: Development of Aircraft Guns, Ammunition and Installations' (with Emmanuel Gustin).

  'Scales' is his second novel. His first was 'The Foresight War', set in an alternative Second World War, which is also published by Authors OnLine. He maintains a website at:

  http://www.quarry.nildram.co.uk

  Oleg Volk, who produced the cover design, is a photographer and graphic designer. His website is at:

  http://www.olegvolk.net/

  PROLOGUE

  A story has to start somewhere. When the story is autobiographical, the logical place to start is with birth. Except that to understand the context, the reader may need to learn about parents, even grandparents; was the subject born into wealth or poverty, privilege or obscurity? My case is rather different in that this story starts, in explosion and fire, when I was already past my forty-fifth birthday.

  Picture the scene: a flat, fenland landscape typical of East Anglia. The endless farmland stretching to the horizon, dissected by the ruler-straight dykes and smaller drainage ditches planned by the Dutch when this part of England was reclaimed from marshland centuries before. The fields beginning to turn green with the first leaves of the vegetable crops; later, they would be full of potatoes and sugar beet, carrots and cabbage. Overhead, a vast open sky just dimming into dusk, a few wispy clouds high above still glowing in the sun. A straggle of red-brick houses along each side of a straight, narrow road running well above a land sunken by drainage. A white-painted pub, red Bateman's sign swaying slightly in the breeze. At one end of the small village, a house a little detached from the rest, three stories tall but shallow from front to back, set in a square plot bordered by tall poplars to screen the cold north wind, a few remaining daffodils nodding over the lawn. A late spring scene of rural tranquillity, disturbed only by birdsong.

  Inside the house a man is sitting in his study. He is approaching a sedentary middle age and casually dressed, the study furnished in a comfortably old-fashioned style, with several packed wooden bookcases and worn chairs. In complete contrast is the latest style of portable computer which the man is using to finish an article.

  The arguments in favour of Intelligent Design have therefore been systematically countered by scientists such as Dr. Miller. More fundamentally, the principles underlying it have been attacked as unscientific. The scientific method is an objective process which depends upon observation and analysis. The proposition that life was designed by some superior intelligence, intervening in an undetectable way, is the very antithesis of science. It explains nothing, and cannot even explain itself. Despite this, and the devastating verdict of the judge at the Dover school board trial, the religious basis for ID means that its true believers will not be shaken. They continue to press for it to be taught as an 'alternative theory' in schools both in the USA and the UK. Those who care about the integrity of science need to remain on their guard.

  He reviewed the final paragraph, saved it, and made a back-up copy. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He would email the article to a journal in the morning; not one of the science ones, of course – their subscribers would already be familiar with the issues – but one aimed at a more general readership.

  In the meantime, he deserved his usual small celebration after completing a project. He contemplated a glass of wine before deciding in favour of the grain rather than the grape, as he planned to walk to the pub for his evening meal and a jar or two of ale with the regulars. He went to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of Straffe Hendrik from the fridge. The strong Bruges beer poured pale yellow and frothy into its wide-mouthed glass. The man walked into the lounge, selected his favourite Dave Brubeck LP, and settled in his old leather armchair to enjoy the combined pleasures of mellow jazz and fine ale.

  He was just beginning to relax when he became aware of a rising tension in the room, like a strong electrical field. Puzzled, he turned to look around the room. At that instant, his world came to an end.

  The explosion sent tiles flying from the roof and bricks spilling outwards. The blaze followed immediately, flames roaring through the wreckage. Sounds of alarm, of dogs barking; doors opening and villagers rushing to the scene, only to be held back by the ferocity of the fire. A blackened, charred, figure, crawling from the ruins. The man heard gasps of horror and cries of concern from the villagers: 'For God's sake, call an ambulance!' Then silence, darkness and oblivion.

  BOOK 1 – THE SCALED MAN

  1

  For a long time, all was dark. All I was conscious of were the smells and sounds which marked out my location as a hospital, the occasional murmurs of voices, sounding concerned and grave. And pain. The pain was universal, inside and out, and at a level which I had never before experienced or even imagined possible. Every now and then the pain receded for a while and I drifted into a hazy sleep, only to be woken again as the pain slowly regaining its ground. I did not know whether it was night or day; the pain cycle determined my timescale. I thought of nothing, remembered nothing, not even who I was.

  An indeterminate period of time passed, a relentless cycle of more pain, less pain. An odd little monorhyme started running through my mind, as if on an endless loop:

  Too much pain

  Fries the brain

  Let cocaine

  Take the strain

  I had no idea whether I had remembered this, or just invented it.

  Eventually, at a time when the pain had woken me but had not yet become unbearable, I heard the scrape of a chair and a louder voice, clearly directed at me:

  'Well, good morning! And congratulations – I must say you have astonished us all!' The man's voice had the underlying strain of one who is trying to sound cheerful while feeling exactly the opposite. 'Are you able to talk?'

  A direct question, requiring a response. My mental cogs slowly turned, grinding with rust. I found I could open my mouth, but only a croak emerged when I tried to speak.

  'Let me give you something to drink; it might ease your throat.'

  I felt my head lifted, something bumping against my mouth, then cool pleasure slipping down my throat. I swallowed greedily. A second attempt, barely audible: 'Yes.'

  'Good! Do you remember what happened to you?'

  I thought back, but could only remember pain. 'No.'

  'It seems that there was a fire at your home. You have been badly burned, but you're going to be alright now.'

  A major effort to construct a sentence: 'Why can't I see?'


  'Your eyes are covered at the moment. We're hoping to put that right in a few days.'

  I thought about that. 'Will I be able to see?'

  'Well, we won't know for certain until it happens. But we're hopeful, as you seem to be making a remarkable recovery.' Definitely hope rather than expectation, it was clear.

  The pain, momentarily held back by the distraction of conversation, returned with a vengeance after the doctor had left. Another voice, with a soft, feminine lilt which a random flicker of memory vaguely associated with a place called West Africa, intruded on my suffering. 'Bad again is it? Would you like some relief?'

  All I could manage was a hoarse croak, which she evidently interpreted correctly. I heard her fiddling with something by the bed, felt the soft wash of oblivion spreading through my body, and slept.

  For several pain cycles, the pattern remained the same. Each time I woke I would hear the soft voice as she tended me, encouraging and comforting. My frozen imagination began to melt, focusing on her, wondering what she looked like. Sometimes there were deeper male voices murmuring in the background, sounding puzzled, even excited. They seemed to be intensely debating something; I was afraid that it was probably me. I grew stronger and the general pain reduced, leaving some specific areas of agony behind, like a flood slowly revealing the landscape as it recedes. One of those areas was my mouth; my gums screamed with the pain of universal toothache.

  'What's the matter with my teeth?'

  A hesitation, before the soft voice replied. 'It's really quite astonishing; you seem to be growing new ones.'

  'New ones?'

  'Yes, they're pushing your old teeth out. You lucky man, I wish I had a new set of teeth; I'd take better care of them this time!'

  I thought about that. I'd never heard of such a thing as growing new teeth, although I remembered from somewhere that scientists had been talking about using stem cells to grow new teeth – in a few decades' time. 'What's happened to me?'

  'You were burned, all over. One hundred percent, first degree burns. It's amazing really, most people don't survive even when partially burned as badly as you were, and no-one thought you would last the hour when you were brought in. But look at you now, getting better every day!'

  'I can't look at me now.'

  'You'll be able to soon, I'm sure. The doctor wants to open your eyes tomorrow.'

  'Open my eyes?' I was puzzled at the curious phrase. 'You mean, take the bandages off?'

  'Something like that, yes.' She sounded hesitant. 'Your eyes have a protective cover at the moment.'

  Tomorrow came, and obediently brought the doctor, who I learned was a burns specialist called Brian. I realised for the first time that I always knew when he was there, and whether others were with him. I had no time to puzzle over this before he spoke, his voice showing the usual mixture of heartiness and strain.

  'Before we begin, there are some things I need to explain to you. As you know, you suffered severe and extensive burns. When you first arrived we didn't expect you to survive for more than a day. However, you confounded all of us. Your skin formed some kind of thick protective layer, all over, like a kind of giant scab – I've never seen anything like it before. We've left it alone so far, but it's beginning to break up and there are indications that it may be ready to peel off, particularly over your face. Your eyes have been glued shut by the protective layer, but given these promising signs and your return to consciousness we think this means that we can now clear this layer out of the way.'

  I began to understand the tension in his voice and felt my anxiety growing to match his. While I wasn't an expert on medical science I was reasonably well up on current developments, but had never heard about anything like this before.

  Gentle hands held my head and I felt picking and rubbing sensations over my eyes. Sudden cold struck my eyelids as the fresh air hit them. There was a puzzled murmur, sounding rather shocked.

  'Can you open your eyes?'

  A definite sound of strain in the voice: something was wrong. With great reluctance, I forced my eyes to open. Light flared into my head, glaring and painful. I barely registered the gasps from the small group clustered around my bed. There was a long silence. I concentrated on the light, gradually made out the shape of heads looming over me. One of them spoke.

  'Can you see?' The strain was close to breaking point.

  I looked at the speaker, whose features slowly swam into focus. An apprehensive face, something like panic in his expression.

  'Yes. What's the matter?'

  'What colour were your eyes?'

  Were? I thought about that. 'Brown, more or less.'

  'Well, they aren't now. Bring a mirror, please nurse.' One of the heads disappeared, returned with a circular mirror which was held in front of my face. I looked at the face, an unrecognisable mask completely covered with dark scabs except for the holes for my nostrils and mouth, and my eyes. I looked at those eyes in disbelief, felt my hold on reality slipping. Around the black pupil, the iris and the white sclera had merged into one. And it was all a vivid gold. They were alien eyes, nothing to do with me.

  'Then there's your eyelids.' His voice was shaking. I slowly closed one eye. The skin of the lid was a gleaming, greenish purple. And covered with fine scales, like a lizard's.

  I was sedated for most of the next few days, remembering only the occasional appearance of the nurse, anxiety visible in her warm brown face. After a while, I recovered enough of my sanity to begin thinking again. 'What's your name?'

  She turned and looked at me. 'Zara. Are you feeling better?'

  'As well as can be expected. Musn't grumble.'

  She giggled suddenly, a flash of white teeth. 'I'll tell the doctor. He wants to talk to you.'

  'I'll bet he does, but not just yet – bring me the mirror, please.'

  She duly obliged, and I looked again at that scabbed face, the alien eyes. I felt my hold on reality slipping again and dragged my mind back with a furious effort of will. There was no point in kidding myself, this was real and it was happening to me. A part of my mind went away into a corner, gibbering quietly.

  My skin itched suddenly, so I rubbed at my face. The surface shifted, and I rubbed some more. Part of the scabs started to come away. I put the mirror down and rubbed harder with both hands, suddenly anxious to know the worst. The scabs peeled off my face and my hands, and I heard Zara gasp. I rubbed until I could feel no more of the hard, crusty scabs, then I picked up the mirror again, took a deep breath, and looked.

  This time I could tell there was quite a crowd of them before they entered the private room I had been put in. My doctor, Brian the ginger-haired burns specialist, eyes worried behind their thick-rimmed glasses, was accompanied by heavier firepower in the form of several older, dark-suited figures, all covered by the obligatory white coats. They all stared at me in fascinated silence as I continued to rub at my body, shedding the thick layer of scabs as if I was clearing off a dried, all-over mudpack.

  It was the same all over my body; the healing was complete, the skin intact. But it was all in various shades of greenish purple, and all covered with scales. They varied in size, being small and fine on the palms of my hand and my face, almost disappearing on my fingertips and lips, larger over my body. I rolled over, with some help, and Zara got to work on my back, tentatively at first, then rubbing vigorously. She revealed a shallow crest of scales running up my spine and over the top of my bare scalp. When she had finished, I realised that I had no hair, anywhere. I rubbed my hand over my chest. The fingers seemed quite sensitive, the scales on my chest surprisingly smooth. My nipples had disappeared, somewhere.

  'How are you feeling?' One of the grey-suits spoke.

  I thought about it. I realised suddenly that the pain had gone, leaving behind only a feeling of weakness, muscles itching from lack of exercise. I turned to the mirror and opened my mouth. A new set of teeth gleamed confidently back at me. They seemed normal enough, no extra-long canines. The inside of my mouth
was even pink.

  'Very well, thank you. Considering.'

  He coughed. 'Yes, well. Do you have any idea what happened to you?'

  'Do you know who you are?' A second suit added intensely.

  I thought some more. My memory had been returning in fits and starts, as if a flashlight were being shone around a dusty attic. I began slowly. 'I'm beginning to remember. My name is Matthew Cade Johnson. I write, I think. About science, yes. Popular articles and books, that sort of thing. I live in a village, in the Fens, in my parents' old house.'

  'By yourself?'

  'Yes, for some months.' Since Ros had left me, I recalled, a city girl bored with life in the empty countryside.

  'What happened to you?'

  'I have no idea. I understand there was a fire, but I don't remember anything about that.'

  'It was more than just a fire. Your house blew up. There's nothing left but rubble.'

  I sat up with difficulty, Zara helping with an arm around my back, then turned and looked out of the window. The room was light and airy, with large windows giving views of a nearby clump of silver birch. Their leaves were turning brown. Brown?

  'How long have I been here?'

  'Almost six months. You've been in a coma until recently.'

  While I absorbed that, another suit coughed. 'The police want to interview you about the fire, when you're ready.'

  I grinned wryly at him, conscious of the bizarre impression I must make, an alien nightmare come to life. 'Oh, I suppose I'm ready; do you think they are?'

  Looking back, I am impressed with the speed of my recovery, and even more by the calm acceptance that I seemed to feel. By rights I should have been losing my mind, crazed with horror at what had happened to me, but I felt a strange sense of detachment, as if it was all happening to someone else and I was merely an interested observer. How and why it had happened was a problem my mind was still only prepared to skirt around, cautiously.