Khaos Engine

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Science Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


There is a theory which states that a small change at one place in a nonlinear system can result in large differences to a later state, and that nature most often works in patterns, which are
caused by the sum of many tiny pulses. Simply summarised, one single source can affect multiple elements. Never underestimate the inevitability of unpredictability…

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Andrew Dax - Introduction

Submitted: September 20, 2017

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Submitted: September 20, 2017

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Chapter 1

 

Part 1

Prologue – A London Nightclub Kicks out for the Night

 

The time is 3:17am and Christopher is being followed, but the footsteps  aren’t audible.

Even at this hour, these East End streets are a quiet and non-incidental affair nowadays, and Chris, after a skinful (and, as it’s Friday, a nose full) has recently taken to exploring new short cuts over to the cheaper and less publicised taxi rank across town. His destination is his Hackney 1 bed. Tonight, his route of choice is Bennett Street, down the side of the old cracker factory. Chris is no stranger to the sensation of being followed, and standing at a strapping  6’4” and weighing in at 16.5 stone, he’s no slouch when a tear up is on the cards. Tonight though, for some reason, Chris doesn’t turn immediately, fists flying when he hears a low and constant exhaling of breath followed by a muffled gargled growl; a strange sickly sweet aroma fills the cool, black air.

Maybe Chris is mistaken and just para from the Charlie, he walks a few more yards.

Sigh…growl.

The sickly sweet smell hit’s the back of Chris’ throat, making him gag. Unease turns to fear, and a stumbling swagger is replaced by a brisk jog. A separate voice bursts the frigid night air like a cannonball.

ADHERENCE IS OBLIGATORY!

The sound resonates through Chris’ body like an electric shock. Someone grabs him by the tops of his arms, Chris knows it’s on; he has been grabbed like that before, and it didn’t end well for his assailant. He shrugs, planning to use his formidable core strength to switch the situation in his favour. Nothing. His captor is stronger than he is, and, for the first time in his adult life, Chris is being overpowered, dominated. He grits his teeth and cries out as he convulses, desperately expending the last of his strength. No good. Chris submits and waits for the inevitable blunt impact to the back of the head or the invasion of cold steel in his side. He shuts his eyes tight, flashes of his first unaided bike ride, first shag, first line of coke. But wait…no impact, no cold steel.

Sigh…growl…hiss!

Chris is scared but confusion now circles his mind like a whirlwind. That voice, that separate voice in a shrill knowing tone, rattles Chris bones and fills the night once again.

ADHERENCE IS OBLIGATORY!

Those words, although familiar, don’t make any sense, as if he is staring at a few random jigsaw pieces from a picture he knows very well. Suddenly, an abrupt and blunt pain shudders down the centre of Chris’ chest. The pain is so intense that his eyes blur for a second. But it’s not a blade. Chris squeals out in agony. A loud snap cuts the air.

Please be a passer-by…

 

Part 2 – Andrew Dax – Introduction to the Boring Neurotic

 

My name is Andrew and I’ve been told that I think too deeply about things. Now exactly what that means or how I should respond to such analysis is open to subjective interpretation. The fact that I am the lead data analyst for the 2nd largest company on the planet isn’t impressive, and to go into detail on the intricacies of my role would be to grab you by the foot and drag you down into the blank vortex of boredom that my life has become.

I get this very odd but deeply unsettling feeling when I am just about to fall asleep. Late at night, as I drift towards REM, I’m filled with the sudden notion that it isn’t sleep I am drifting into but something altogether more permanent. A feeling that if I don’t rouse myself immediately that the cold arms of death will indeed embrace me too tightly for me to provide adequate resistance. I connect this feeling with the City of London. Somehow it feels like London itself is stuck on this precipice. Like the capital is paused in that dreadful moment, unable to rouse itself. Me? Andrew Dax? Thinking too deeply about things? Nonsense!

Seriously though, there may be a kernel of truth in the diagnosis. You see, for the last six months or so, I’ve been suffering from anxiety attacks, utterly new and completely random.

These episodes have gradually increased in intensity by the week.

I finally decided that I needed help, when 3 weeks ago, I fled my place of employment in a thinly veiled state of panic.

This attack struck in the middle of the day, so I had to blame my impromptu disappearance on a sudden bout of sickness and diarrhoea. How attractive.

Very close friends and family have reacted with genuine surprise at this sudden affliction. I’m not really sure why this is.

I guess part of this might be due to my bad habit of randomly shutting down and letting sarcasm slip into my dialogue, I frequently do this when I’m uncomfortable or placed on the spot. You see, I hate confrontation, and ever since my formative years I’ve used this method to either get me out of tight squeezes, or gain me credibility. People I meet often get the patently wrong impression that I’m unflappable.

Anyway, the whys and the wherefores are of no consequence. It is a real problem that I have developed, and it’s now genuinely starting to infringe on my day to day life, so it needs sorting.

So this is part of my therapy…

What is, you ask?

This, what I am writing, right now.

Let me explain myself. Since my little freak out, I’ve started seeing a counsellor. This counsellor has suggested that I start a blog of life (pretentious, moi?). This particular blog will never be uploaded, or shared with anyone. It sounds pointless, doesn’t it, keeping a diary, written in the style of a shared blog, but never actually publishing it? Well, yes, it does feel strange, but apparently writing, and particularly writing in this way is very therapeutic, plus it’s a method of writing that is already familiar to me.

So I guess it’s worth a try, and hey, it isn’t costing me anything. So here goes…

 

Part 3 – Andrew Dax (Blog Entry)

I am Andrew Dax,  Corporate Cog. Ezekiel Cleaver is my boss. Not my direct boss but my boss boss if you follow. I’ve opted to begin this little ritual by rambling on about the company that employs me for a while. As I have already confirmed, my particular job within this company is way too bland and uninspiring to even attempt to explain. It’s the business itself which is important, and, dare I say, rather interesting.

I believe this starting point is as good as any.

The reason why I earlier alluded to England’s capital city is because that is where I reside and work.

Twenty-three years ago, London Metropolitan Police was in complete disarray, not just from a fiscal standpoint, but also from a reputational angle. Crime was up to crisis level and there simply weren’t enough resources to contain it. The stink of fear on the streets, shopping centres and tube stations was so palpable you could almost reach out and grasp it. Move quickly and quietly, avoiding eye contact at all costs and try to stick to populated areas. These were the basics of city survival at the time. Trends and types of violent crime had taken an almost artistic twist in terms of severity and brutality, as if the most damaged minds had realised that this was their time, their holiday, and my word were they going to enjoy it! Making sure they collected plenty of treasured memories for years to come.

The disorder wasn’t by any means unique to the capital; but London was- by volume alone- the most unsafe place to be. There were attempts to curb this national epidemic mind, the boldest being the U-turn on the death penalty bill. Pre-meditating murderers, repeating violent criminals along with the vilest sexual deviants, could all now legally be destroyed. “Good!” I hear you cry, however this only functioned as a sticking plaster and didn’t actually serve as a cure.

The funding cuts imposed by the then government at the time had been so severe that instead of bringing promised equilibrium, they had completely backfired leading to mass redundancies and enforced “restructuring”. Almost every public service provider countrywide was running on less than skeleton staff, not least London Met.

The truth was a simple one: London, and by extension, England was on its knees and needed saving. Enter Ezekiel Cleaver.

Cleaver began his journey to international heroism as a Physicist working for the British Space Programme as was. His specialisms were quantum chemistry, surfaces, and solid state physics.

At this stage I feel I should admit that I am very aware of the danger of getting bogged down in rambling details, I will try and avoid this.

Approximately 35 years ago, (I know this via media and not because I was there) Cleaver was heavily in involved with a project called Grosvenor. This involved the exploration of Venus. At that time a lot had already been learned of the secrets that Mars had to share, and contrary to the romanticism of the arts, the findings were something of an anti-climax. The US were not remotely interested in the project at this stage, and refused to commit financially,  while a new look and ambitious British Space programme forged ahead unabashed. The fact that project

 

Grosvenor was allowed to rumble on with minimal interest or scrutiny from both media and the rest the world is an important one.

For some reason, I am reminded of an unsettling news story from around five or six years ago. Just off the Gulf of Mexico a 50 metre diameter sinkhole suddenly introduced itself and took 13 locals with it. I remember thinking to myself, “Wow, God’s getting kind of creative with his natural disasters!”

But I digress. Grosvenor itself came and went without too much incident, a few Astral Engineers (Astronauts with spanners) went up tinkered around, drilled a few really deep holes, and came down again, in one piece, happy days. One of those Astral Engineers went by the name of Richard Lloyd.

There is a living organism which resides approximately 22 meters under the surface of Venus; its molecular structure is so unstable that once out of its natural habitat it has to be kept at a very exact temperature, in a precisely controlled atmosphere. Failing to do this would cause anyone within a 100 yard radius more than a little skin and bone problem. To the human eye it is oil slick black in colour and texture and has no particular shape; as a mass it is constantly moving. The fact that it is constantly changing shape and size whilst suspended,  along with the knowledge that it proves there is life on Venus is unarguably interesting.

However it’s interesting in the same way that finding out that all Best Before dates on packets of crisps manufactured in the UK fall on a Saturday.

The real reason I am telling you about this is that a portion of this element was taken during project Grosvenor and brought to the BSP’s main lab and eventually labelled Niroplaxia Gamonite. After months of testing and retesting, it was found that this organism if correctly harnessed could serve as a perpetual of source electrical energy.

Now it would be insulting to say this was momentous, it would be an understatement to call it world changing, the best way that I can think of (or maybe it was a newspaper headline) to describe what happened back then is to say that is was one of the most important discoveries in the history of mankind.

Its discoverer was named Richard Lloyd, its developer? Ezekiel Cleaver.

Niroplaxia Gamonite is more commonly known as the Lloyd-Cleaver Element. Cleaver legally owns the LC Element. The way one man came to own one of the most important discoveries in the history of mankind has something to do with a man named Vincent Gwiazda.

Vincent Gwiazda is dead.




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