The Rebel: The Shiny Skin Wars, #1

By Alan J Parker

Jim Edwards is a tough man. He's a professional fighter who gave up a promising military career to attend university to study engineering. He thought he could deal with anything that came his way. He was soon going to find out otherwise.

His decision to be part of an obscure science research program hurls into an alternative Earth ruled by a violent and primitive culture that has enslaved an almost extinct human-like people.

After fighting his way to relative safety, he unexpectedly finds love and a new life. But rulers of the Kingdom have come to fear this strange man who claims to come from another world. In their fear they strike at him and murder his woman and her unborn child.

But her death sends him on a savage quest for vengeance that will bring the Kingdom to its knees and change the world forever.

But not everything is as it seems. An advanced culture has detected his presence, and Jim finds himself a principal player in their plans - his life just another roll of the dice in a thousand year old game designed to bring peace to a troubled world.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alan J Parker
• Release date: Dec 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201228767

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Fighter

Multiverse – a hypothetical space or realm consisting of a number of universes, of which our own universe is only one.

Source: www.lexico.com

Jim dropped his shoulder to absorb the force of the kick to his ribs, and the punch that followed was fast and hit him in the eye, but it lacked power. Throwing a right as a feint, Jim drove a kick into the man’s belly. His kick struck hard, but so was the belly. Ducking a punch, Jim took two quick steps back and began to circle.

His mind was calm and sharp, the roar of the crowd completely absent. His opponent was bigger and faster, but he was predictable. Strategy was everything in this fight. The man threw another right, but Jim ignored the feint and prepared to block the kick he knew was coming. When it came, it was soft and off-balance.

Jim knew how his opponent thought, how he moved, the mistakes he would make. He had watched video clips of the man over fifty times. Jim was convinced he would win. He threw a kick to the kidney, not to hurt the man but to push him into making a mistake.

The guy telegraphed his next kick and Jim moved in fast and hammered his opponent three times in the head before he could block. Off-balance, the man did the little double-step Jim was expecting and he powered in again, hammering the man’s face with his fists. As the man staggered back, Jim leapt in with his signature kick to the head, and the guy went down in a heap.

The referee jumped in between them, but Jim knew it was over. His kick had taken his opponent on the side of the jaw. He probably didn’t know what hit him. The fight was over in the second round.

Jim could hear the crowd baying for blood. The air was thick with the stink of grog and pot and stale cigarette smoke. The referee grabbed his arm and raised it, the symbol of a triumph Jim didn’t feel. The thrill of combat was gone. All he wanted to do was get the hell out of there.

He dropped lightly to the floor of the arena and headed up the aisle toward the dressing rooms. Behind him, his second, a drunk sobered up for the fight, followed him at a trot. Jim pushed past a couple of hangers-on and flung open the dressing room door. The drunk knew the drill. He would take care of the reporters while Jim headed for the showers.

Jim stripped off in the shower cubicle and turned on the water, adjusting the taps to get rid of the water hammer in the pipes. He ignored yells from half-drunk sports reporters and leaned against the wall, waiting for the adrenaline rush to stop. He hoped the cleaner had used ammonia on the floor tiles. Six months ago he’d taken home a case of athlete’s foot. The roar of the crowd signaled the next fight, and the reporters gave up and headed back into the Mixed Martial Arts arena. Jim dried himself off and the drunk passed him his clothes.

Ya fuckin’ drove him into the mat, Jim, his second crowed. It was fuckin’ great. Ya shoulda seen it.

Jim tucked in his shirt and stepped out of the shower cubicle. I’ll see you in two months, Matt. Same deal, OK? I’ll put the money into your account when I get my share.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He nodded toward his opponent sitting on a bench by himself, but the man didn’t look up. Jim left the dressing room and headed for the side door. Only his second knew he was gone.

––––––––

Jim Edwards was a student first and Mixed Martial Arts fighter second. Somewhere in between he was a husband, father and ex-soldier. He edged his car out of the car park and headed for the freeway. He wound down the window and breathed in the 9pm Los Angeles smog. In the thinning traffic he would be home by ten.

He was tired, and barely remembered the drive home. The driveway was steep, and he wrenched hard on the handbrake. Sharon was still going through the process of moving in, and the garage was full of furniture from their apartment. His car was ten years old and in need of a major service. It could stay out in the weather.

Sharon opened the front door before he got to it, and he saw the look on her face. His eye would be bloodshot and puffy, but it was minor compared to his second fight. That was the night he had lost badly. Tonight was his eighth professional fight with only the one loss. It wasn’t a bad record for a professional fighter.

I know. I got a poke in the eye, he said shortly. It’s nothing.

That’s what you always say, she complained as she closed the door. You don’t have to do this. My dad will take care of the bills if things get tight.

I pay my own way, he growled as he tossed the car keys onto the table. It’s only once every couple of months. Very few people get badly hurt. You know that.

It was the same discussion every time, he thought irritably. For God’s sake, it wasn’t warfare. It was the thrill of challenging another man he barely knew to a fight. He didn’t do it for the money. He did it because he loved it, but the money was handy. The psych he saw occasionally said it was helping him deal with the PTSD.

His brother was critical of the sport, and had once said he should have stayed in the army. Jim had bitten back an angry reply. He had watched one of his men cut to shreds by an AK47 fired by a kid too poorly trained even to aim. The private had to shit in a bag attached to his side for the rest of his short, pain-filled life. Another of his men had stepped on an IED. It had taken him only a split second to die. For Jim there was no thrill in blindly following orders.

He headed for the bathroom. He didn’t actually need another shower, but the fight arena always left him feeling dirty. He stood under the hot water, wishing he had built a house with a bath. It would have meant a bigger bathroom but a smaller bedroom, and they had opted for the shower.

Sharon opened the shower door. You hungry?

He shook his head. He just wanted to sleep.

Trevor took ages to get to sleep. He misses you when you’re not here.

I’ll make it up to him in the morning. He suddenly remembered he had to go to the laboratory in the morning. I have to go to the lab in the morning. I should be back before lunch. Professor Rach wants to run his experiment again.

He’s always running that experiment. When’s he going to give up?

When he runs out of money, which is on Monday.

You want a coffee?

Jim shook his head. She always asked him that after a fight. She was so damn predictable. Gone was the vibrant, fun girl he’d married, forever changed by the widening hips of motherhood. His friends often told him he should be grateful she was a good mother, and he knew they were probably right.

He grabbed a dry towel and glanced in the mirror at his puffy eye as he dried himself. He barely saw the square jaw and slightly bent nose, the rippling muscles of his chest and arms and the piercing pale blue eyes. He walked naked through the house to the bedroom.

––––––––

The alarm reefed him out of his nightmare at five. Trevor and Sharon were still asleep. He was out of the house in six minutes, and the drive to the factory doing the experiment took another thirty. The car park was almost empty, the only benefit of coming in on a Sunday.

He left his wallet in the glove compartment and waved his ID card at the guard on the door. The metal detector was turned off. Management reckoned terrorists didn’t work weekends.

The lab was in the basement. He had worked here part-time while he did his thesis on tempered glass, which was why Professor Rach had him in the lab on a Sunday. The company figured he owed them.

Jim trotted down the two flights of stairs into the basement and punched in the code on the heavy metal door. The moment he entered the room the sharp stink of volatile chemicals stung his nose and eyes. Theirs was not the only experiment being conducted in the basement.

The room was hot and stuffy, the winking red lights of mainframe computers sending a rosy glow across the room, reflecting off two transparent glass cubicles Jim had made and that Peter and two students had assembled.

Jim slipped into the change room, stripped off his outer clothes and put on the green anti-static lab coat and matching green slippers. All he had to do was fit the lid he’d redesigned and built. It was made of ultra-hardened glass that had probably cost the company more than he was paying for his house. It was the third lid he had made for the Professor, and probably the last now that the money was gone.

I didn’t think you’d make it, Jim. How was the fight? Peter was a tall, thin beanpole in his mid-twenties who shaved his head in accordance with his Buddhist philosophy. He was doing his masters in Quantum Physics, and hated fighting.

Good. Knock out in the second. He knew Peter didn’t want to know the result, but told him anyway.

The two students finished the basic work of assembly and left. They weren’t authorized to stay. The positive and negative cubicles for the experiment were about the same size as toilet booths. Jim had a vague idea what it was about, but he didn’t hold much hope for it beyond Monday. The Professor’s two previous experiments had been reduced to pools of melted glass. Jim knew the man didn’t have a clue about hardened glass. He was a Quantum Physicist, not an engineer. The whole experiment was crazy and a waste of public money.

The vapor from the chemicals in the room irritated his nose, and he resisted the impulse to sneeze. There were enough volatile liquids in the basement beside the emergency generator to blow up the whole building, but the Federal Government was paying for the experiments and Safety Inspectors didn’t need to know what was going on.

They carefully fitted the heavy glass lid to the top of the cubicle, and Jim spent twenty minutes connecting the tubes for the coolant. He had altered the design to improve the flow of the fluid, but it made connecting the tubes a little tricky. He would tell the Professor about the changes later.

Peter plugged data leads and power cables into the back of both cubicles and slid behind a console and pressed some buttons. The hum of electronics feeding data to the computers and the soft purr of a coolant pump filled the basement.

I’ve got greens on both cubicles, Peter said, but the temperature on the positive is climbing fast like last time.

Startled, Jim climbed into the positive cubicle and found a kink in an inlet coolant hose. He pushed the hose down slightly and the kink straightened out. How’s the temperature now?

Still climbing, but it’s slowing. Peter paused for a few moments. I’ve got some strange readings here, Jim. I don’t know what I’m looking at. The Magnetic Flux is in the red. The last two times it was zero.

Jim couldn’t help him. He had no idea what Magnetic Flux was. It wasn’t his field. All he knew was glass. He shivered involuntarily when the sharp tingle of static electricity brushed along the length of his arm. He noticed a violet-colored vapor clinging to the inside glass wall of the cubicle, and watched fascinated as the vapor curled around his hand when he touched it.

I’ve got strong static electricity and some strange St. Elmo’s Fire in here, Pete. That didn’t happen last time.

Peter stared curiously at the violet tinge building inside the positive cubicle. The vapor had curled up all around Jim. The power’s at 25%, he said. For the test I have to take it up to 50?

The stink of warming chemical vapor caught at the back of Jim’s throat and he stifled a cough. Sweat began beading his brow in the hot confines of the cubicle, and he felt static electricity crawling along his arms. He sensed danger in the room.

No. We don’t know what we’ve got here, Pete. I think we should power down!

Relax, Peter said laughing. Nothing will happen. He spun a dial, and the power immediately built up to 50%.

Jim saw a flash and heard the thump of an explosion. A blast of heat seared his skin and he heard the glass lid above him cracking. Instinctively he dropped into a ball to protect himself from shattering glass, and heard a massive blast!

There was a sudden silence and a brief sense of weightlessness. Then he was falling, tumbling, falling.

He landed on his back, his body crashing through something thick and sharp and dry. A savage pain slashed across his shoulder blades as his body smashed its way downward, his nose filling with dust. Then something rammed hard into his side with such force that he automatically pulled away from the direction of the kick. The air had been punched out of his lungs, and for a moment he was back in the ring. It was his second fight all over again. He felt his consciousness slipping away and he tried to stay with it, but his mind closed down into darkness.

Chapter 2 – Survivor

It was the pain that woke him – pain across his back and ribs, pain down one leg and one arm, and a stinging in his scalp. He moved, and groaned at a stabbing pain in his side. His thoughts were slow and his head was ringing. His ears felt wet and stuffy, and he guessed his eardrums had been ruptured by the explosion. The chemicals in the basement were dangerous. He had to get out!

He opened his eyes, but he wasn’t in the basement. He was in some sort of thorny thicket. It was so hot! He tried to move, but the pain in his side was too intense. Better to wait for the emergency services, he thought numbly.

He managed to turn his head. The thicket was incredibly deep. His mind was still foggy, but he couldn’t remember seeing a thicket near the factory. In fact he knew of no thicket that grew this deep. For the first time in years he felt a stab of fear.

After waiting a couple of minutes he realized help wasn’t coming. The factory was in an industrial park, and the explosion would have set off alarms all over the area. Cops and firemen should be crawling all over the place, but all his muffled ears could hear was an angry buzz of insects. He knew he shouldn’t be alone, but he was.

His right arm was caught in a branch above him. He twisted his arm and felt a sharp needle-like pain in the back of his upper arm. He craned his neck over his shoulder and saw a thorn as long as his index finger stuck right through the flesh. He pulled his arm away from the branch and grunted as the thorn pulled free of the flesh.

He lay his arm across his body to rest it. OK, Jim. You’re in the shit, he heard himself say. Don’t panic, he thought angrily. Work the problem. Solve it one step at a time. He had heard that somewhere. It was a military lecture. No, a movie. Fuck it! he said out loud. Concentrate. Work the problem.

His left arm was free, but was badly scratched, and he could see where blood had run down the skin to his fingers and dried into a rust-colored crust. He guessed he’d been out of it for at least an hour. He brought his hand to his side and found a branch as thick as his wrist digging into his side, and the stab of fear returned. How deep did the branch go? Was he bleeding internally?

Irritably he shook his head. He was allowing fear to control his thoughts. A frightened man will always lose, he said out loud. It was a fighter’s mantra he had learned years ago. He saw a thick branch above him. He figured if he could get a grip on it, he might be able to pull himself off the branch stuck in his side. He raised both arms and gripped the branch. Taking a deep breath, he hauled on the branch and his body swung free.

Jim felt a thorn tear out of his thigh as he pulled his right leg up toward his body. His left leg was twisted, and he had to work his body around until the leg came free. His knee had blown up to almost double its normal size, but he was sure it wasn’t broken.

He looked down at the branch he had been impaled on. The stump was covered in blood where it had snapped off under his weight. His skin would be torn and he would be badly bruised, but he guessed he would be OK.

Jim stared up through the narrow hole his body had made in the thicket. The thorns were from the top of the thicket. There were none on the thicker lower branches except the ones his body had brought down with him.

He looked down. The land was on a slight slope, and he decided the only way out was by crawling under the thicket and up the slope until he was out in the open. Gingerly he lowered himself through the thicket to the ground.

––––––––

His mouth was as dry as dust as he crawled up the slope through a thick layer of dust and dead leaves and dried broken branches. His body was a sheet of pain every time he moved. Something was stuck to his scalp and he tried to ignore it, and his left knee ached like hell.

He found a narrow animal trail in front of him, but it was too small to use. He was about to crawl over it when he saw something moving to his left. The lizard was as long as his arm with tough rear legs and long claws, but its front legs were more like hands, thin and delicate. Its skin was covered in fine bright green scales, and it scurried along without noticing him and disappeared down its trail.

Jim didn’t move for about two minutes. His mind felt like treacle as he tried to work the problem. Slowly he cataloged in his mind what he knew. He was a native of Los Angeles and his expertise was glass. He had been in an explosion deep inside a building in an industrial park, and he had just survived one hell of a fall. He was in an unusually deep thorny