Dicing with the Universe

By Ethan Somerville

In the dystopian future of 2178, cyborg soldier Mission is sent to undertake a special job – a journey into the past to assassinate the source of a dangerous temporal anomaly threatening to disrupt all of time and space.

Meanwhile, in the present day, Patrick Baker is starting year eleven and finally realising that he will never be as strong, handsome or smart as he thought he would be. His increasingly elaborate lies have made him a target for bullies and thugs. He believes there is no hope he meets a girl named Sam and a freak accident at the local skating rink unlocks his true mental potential.

Paddy Baker discovers that he’s actually a genius.

But before Paddy can start enjoying his new acuity, the cyborg Mission arrives to kill him.

Paddy, his mother Emily, her strange cockney friend Linnet and Paddy’s girlfriend Sam find themselves drawn into the strangest adventure yet; spanning three different time-periods and journeying across the post-apocalyptic landscape of Australia 2178 to the Oasis, an artificial paradise on the shores of a new inland sea.

They must confront the evil mad scientist responsible for the creation of time travel. But Dr Douglas Grayson runs "the Sire", a powerful scientific organisation, and knows they are coming for him. He is lying in wait with more soldiers, cybernetic assassins – and his fully functional time-machine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storm Publishing
• Release date: May 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370406814

Ethan Somerville

Ethan Somerville is a prolific Australian author with over 20 books published, and many more to come. These novels cover many different genres, including romance, historical, children's and young adult fiction. However Ethan's favourite genres have always been science fiction and fantasy. Ethan has also collaborated with other Australian authors and artists, including Max Kenny, Emma Daniels, Anthony Newton, Colin Forest, Tanya Nicholls and Carter Rydyr.

Book preview

Mission 1

Dicing With the Universe

By

Ethan Somerville

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SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Storm Publishing on Smashwords

Mission 1 – Dicing with the Universe

Copyright © 2013/2017 by Ethan Somerville

www.stormpublishing.net

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Chapter 1

Man with a Mission

Rocky the Rat’s scream for help echoed through the derelict buildings like the howl of a lovesick Great Dane. In the alley far below Rocky’s flailing legs, a mangy cat exploded from the bowels of an overturned garbage bin and bolted off into the darkness.

Did that help? asked Mission. More than likely all you did was wake the neighbours.

Screw you! Rocky gurgled, clawing at the steel fingers locked around his skinny neck. He kicked again, trying desperately to touch the ledge with his toes. Thirty metres separated him from the ground, and he had no wish to close the distance in the short, messy way.

Mission shook his head, distant lights reflecting off the image-enhancer covering his right eye. That wasn’t very polite.

So what? You’re gonna kill me anyway! Rocky croaked.

Mission shook his head. Whatta you take me for? You confess, and I’ll let you go in neutral territory. But you keep stalling me, and I’ll hand you over to Marheg’s boys. He smiled wickedly, displaying sharp metal teeth like sawblades. You know what they do to junkie traitors, don’t you? Lemme give you a hint. It involves electrodes and important body parts.

Rocky’s already pallid face drained to a sickly shade of white. No - no! he blubbered, kicking some more. Not Marheg!

Then tell what I want to know! Mission shook Rocky like a ragdoll.

Rocky sagged in Mission’s metal fingers, all the fight dribbling from his bony body. Mission took this as acceptance and stepped back, letting the traitor’s feet touch the ledge. He relaxed his grip around Rocky’s throat so he could talk properly, but didn’t open his claws.

Gratefully Rocky sucked air into his lungs. He couldn’t believe his luck. Was the huge cyborg monster actually going to let him live? Thank you, thank you! I always thought you were a real psycho, little better than a derro!

Bad press. I might look like a drunken science experiment, but I’m just as human as the next person. Mission patted his chest with his human hand. My heart might be plastic, but hey - it still pumps blood. Now spill. I got other places I wanna be tonight.

Rocky bobbed his head vigorously. Okay, okay. Carulo will be gettin’ his next GlorE consignment on the fifth of July, down at Tan Phuc’s Massage Parlour in Little Saigon.

How many men will he have with him?

Colour returning to his ugly face, Rocky wiped his mouth on a grubby coat sleeve. Fifteen heavies in ceramite combat armour. Most of ‘em carry old projectile weapons, but his five right-hand guys own laz-blasters and pulse grenades.

And what’s Carulo armed with?

He has a juiced-up electrical disruptor. Mean little weapon. Literally throws lightning bolts. At high power it can fry the flesh from a guy’s bones and plays hell with any electrics ‘round the place. Unfortunately it’s not very accurate at long range and tends to earth itself.

I know what a disruptor does, Mission rumbled. After all, I’ve got one of my own. He showed it to Rocky, and the informant paled respectfully. Now, which direction will Carulo’s mob be comin’ from?

Um ... the north I think. They’ll be in Carulo’s armoured transport, but everyone will be gettin’ out to make the exchange.

Who’s bringing the stuff?

Rocky scratched at a festering pimple on the side of his skinny neck. Um, I dunno. It’s a different guy each time. He always comes in his own armoured truck with a squad of heavies and never says much.

So you can’t tell me where the GlorE’s actually coming from?

No.

Anything else? Mission prompted.

Rocky hunted for more information. Um ... No. Sorry.

Thanks Rocky. You’ve been a great help. Suddenly Mission’s robotic hand shot out on half a metre of shining, articulated arm. Rocky stumbled backwards, arms flailing. Then Mission opened his steel fingers, releasing the squealer’s throat. On the way down, Rocky managed to grab the edge with one of his arms. The other two flailed wildly for a handhold.

You said you were gonna let me go! the three-armed mutant wailed.

Mission grinned down at the struggling traitor. I thought I just did. Say hi to the footpath for me. He brought an enormous steel-toed boot down on Rocky’s fingers and mashed them into the concrete. When he lifted his foot, the informant’s broken fingers slipped from the ledge and he flew backwards. Another wail danced into the night.

Mission leaned forward, adjusting his image-enhancer as he followed Rocky’s path to the ground. The mutant hit with a splat and bounced as numerous bones snapped. His shattered body slumped to rest near the overturned bin. Blood began to spread from his shattered skull in a bright red halo. Stupid bloody mutie, Mission growled.

Out of the darkness crept a hunched figure in a filthy black robe. Cautiously, it looked right and left like a nervous child about to cross a busy highway, then scurried over to the corpse and knelt down beside it. A few seconds later, it beckoned three more individuals forward. Mission waited until they were all out in the open, and then he fired, sniping three before they realised what was happening. The fourth managed to dive for cover.

Mission’s bloodless lips curled back from his teeth in disgust, but the one remaining derro knew he was watching, and wouldn’t come back out until he was gone. There was nothing more the cyborg could do, short of launch his own personal crusade against the entire derro population. But those evil little creeps were like rats. No matter how many times Marheg and his troops went out on culling missions, there still seemed to just as many of the little bastards, creeping in the shadows and ruins. Besides, they would dispose of the corpse quickly and efficiently. In a few days’ time, Rocky the Rat would be a heap of picked-clean bones tossed onto a rubbish pile or fashioned into an interesting and attractive necklace. Carulo would never learn what had happened to him.

Mission spat over the edge at the derro’s hiding place, then spun around and marched off. He had mucked around here long enough. Marheg was waiting for him, anticipating his progress report.

Well, he would thoroughly enjoy this one. As Mission hurried down through the old apartment block to the street, his bionic left ear enabled him to detect conversations filtering through the thin walls. When he was in less of a hurry he paused to listen, more often than not searching for useful information. Sometimes, however, he just wanted to be a part of everyday life.

He stepped out into the alley, noticing that Rocky the Rat’s body had already been removed. As he circled the bloodstain, curious derro eyes followed him. He wasn’t worried. By now those psychotic cannibals knew better to take pot-shots at him.

Since his appearance was so distinctive, he flung a hooded cape around his shoulders, transforming himself from a cyborg into another anonymous cowled mutie - albeit a very large cowled mutie. Even though norm locals had no other choice but to accept muties, they still avoided them, as though they thought they could somehow catch their deformities.

Prostitutes looked the other way as Mission lumbered past, and punk teenagers pulled faces. Thankfully they didn’t spit at him like they did at some of the more disgusting muties - that could have proven fatal. Mission might have been a big bounty hunter with enough inbuilt weaponry to start his own war, but he hated being insulted. Names like Monster, Abomination and Frankenstein could make him sulk for days. And woe betide the idiot who dared call him a Psychopathic Psyborg! That was a killing offense.

Transports rumbled along the busy street, the parade of dark, dusty bodies occasionally broken by the odd private vehicle, held together by string and tape. The air reeked of ozone. Although electric cars were cheap to run, only the very wealthy could afford them. These days non-military personnel travelled by bicycle and whatever public transport they could find. But in the Oasis, every family owned a car, just like in the good old days.

Everyone dreamed of going to the Oasis, however only a select few ever found their way in. To some city-dwellers the Oasis was a myth created by the governments to give ordinary people something to hope for.

Mission entered Little Saigon, where in only a few weeks he hoped to blow that scumbag drug-lord Carulo six ways to Hell. Signs of his evil influence lay everywhere; in dingy doorways, on benches and sprawled on the cracked flagstones in full view. Kids, young adults and old bums, still alive but GlorE’d out of their skulls. They stared glassily into space, demented smiles fixed on their faces, puddles of drool collecting beneath their chins. All were emaciated with pallid skin and sunken eyes; they might as well have been dead.

First the federal government passed a law legalising marijuana. Then it made heroin available to registered users. Other recreational drugs followed; E, Trips, Amphetamines. A few years later, crackheads and coke-addicts could enjoy their fixes without fear of prosecution. Finally, all narcotics were legalised, cleaning up the market and drastically reducing the number of overdoses. For a while everyone was happy.

Then some mad scientist - no-one knew his identity - invented a drug the street-set called GlorE. It was so potent, so debilitating and so addictive that the government didn’t dare legalise it. One taste of its power and a person was hooked, for it reached directly into the brain’s pleasure centres and stimulated them more than any other drug could.

Under GlorE’s influence everything became intensely enjoyable; walking, running, breathing, eating, even stubbing a toe. All a person had to do to experience total and utter mind-blowing ecstasy was lie in one spot and stare at the sky. He didn’t need to move, eat or even sleep. Consequently GlorE addicts did nothing but lie around and stare at the sky. Most ended up dying from starvation, dehydration and neglect.

Coming down from a GlorE high was a swift, downward slide into Hell. Instead of feeling good, everything started feeling bad, then worse, then downright agonising. GlorE Hounds, as the addicts were called, did whatever they could to get their next fix. It addled their brains so much that they could kill for it. The pale yellow powder could be taken orally, nasally or intravenously. Of course injecting provided the biggest buzz, and dirty needles littered the ground around most GlorE Hounds.

Only one man could say that he had tried GlorE and not become hooked. But Mission’s system already had enough enhancing drugs running through it, and could resist the crippling effects of addictive narcotics. He’d simply experienced a dizzying light-headedness.

The cyborg had a much better to get high.

Behind little Saigon’s squalid, centuries’ old buildings, with their GlorE Hound doormats, rose an old complex that was once a magnificent shopping centre. When the wealthy people moved inland, leaving the crumbling old cities for the poor, the melters, reffos, muties and derros, the glittering Square died and became a haven for organised criminals and their lackeys. A tough old gangster named Slaem Marheg had won the last battle for domination and now controlled the Square, calling it his Place. These days its hundreds of shops and restaurants provided homes and work-stations to weapon-smiths, armourers, mechanics, mercenaries, hackers and other questionable professionals. Although the public could still access the Place’s carparks, the interior doors were locked and guarded. Marheg had his best technicians installing retinal scanners, but without access to the latest equipment, they faced an uphill battle as they cobbled machines together from whatever old parts they could scrounge.

Mission crossed the rubbish-filled carpark, circling more GlorE Hounds and sleeping bums. Many years earlier, people had parked their petrol-powered vehicles here, and taken their families into the Square to buy things ... so many different, wonderful things. Brightly-coloured clothes, books, movies, computers, games, tools, electronic components... Mission often wondered what the centre had looked like when it was filled with gaudy shops and happy people.

As he approached the entrance, a guard in stolen ceramite armour levelled his laz-blaster. Mission tossed the hood of his cloak back, revealing his face.

Crap, it’s you, Mission! The man, who couldn’t have been any more than twenty, hurriedly stepped aside. Y-you may pass. Tensions always ran high around the Square, as Marheg didn’t want any spies to infiltrate his little installation and steal his most treasured secrets.

Thanks. With a click and a hum, the reinforced steel doors parted and slid aside, revealing a grimy concrete service tunnel hung with pipes. Mission strode in, removing his cloak and hanging it over one arm. The doors ground closed behind him and silence fell. Distant sounds greeted the cyborg’s bionic ear as he headed for the stairs, of people working hard at their stations, revellers down in the bar drinking themselves silly on fungus-beer, and warriors practising in front of the K-mart Training Centre.

Marheg lived on the top floor that encircled the K-mart Courtyard. He liked to watch his warriors, but tonight he had retired early. Men and women fought unsupervised; some hitting each other with bare hands and feet while others used bo-sticks and wooden katanas. Whenever Mission joined in to hone his own fighting skills, he invariably put his opponents in hospital. The influx of steroids into his body had granted him phenomenal strength and deadened his ability to feel pain. His own subdermal armour also prevented most people from actually affecting him.

As he headed for the old escalator that hadn’t worked for years, some of the warriors waved to him. Most ignored him. Even here, in the only place he had ever dared to call home, people still weren’t sure how to treat him. His size and cybernetic enhancements put most people off. Of course he wasn’t the only cyborg living in the Square, but he was by the most sophisticated.

In the old days shops had occupied Marheg’s floor as well; a hairdresser, some banks and a post-office. A sucker for nostalgia, Marheg had left the old signs hanging, and made sure they were kept clean and intact.

As Mission approached the doors to his boss’ living quarters, a flat voice asked him to stop and submit to a retinal scan. Once, to freak the computer out, Mission had lifted his image-enhancer and proffered his right eye. Marheg still hadn’t forgiven him for that. The computer had taken one look at the bloated, red-veined orb, glistening with tiny metal filaments, and promptly crashed.

Visitor identified as Mission, the computer drawled, then paused, relaying this information to Marheg. You may enter, it answered ten seconds later. Slaem is expecting you. When the metal doors parted, the cyborg marched into Slaem Marheg’s lounge room.

The crime-boss had decorated his flat with old relics his lackeys had managed to scrounge from rubbish-dumps and cellars; signs, display-stands, clocks and toys. Faded posters covering the walls depicted smiling, happy people with perfect complexions - even the old folks were clear-skinned. A sagging bookshelf occupied another wall, crammed with old paperback books with wrinkled spines. Mission liked their strange woody smell, and sometimes spent hours reading about the strange world of the past.

Beside the shelf stood a huge, antique wooden desk with an equally antique computer on it, a genuine leather office chair with arms and a high back behind it. In the chair sprawled Slaem Marheg.

He looked up as Mission entered and smiled thinly. He was a big, stocky man with a shiny shaved head and hairy arms corded with muscle. He favoured simple, military style clothing, considering himself more of a general than a criminal. The only thing out of keeping with the carefully cultivated leader image was the striking scorpion tattooed on his pate, head between his eyes and tail running down the back of his thick neck.

Marheg didn’t believe in wasting words, especially around Mission. Did you get it?

Easy. He squealed like a derro in a trash compactor. Pulling a cable out of the back of his head, Mission crossed to the ancient computer and switched on its monitor. I recorded everything. He plugged himself in and downloaded the information from his own far more sophisticated on-board computer. Marheg watched Mission’s little home movie in silence.

I’m not sure you needed to toss Rocky off the building, Marheg declared at the end. We could have used him here.

Doubt it. If he could rat Carulo out so easily, he would’ve turned on us in a second. Mission yanked his cable from the back of Marheg’s machine and it retracted into his skull. The monitor flashed into darkness. Besides, he was a junkie, and you know how untrustworthy they are.

Marheg decided to let it lie. Well, at least we’ll be able to wipe out that son of a mutie. You’re up to the job, aren’t you?

Up to it? I’m looking forward to it! Mission sat down on an old lounge covered with multi-coloured fabric, and it sagged dangerously beneath his weight.

Marheg pushed himself up from his swivel chair and crossed the room. He’s been a thorn in our side a little too long. He paused in front of a tall, white boxlike device from which several cables ran, and levered the old-fashioned fridge open. He drew out a container of greenish liquid and poured some in a plastic tumbler. I don’t know how many good people his GlorE has killed or rendered useless. He has talked some of my most trusted friends into switching sides, just so they could get regular hits. Sometimes I wonder what my advantage over Carulo really is.

It’s me, isn’t it? Mission beamed a wicked, metal-toothed grin.

Marheg grimaced. Ha ha, very funny, he muttered. But the cyborg was right. Carulo didn’t have someone like Mission on his side. No-one did. Mission was unique. Marheg should have considered himself lucky that the cyborg had decided to join his crew instead of Carulo’s. But truthfully, the big bastard gave him the creeps. Over seven feet tall on the old scale, Mission was brawny enough to pick up the Square’s strongest fighter, Bazza Bonecrusher, and casually toss him across the K-mart Courtyard. Bazza had made the mistake of challenging Mission to a fight, and was still paying for his stupidity. Rarely a day went past when someone didn’t see poor Bazza wandering around in a drooling daze.

The cyborg was clad in black vinyl trousers that adhered to his tree-trunk legs and a sleeveless vest he always wore zipped up to his throat, where he wore a segmented metal collar. His skin was very pale, probably from all the drugs and lack of sunlight. He had no body hair, and ropy scars criss-crossed his bald head. His right arm was completely robotic, although the upper part looked relatively normal. A grenade blast had once torn most of that pale flesh off, revealing shiny steel bones, gears and hydraulics that whirred and hissed ominously. God only knew what had happened to the real limb. Mission never spoke about his past.

The barrels of six different guns were grouped around Mission’s wrist, and at the centre extended a large three-digit hand with vicious claws tipping each finger. A black cable ran from the guns into the soft flesh above his elbow, and another disappeared under his arm, presumably power cords for his energy weapons. On his left shoulder Mission wore a large armour plate studded with sharp metal spikes. Marheg had seen him shoulder-barge more than one hapless soul, impaling him on those deadly prongs.

Marheg had also seen what lay beneath the scarred skin covering Mission’s head. The same grenade blast had revealed a shiny steel skull, far stronger than ordinary bone. His image enhancer extended over his right eye, enabling him to magnify his targets and see in various spectrums, and a bionic ear enabled him to hear like a dog, but only when he concentrated. Otherwise the sensory input would have driven him nuts. A little aerial extended above the cybernetic ear, but Marheg had no idea what it was for, and really didn’t want to find out. He already knew more than he wanted about Mission’s bizarre anatomy.

In order to survive Mission needed monthly injections of powerful drugs. He could eat normal food, but only seemed to require large amounts when he needed to regenerate lost flesh. Highly concentrated artificial proteins gave him most of his nourishment.

Marheg drank his artificial apple juice and placed the empty tumbler on the cupboard beside the fridge. What he wouldn’t give for some real fruit. But the Coast hadn’t seen real fruit in years. The Oasians hogged all the freshest produce, and what cheap stuff did eventually made it across the border was always old and fermented, only good for brewing. In order to ward off scurvy, Marheg and his warriors took Vitamin C tabs.

Now, if Carulo doesn’t come in until the fifth of July, that gives us roughly six weeks. Mission - how would you like another- He faced the cyborg again, and noticed that he had relaxed on the couch, head rolled back, arms hanging limply by his sides. A demented smile twisted his bloodless lips.

Marheg groaned.

As Mission had only just knocked himself out, Marheg would have to wait at least ten minutes. Until then the cyborg would remain in his own little dream-world, only dimly aware of the outside. Grumbling under his breath, Marheg stomped back to his old computer and flopped down to wait. He spent the time reviewing and cataloguing the information Mission had provided.

What did you say? Mission asked later.

Marheg spun around in his chair. I was going to ask you if you wanted to do another job! But you’d just zonked yourself out. I wish you’d give me a heads-up before doing that. It’s freaky.

Mission scratched the back of his head. Sorry Marheg, but after running all over the Old Town after Rocky the Rat, I needed to unwind. I don’t know why you think it’s freaky. I don’t do anything.

Marheg sighed. You get all glassy-eyed and drooly. Sometimes I wonder what’ll happen if you don’t come out of it.

You’re just jealous. Mission straightened and stretched, flexing the kinks out of his muscles. Now what’s this about another job?

Marheg took a deep breath and slowly turned back around. Okay - the fifth of July is still awhile away. You don’t want to be stuck with boring old patrol duty until then, do you?

Another job’s fine. What is it? An assassination? Retrieval of stolen goods? Running a message into enemy territory? I hope it’s an assassination. His normal eye gleamed with anticipation.

It’ll be pretty difficult, but undoubtedly interesting, Marheg answered evasively. Unfortunately, it’ll take a while to fully brief you on all the details. You’ll have to come with me to the basement. Dr Creag and his team have finally perfected their latest project and are in the process of conducting test-runs. During their initial research they uncovered some very disturbing details. Marheg switched off his computer and headed for the exit. Mission followed.

What kind of details?

I’ll have to show you the equipment first.

Marheg led Mission back into K-mart Square. The martial artists had finished their sparring and moved off to change. Some remained at the edge, talking and laughing. They waved as Marheg passed, but their cheerful grins froze on their faces as both their boss and the cyborg hulk lumbering along behind him waved back.

Marheg led Mission along a broad passage that used to be lined with clothes shops. Now it was occupied by various apartments and work-stations. Outside a garage, a group of men armed with welding wands were attempting to repair an armoured transport that had been struck by a frag grenade. In a weapons shop, two women were arguing over the price of a second-hand laz-blaster with the optional extra grenade launcher. Both had shaved heads, were clad in crop tops, greasy fatigues and army boots, and carried vibro-knives thrust through their belts.

They reached an old arcade and clattered down another malfunctioning escalator onto the ground floor. Here lay the social areas; seedy little pubs, eateries and diners. The stench of frying fat filled the air. The shopping centre had developed into a mini-city, home to over three thousand people. Still in their moulded body armour, soldiers fried steaks and sliced potatoes and mushrooms over communal barbecues. Since this part of the City hadn’t seen cows, sheep or even pigs for decades, the steaks were made from pigeons, rats, cats - even dogs. When derros started killing and eating each other mere metres from the Square’s outside walls, Marheg stopped considering rat-burgers disgusting. Any accompanying vegetable matter came from the hydroponics department, located in an old Target shop, and a nearby fungus farm.

Mr Marheg! A slender boy of no more than thirteen appeared in front of the boss and his cyborg ally. He already wore fatigues and a rifle slung over his shoulder. He was slender and freckle-faced, his tousled red hair falling in his face. His large, dark green eyes had already witnessed more death than a child his age should ever have.

What can I do for you, son? he asked kindly.

There’s a group gonna flush all the derros out of the old library, and I wanna go, but Flake says I’m too young!

Yes, you are too young, Marheg said softly. Chasing the rest of those cannibal degenerates out of the library will be a long and dangerous task, too much for a little fellow like you. You should be concentrating on your studies, not trying to get yourself killed!

The boy pouted, tears gleaming in his eyes. But he bit down on his lower lip, gulped back his pain and said shakily, Yes sir. Then he spun on his heel and darted off before the boss could explain. As Marheg watched him disappear into the crowds he remembered his own son’s bright brown button eyes and unruly curls. A three year pain filled him. Kyle Marheg had died during a fierce battle with Marheg’s previous rival, Zander. The job Marheg was about to give Mission increased his pangs of guilt. How could he even think of easing it by holding one little boy back? Marheg had killed his first person at the age of eleven.

In silence Slaem Marheg took Mission down into the basement. The cyborg had watched the exchange, but failed to understand it. He often experienced strong emotions of his own, but the finer points of human interaction always seemed beyond him. Even though he had only been a cyborg for four years, he knew little about normal human life. Before he had been quiet and introverted, and now how many people could conduct a normal conversation with him without fidgeting or staring at his enhancements? Even Marheg had problems. No wonder Mission eavesdropped.

Outside the laboratory entrance, both Marheg and Mission submitted to a retinal scan. When the computer recognised the boss and the bounty hunter, it parted the doors and asked them to proceed.

Marheg’s laboratory was just as dark and dingy as the rest of the place, with pipes and hoses trailing across the ceiling and cables straggling across the floor. Lab-benches were covered with experiments and shelves were stuffed with samples and specimens. Cupboards overflowed with equipment. But all equipment was second-hand, salvaged from abandoned hospitals, universities and schools, some even held together with gaff-tape and string.

The scientists in their grubby, patched lab-coats paused in their work as their boss and the cyborg appeared. The chief scientist, Dr Creag, approached from a bubbling experiment resembling a glass forest, his gnarled hands clasped in front of him. At fifty eight he was one of the Square’s oldest occupants, and his face resembled a twisted sheet of metal. He had seen the worst of what life had to offer, and deserved the respect of his title, although he had never actually been to a university. These days only wealthy Oasis dwellers could obtain formal qualifications. Dr Creag was a simply a genius who had read everything he could get his hands on.

Marheg stepped forward, clearing his throat. Doctor, I want to show Mission the Time Machine.

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Chapter 2

Enter Paddy Baker

Why did Mondays always seem twice as long as the rest of the week’s days? What quirk in the universe’s rotation had given the day with such awesome power and weight? No matter what, Monday was never more than seven days away. A scary thought indeed.

Patrick Robert Baker decided to make a sunny Monday in the middle of April more bearable by showing off his new leather jacket, which he’d received for his sixteenth birthday the day before. He had never cared about school uniform rules, and wanted to make everyone’s eyes come out on stalks with envy.

Am I going to be just another battery hen? Paddy asked himself as he slipped the jacket on over his white school shirt, its wonderful new leather smell filling his nostrils. No - I’m going to be me today! Stuff what the teachers say!

The jacket made him feel like he really was someone, not an average school kid who had just discovered that year eleven wasn’t going to be the easy breeze that year ten had been.

Paddy had always dreamed of being six foot two with muscles like Hercules. Instead he stood five foot five, a height - or rather lack of it - he detested. He was slender and bony, with knobby knees and ankles and a thin feminine neck. He had fine, straight mouse-brown hair that fell to his shoulder-blades, and a narrow, but agreeable face with big brown eyes, a large crooked nose and a broad smile. Whenever he stayed out in the sun too long, freckles appeared as though by magic. The only thing he really liked about himself was his surprisingly deep voice. It enabled him to fool those not yet wise to his exaggerating tongue.

Paddy met his best friend Chris Moby Mobini at the corner of Fifth Avenue. The stocky boy with the greasy curls gaped at his friend’s jacket. Holy crap! Where’d you get that?

Paddy gave a grin that seemed wider than his thin face. You like it? Mum gave it to me for my birthday!

Oh, was it your birthday yesterday? Moby aimed a punch, but Paddy dodged out of the way.

Too late!

It’s pretty cool, Paddy, but you can’t wear it to school. What if Ratface sees you?

Paddy blew a raspberry and shoved his hands into his jacket’s deep pockets. If that creep Vincent Knight can ponce around in a long black trench-coat, then I can wear a piddly little leather jacket! Besides, I’m not scared of Ratface. He’s walking fart – full of hot air and smelly, but ultimately harmless.

Moby snorted. It’s your bum, shorty. But if Ratface sees you at assembly in that jacket, he’ll slap you on detention for sure!

It’s not attached to me. I’ll simply take it off. Hands still in pockets, Paddy sauntered towards the front gates.

Shrugging his broad shoulders, Moby followed. Sometimes his best friend could be just as big an idiot as the two guys he hated; Russel Hardy and Vincent Knight. The big boy sighed heavily. The things we do for friendship, he thought.

Paddy headed up the dewy grass towards the Hall where the seniors were allowed to congregate. Girls in short, pinkish-brown skirts sat in the early morning sunlight with their legs extended. He beamed them a smile as he soaked up their stares. He heard the word wanker muttered a couple of times, but knew admiration when he saw it!

Ruefully. Moby shook his head as he followed Paddy up past the Hall and into the foyer where the seniors’ lockers were. Oceans of bags already slumped there, and Paddy’s and Moby’s immediately joined them. Then the boys marched back out into the sunshine to enjoy it for a few more precious minutes before being ushered into airless classrooms for the rest of the day.

As they sat down on the front steps of the Hall, an ominous shadow fell over them. Paddy looked up - and up - into the angular, unshaven face of Rhys Kelly, year twelve’s resident nutcase. Paddy groaned, realising that Rhys had probably been lying in wait down one of the