Static Shock

By Eilis Flynn

Can you live without your computer? Can you wear a watch?
In a time not long from now, there are people who can’t. Legally recognized as electromagnetics, or "Readers," they are a twist in evolution, an anomaly in a society that has become technologically dependent. Considered second-class citizens because of their heightened electromagnetic fields, Readers can't wear watches, get too close to a TV, or even drive for fear they will shut down the car's electrical system. Computers become worthless doorstops around Readers. Career prospects are limited.
Reader Jeanne Muir can’t believe her luck when she's unexpectedly offered a new job. But she hasn't been told that her job description includes being framed for a crime she didn't commit. Knowing she was set up, Jeanne can't let herself be taken in—and risks asking Ran Owata, a fellow Reader who is no longer accepted among their kind, for help.

Can she trust him? Does she have a choice?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eilis Flynn
• Release date: Jan 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370582358

Eilis Flynn

Elizabeth M.S. (Eilis to her friends) Flynn has spent a large share of her life working on Wall Street or in a Wall Street-related firm, so why should she write fiction that’s any more based in our world? She spends her days aware that there is a reality beyond what we can see and tells stories about it. She lives in verdant Washington state with her equally fantastical husband. Her books can be found here, and check out emsflynn.com, at Flynn Books Words & Ideas .

Book preview

Static Shock

Eilis Flynn

Reviews for Static Shock

" I couldn't help but keep reading until I was done because I couldn't wait to see what happened next. —Angela Dey

A science fiction-romantic suspense hybrid not to be missed!—Heather Hiestand

Static Shock is a solid book that I believe my fellow fans of made-for-SyFy movies will enjoy. —Wendy S. Russo

STATIC SHOCK

By Eilis Flynn

Flynn Books Words & Ideas

Copyright 2012, 2016 Eilis Flynn

ISBN: 9781370582358

Smashwords Edition

Cover art and design by selfpubbookcovers.com/Shardel

An earlier version of Static Shock was originally published by Crescent Moon Press. This version has been re-edited.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission, except for excerpts used in reviews of this story.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental.

http://www.eilisflynn.com

PROLOGUE

Not long from now, not far from here

The fallen power lines hissed and sparked on the ground of the courtyard, threatening to electrocute anything that came near them. If I had any brains at all, I would have been crawling away as fast as I could. Was I doing that? Of course not. I was crawling as fast as I could trying to get to them, proving again that common sense and I had nothing in common.

Behind me, I could hear the two Hunters getting closer. In front of me, the lines snaked on the ground, making it impossible for me to crawl past without risking contact. For most people, contact would mean death.

But I’m not like most people. Enough was enough.

I took a deep breath. Here we go, I whispered.

CHAPTER 1

Seven days earlier

Sometimes I wondered what it was like to wear a wristwatch. Like all electromagnetics—Mags for short, or more commonly called Readers—I couldn’t wear one. But all the Norms around me wore watches and seemed to be lost without them, so I had to wonder. What was the big deal with them? Aren’t there enough clocks everywhere? Why did they have to wear one to remind them that they were going to be late?

The bells of Denny Hall tolled noon. It had been more than a century since an actual bell rested in the bell tower of the old University of Washington; these days, modern technology allowed the powers that be to toll the hour without the bell. The only real hardware involved were magnetic discs, a hard drive, and a couple of big-ass speakers. Mod tech made things simpler. Sort of.

Of course, I had to stay away from those mag discs. Once I’d made the mistake of being polite and doing something nice for the old janitor in charge of the discs. He’d dropped the box they were stored in just as I was walking by. Not thinking, I picked the box up—and poof! The discs were wiped clean, thanks to my heightened electromagnetic field, or emfield. It’s true what they say—no good deed goes unpunished. No gratitude, no nothing for my good deed that day. Emfields like mine have been the destruction of more magnetic media than you can imagine.

But right now I had an appointment, and I wasn’t going to be late. Almost noon and I wasn’t more than a few seconds away. I hurried past everything that could have caused a problem for me—or that I could cause a problem for. Wristwatches, cellphones, tablets laptops—the list seemed endless. And to my credit, I only heard a few people swearing as I passed, no more than half a dozen or so as a wash of static hit their monitors and wiped whatever they were working on off their screens.

That electronic minefield out of the way, I crossed the glassed-in sky bridge connecting shabby but venerable Denny Hall with the shiny, new Geller Institute. The old building, representing the old ways of anthropology, the old way of studying mankind, connected with the new age, all mod tech.

The swirl of snowflakes as I crossed the sky bridge was almost blinding. Track lights along the floor flickered and something crackled and smoked as I passed by. I hightailed it to the other side. Being a Reader is a pain in the ass when you’re around a lot of high-tech stuff—something's always going snap-crackle-pop. Or in the case of the mag discs, poof! The shattering of the track lights was new, though. I had to try to calm down.

As if.

The new wing housed the institute’s director’s offices. Compared to Denny Hall, everything in the new wing, especially the director’s offices, was big and gorgeous and up-to-date thanks to generous funding from Geller Industries, the parent corporation of the Geller Foundation, which in turn funded the Geller Institute. That funding also provided the paychecks for most of the Readers who worked on campus, including me.

But not much longer for me if I got my way.

The reception area of the director’s office suite was empty and quiet, but the overhead lights started to flicker as soon as I walked in whistling a happy tune. The director’s assistants were on vacation. But that wouldn’t bother Sam Bella, the institute’s director, the most easygoing Reader I knew. He wouldn’t care, so long as no one tinkered with his schedule.

Unfortunately, today I had to.

The brass-trimmed mahogany door leading to Sam’s inner office was closed, but for anyone who knew him, it didn’t take much imagination—let alone Mag ability—to guess what he was doing. It was time for his nap, the one he took every weekday at noon, after he came back from his one-martini lunch. He was very predictable—except for the past couple of weeks when he’d been in and out of the office a lot, more and more jittery every time I tried to corner him.

I glanced at the clock above the door. Half past two. Theoretically, I had a meeting scheduled with Sam—if he bothered to glance at his appointment book. He was lax about that, too.

I knocked and waited. When I didn’t hear anything, I walked in, figuring I’d wake him up. Sam, can I talk to you?

The overhead domes blinked like strobe lights at first, but settled down fast. More often than not when I walked into a room, the lights flashed on and off like a disco ball for a while. Thanks to sensate wiring, the brand-new tech courtesy of Geller Corp. designed to make the lives of humanity as stress-free and thought-free as possible, the lights came on and even the heat adjusted itself when someone entered the room. When it worked the way it was supposed to. Sensate wiring was an iffy proposition when Readers were around. At least when I was around.

I hated sensate wiring. It reminded everyone else that I wasn’t like everyone else.

Warily, I looked up. This time, only one of the bulbs kept flickering. I took that as a good sign. I was in control of my emotions! Sam? Could I talk to you?

No answer, even though I could see his vague reflection. His burgundy leather chair faced the picture window that dominated the back wall of the office. Outside it was wet and gray, definitely winter in Seattle. There was even a snow flurry, which we didn’t get that often. Swirling snowflakes chased each other for the moment, playing tag for an audience of one. Two, now.

I caught a glimpse of my own reflection. I looked almost feral—wary, my eyes glinting green, the auburn highlights in my hair gleaming in the low light. I needed a haircut.

Then the reflection of the other face in the plate-glass window stopped me. It wasn’t Sam’s.

The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. I’m sorry, I was looking for Sam Bella.

He’s not here. Not anymore.

Instinctively, I tried to identify the electromagnetic field of the guy, to get a sense of whom I was dealing with. The overhead lights started to blink as I tried to concentrate. My confusion was making the lights flicker, but…

The leather chair swung around.

The emfield of the man in the chair pulsed, sparking emerald and azure blue with a touch of purple, but once it settled down, it was clear it wasn’t Sam. But then…

The man’s emfield sparked again just before it collapsed into itself and went pop! into nothingness.

A chill ran down my back. The only time I hadn’t seen an electrical field around a human was when that person died. And the stranger sitting in front of me was clearly not dead. I can’t sense you, I whispered. How is that?

I didn’t see any electromagnetic activity from him at all, nothing that allowed me to feel others like me, that allowed all Readers to recognize each other. Even non-Readers have electrical activity, just a different kind, with different color registers.

Instead of a tiny shock, I felt a hum—one that whispered recognition. So he was a Reader, a high-level one, someone who’d learned how to control his em activity. But that didn’t explain why he didn’t seem to have an emfield at all, how he was alive but somehow read as dead.

Who was he?

Where’s Sam? I demanded. I stepped back until I was against the door. What are you doing in Sam’s office?

The expressionless eyes of the dark-haired man didn’t tell me anything about him. Sam’s not here anymore, he finally said. But I bet I know who you are. He smiled.

That smile shouldn’t have scared me. But it did.

You must be Jeanne Muir. His voice was low and rough, as though he weren’t used to speaking. Pleased to meet you. I’m Ran Owata. I’m replacing Sam as director of the institute. I feel as though I know you from your files.

He said everything he should have, but nothing that solved the mystery of his essence. Why can’t I feel you? I whispered. The brass reading lamps on the desk began to flicker along with the overheads. That wasn’t good.

I took a deep breath. Control…if I lost it, there would be hell—and a lot of light bulbs—to pay for.

There had to be some stray electrical pulse, something to give me a clue who this guy was, but…no. It was as if no one else was there.

Is this what it’s like to be a Norm? I blurted.

The desk lamp flashed again but the bulbs didn’t shatter. Ran Owata—whose name rang a bell, though I couldn’t figure out why—lifted an eyebrow.

Did you have to practice that look? I said, again without thinking. Geez, I had a big mouth.

He grinned, and it was surprisingly endearing. It’s natural. What about you?

What about me?

Is all the lighting activity natural, he asked, glancing at the overheads, which now looked like they were blinking in Morse code along with the desk lamp, or do you have to work at it? Sensate wiring’s not supposed to let this happen.

I didn’t want to have this conversation. Why can’t I feel you? Is this what it’s like to be normal? I repeated.

Ran Owata shrugged. If he hadn’t been nonexistent electromagnetically, he would have been worth a second glance—I liked the dark hair and eyes and the strong jaw.

But right now he was giving me chills. He might as well have been a ghost. And everyone knew there was no such thing, only electrical charges from the dead.

We’re all normal, he said after a pause. It just depends on your definition.

How can people live like this? I whispered.

Ran Owata—why did I know that name?

He turned back toward the shadows of the winter afternoon. Electrical leaks are messy.

Yeah. So? What was he talking about?

After several seconds, he turned back to me. And you know what can happen if you don’t patch leaks.

Every Reader knew that. You get a shock. It was the first thing we learned—electrical mental shocks could be dangerous, both to Readers and Norms. We had to make sure we were insulated before touching Norms. And that was why Readers wore special gloves, to protect Norms and Norm things—and to protect ourselves from Norms.

And to be easily recognized, but nobody talked about that.

If I lock down my emotions, I can avoid electrical leaks. I’m sure you understand. He paused. Although I guess you haven’t mastered that yet. I could feel you coming down the hall. The lights started to flicker before you even knocked. You were whistling, weren’t you? I could hear it in my head.

My cheeks burned. Of course I’ve mastered locking down, I lied. I just haven’t needed to. I tugged at my collar. Is it warm in here?

He shrugged. The thermostat was fine until you walked in. That’s not supposed to happen either, not with sensate wiring.

Maybe it wasn’t me! Maybe it’s the wiring going gonzo! Just because I don’t lock down…

In all the places you find yourself, you haven’t had to lock down? To make sure you don’t shatter the lights when you’re not thinking about it? How can that be?

His smile was starting to irritate me. Maybe I’ve learned to avoid crowds, I snapped back, and I could have kicked myself right then, because in that statement I revealed something I had had no intention of admitting.

Haven’t you been trained at all?

Okay, that was enough. Who are you? I demanded. Where’s Sam?

I have the answer. Can you see it?

The words echoed through my mind. If I had had any doubt he was a Reader, this would have confirmed it. Readers can cast to other Readers, but the ability varies from Reader to Reader. Surprised, I opened my mind and tried to project myself into his—and hit a wall.

I can do this, I muttered. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to remember my metaphors training, a required course for Readers at the university. It was supposed to help us control our abilities. I hadn’t paid much attention in the class, because it had seemed pretty dorky.

But I knew what I was supposed to do. First I visualized the picket fence that symbolized the barrier between his mind and mine, then imagined tearing it apart, stick by stick. But the training wasn’t working.

You’re overthinking. You don’t have to tear apart the fence. That’s just going to tire you out.

Don’t patronize me, I snapped aloud. I would have formed the words in my mind, to send as an electrical impulse to him, but I couldn’t do it without really concentrating, and it made me mad he could. That fence kept reforming, the mental pickets floating back into place as soon as I tore them off. No matter how hard I tried, the fence stayed.

I gritted my teeth. One more time. Who are you?

He looked at me, but he didn’t say anything. Not out loud anyway.

It doesn’t matter who I am. Make the fence your own. Paint the fence.

I stared at him. For anyone not in the know, he could have been daydreaming. Paint it? I said. What is that supposed to mean?

He leaned forward. I guess I’ll have to teach you.

He’d have to…

I suddenly recalled an idle comment one of my friends had made, about a Reader who was working with the Norms to mainstream us even though it was pretty clear Norms wanted nothing to do with us. About the Reader who was a traitor to his own kind. He’ll teach us all to ‘get along,’ my friend had said. Whether we want to or not.

The Reader’s name was Ran Owata.

That’s why his name seemed vaguely familiar. Oh, crap, I muttered.

CHAPTER 2

As if on cue, all the light bulbs in the room shattered. The last thing I saw was Ran Owata ducking for cover as the bulbs in his desk lamp exploded, pitching the room into semi-darkness.

I had to get out of there—now!

Sorry, I said. This happens all the time to me. Ask Kimmy. She’ll know. I stopped. Kimmy was Sam’s secretary. You probably have your own. Well, gotta go.

The doorknob wasn’t obliging. I had to get out of there, but the door wouldn’t budge.

Try pushing the door, he said. I did.

The last of the ceiling lights burst just as I ran out.

The broad paths that cut through campus had never seemed so welcoming. They might have been a little slick from the snow, the brick might have been a little wet and treacherous right then, but it was safer than being around Ran Owata.

I hurried along, not letting the occasional skid slow me down. What an idiot! I could have at least tried something to bluff my way through it. But that was Ran Owata!

Shivering, I sidestepped a sodden mess of rotting leaves. The snow had died down, and the sleet that replaced it was steady and cold. But I didn’t care.

I would have known how to make my request to Sam, but this guy? No idea. And now that I remembered who he was, I just wanted to keep out of his way.

What they’d been saying in Meeting all this time had to be true, and I needed to tell them so tonight.

I glanced up at the gigantic digital clock on the university’s neurosciences complex. I had work to get to. If I made the walk lights to cross the street, I wouldn’t be late for my assignment—but I couldn’t count on it.

I could, however, arrange for it.

There wasn’t a sky bridge connecting this side of the campus with the applied sciences complex, and it so happened the street that ran between those two parts of the university saw a lot more traffic than the surrounding streets. Sometimes, pedestrians who wanted to cross had to wait as long as five minutes before the lights changed. Anyone who had to cross when it was raining could be soaked by the time the lights changed.

Considering how many pedestrians jaywalked at this crossing, it was a minor miracle no one had been killed yet. And as far as I was concerned, it wasn’t going to happen today, either. At least not to me.

I looked up at the traffic lights.

A moment of discord shot deep through my mind as I focused. A low buzz tickled the back of my throat as the timer that controlled the lights and the walk/don’t walk signs clicked and flashed, but it was at a gut level that I sensed the power feeding into the simple timed system. I closed my eyes for a moment, reveling in that familiar sensation of the electricity I could connect with. In this way, electricity wasn’t my enemy; it was an ally.

The traffic lights blinked once, then went out of sequence. Unless you were watching closely or you knew what to look for, it wasn’t noticeable. I didn’t have to look around to know the other traffic lights up and down the street weren’t affected. It was only this one I was in sync with, the one I controlled right now. All the other lights could flash green, but this one would flash…

Red. Green. Yellow. Red. And it stayed red.

The pedestrian light flashed walk.

Aces, I whispered. Maybe I couldn’t lock down my abilities the way I was supposed to, but I could play with the traffic lights. And I was good at it.

I hurried across the street. A glance at the clock told me I had two minutes till my appointment. Once I crossed, I looked back to see the traffic light click back into its usual routine, with no one the wiser.

I couldn’t wear a watch, but I could control traffic lights for a few minutes. I could live with that.

I had to hope Ran Owata would think it was a handy talent if—when—he found out.

I didn’t want to have my brain cut into if he didn’t.

My assignment took more time than I expected, even though it was a simple problem I was asked to consult on—electrical power was leaking out of what should have been a closed system. It wasn’t hard to determine what the problem was, but I still had to track down where the problem was in the wiring and make a recommendation on how to fix it. It was boring work, but it paid the bills.

By the time I made it back to the crosswalk, it was rush hour and the sleet had turned into a cold, hard rain. Waiting for the light to change meant I was going to get soaked.

Shoving wet hair off my face, I tried to estimate how long it had been since the last time the walk sign had flashed. Reaching out, not intending to influence the traffic light pattern—yet—I tried to figure it out by the feel of the electrical patterns coursing through the wires and cables.

Crap. The light had changed right before I got to the crosswalk. I’d be waiting a while unless…

It’s either do it or drown, I muttered as the rain ran down my face.

I closed my eyes and, just like that, I turned the traffic light, as if I had flicked a switch.

The walk light flashed. I knew it, I didn’t even have to look to confirm it. I started to cross…

And had to jump out of the way when car tires screeched, water splashed, and a car horn blared. Next thing I knew, I was sprawled on the sidewalk, drenched.

A car door slammed, followed by the splash of footsteps. Are you all right? Don’t move, a voice said.

I’m okay, I muttered. I wiggled my shoulders; no problem there. I might be sore later, but not now. What happened?

You didn’t look both ways before you tampered with the traffic lights, Ms. Muir. And you did, right?

Shit. I knew that voice. I pushed my hair back and looked up. Damn it.

Ran Owata, looking annoyed. Son of a bitch. It was not my day. I was getting wet waiting for the light to change.

And you’re real dry now, aren’t you?

Raindrops splattered across my nose. I wiped the moisture away with my jacket sleeve. So I’m not a genius. Was anyone hurt?

Depends. Can you get up?

I’m fine, I said. This was my life. Of all the times for the light-changing trick to work against me, it would have to be in front of the new director of the Geller Institute. The one with the lobotomy fetish.

He put out a hand and I took it. Once I was standing, I wiggled my foot. See? Nothing broken.

Just your pride, I presume.

His hand was warm and dry, and for a moment, I was disoriented, because it felt so good. I had to remind myself: