Strange Ways

By E.W. Story

A lover lost, a world destroyed . . . Time in tangles and our fate in the balance . . . A fugitive’s flight through a maze as deadly as the creature at its heart . . . Humanity’s last hopes bicker on the brink of extinction.

Four stories on the road to cosmic weirdness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: E.W. Story
• Release date: Oct 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9780995380844

E.W. Story

The initials in the name “E. W. Story” stand for “Evelyn William”. He might also be called “Ed”. Ed was possibly born in Cleve, South Australia, and raised in Adelaide, where he may have studied mathematics. Some propose that he lived in Perth and Darwin as well. It’s not beyond the realm of chance that he has a wife (Liz), two children (Luke and Sarah-Jane), and a dog (Darth). He definitely sold a story called “Cold Sleep, Cold Dreams” that was published in the landmark 1994 Australian science fiction anthology Alien Shores.He is also, almost certainly, the author of “On the Blink”, a story that rated third in a readers’ poll of the Canberra SF Society in 1992. That story appeared under the name “Bradley MacMillan”.He could also be #1 New York Times-bestselling author "Sean Williams".Which is the pseudonym? You decide.

Book preview

On The Blink

To: Dr. Cho

From: Dr. Carmen

Dr. Cho,

Enclosed with this memo you will find a document that could only be described as the testament of Dr Braunlow. I found it next to his body two days ago—when I discovered the tragedy—and, as his closest associate, I took it and read it at home; it was in an envelope addressed to me, and the contents were described as being ‘private and confidential’ so I felt I had every right to remove it from the scene without informing the authorities.

Having read the document thoroughly, however, I now believe most strongly that the contents should be viewed by eyes other than my own—yours in particular because, as head of the Corporation, it is your responsibility to order the project shut down and all research reduced, for the moment, to that of a theoretical nature. I have difficulty refuting the claims made by Dr Braunlow, especially in the light of the events of the past forty-eight hours, and therefore feel this matter should be treated with utmost urgency .

Read the document, and make your own decision. I have already made mine. This afternoon I dismantled the central processing core of the system and ensured that certain key components of the hardware were disabled, to prevent the possibility of another such catastrophe occurring. I’m sure that you will agree with my course of action, but I await your reply with some anxiety, as what I have done could be construed by many to be a criminal act of sabotage.

I would like to add that, although Dr Braunlow was a disturbed man with a history of disciplinary actions , he was also a genius and unlikely to be mistaken in his consideration of the ramifications of future experiments.

I await your reply,

Dr. Colin Carmen.

P.S.

Dr . Braunlow’s note also explains the identity of the girl we found beside his body . It is fairly obvious what occurred once they returned to the labs, bearing in mind that there were signs on both bodies of a violent struggle.

It is cold-hearted, and perhaps unnecessary, to point out that this terrible outcome was certainly the most fortunate for the Corporation ; imagine the controversy that would have eventuated had she lived. . .

I leave the handling of this particular aspect of Thomas’s passing in your capable hands with little reluctance, I must confess.

The Testament of Doctor Thomas Braunlow 15.5.31

It all began, as everyone knows, on the afternoon of Saturday, October fifth, 1991—or the morning, or the evening, depending on where you lived on the globe. On that day, life as we knew it changed; some say for the worse and some for the better. So radical and unusual was the Blink that no-one quite knew what to make of it, even much later. Anyone alive today who lived through that afternoon remembers exactly what they were doing, where they were, and who they were with, much as another generation regarded the assassination of John F. Kennedy.

The scene is frozen forever in my mind. It was on that day that part of me died, and another was born. Karen, my dearest, beloved Karen, was taken from me that fateful afternoon, and the remainder of my life has been spent trying to recover her.

We were riding from Adelaide to Port Elliot astride my new Yamaha, intending to spend the week together in a shack on the coast. With the bike roaring between our legs and the constant pressure of her slim hands on my sides I could not suppress a growing excitement and a deep, joyful sense of anticipation of the week to come. Karen and I, together and unconcerned by the cares we left behind us.

I could feel her at my back, could see in my mind’s eye those precious features I had memorised. Black hair streaming from under her helmet in a flowing wake; skin as pale and delicate as china; deep green eyes sparkling with excitement. The racing wind must have craved as I did to caress her with a lover’s touch.

We had been engaged less than twenty-four hours. Beyond the immediate seven days we had the promise of a life together shining like gold in the sun of that beautiful spring day.

We paused for rest at three o’clock, ten minutes past Mt. Compass, and I strode bow-legged and confident behind a clump of bushes to relieve myself. The air was swollen with approaching summer, and I was sweating inside my leathers. She waved cheerfully as I passed from view, pausing in languid stretching-exercises to wish me a brief and cheerful farewell. I see her still, as vivid as though the scene were playing out before me now.

When I had finished, I returned to where the bike stood abandoned by the road. For a moment I was puzzled, then supposed that she had likewise ducked into the bushes. Swinging a leg casually, I rested on the saddle of the bike and waited patiently. After some minutes I became more concerned and called her name, but there was no reply.

Fearing she had wandered into the scrub and become lost, I sounded the horn, called many times, crashed through bushes—searching ever more frantically as my fear grew. The next few minutes were terrifying; horrific fantasies were my only companions as I searched, nightmares of kidnap, rape and betrayal. Eventually I came out of my crazed daze, ashamed of my over-reaction. Nevertheless, I was forced to admit to myself the dreadful fact:

She had gone. Whether by violence or with her volition I did not know, but she had been removed from my side. Despair filled me. I checked the bike; her luggage was gone, but all of mine remained. Even her possessions that had been packed in my bag had been removed. I resolved to return to Mt. Compass and contact the police.

As I retraced the highway back to the small town, I was unhampered by cars travelling in my direction, and a part of me observed that the traffic—which had been busy all day—had thinned remarkably.

I was unaware at the time of the significance of that small fact.

#

How does it feel? Colin, to be probing the mind of your mentor and long-standing colleague? Does it seem strange that I—a confirmed bachelor and outspoken misogynist—might ever have been so passionately enthralled that I was driven to a panic by the absence of my lover after but a few minutes?

This is my other. side, Colin, the aspect of my life that I have kept most closely guarded in my breast for forty years, now. Upon this rock rests my life work.

And