bregorzloth
Mishmash novelist
I don't necessarily need crits for this piece (I think it's sufficiently rewritten), but I thought I'd post a section of my work so people can get an idea of my kind of writing. I'll probably be posting a crit request in a week or so. This certainly isn't fantasy, and it's not really SF either ... but it has definite science fiction elements.
Feel free to read and comment if you wish. Any and all comments will be welcome. (Question: is this piece too long? Are there any upper limits for posts?)
CHAPTER 6: UNAUTHORISED ACCESS
November 28th, 1980
Cold Witness complex, Orfordness, Suffolk, England
Scene 8
Steven Knight felt his hands beginning to shake of their own accord. He couldn't stop them. A peculiar prickling feeling stole over his mind, spreading from the base of his spine over the inside of his skull. The air smelled metallic ... like copper. He tasted bile in his mouth.
He clenched his fists around the railing surrounding the first harmonic filter shed, willing away the trembling, desperately trying to bring order to the chaos of his senses. It was different this time. He felt as if he was being physically attacked by something. Something that could induce this terrible psychotronysis. Or was it simply another hallucination? He had no control over his own thoughts any more. Strange orders and commands would pop up at random into the stream of his consciousness, and his sleep-deprived body didn't have the strength to resist them. And the nightmares ...
He stiffened. Something had brushed against the back of his neck--or was it the wind? He concentrated on normal things, like the texture of the pebbles through the soles of his boots, the warble and cry of waders over the marshes. No use. His mind was being invaded again.
Slowly, the anxiety faded. He knew what he had to do. It was clear now that he no longer had the time to tell Johnny of his findings--if he wanted to stop this, if he wanted to eliminate the threat, he had to act.
Yes. Action. The control centre. The computer, the compelling voice said. Find the records, and it will become clear.
Why, of course. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Now he had been told, it was so obvious, so perfect. And the tingling numbness to his skull had faded, leaving only blissful certainty. He was doing the right thing.
#
'Wheatley to Foyle, Wheatley to Foyle ... do you read ... over.'
Foyle put down his coffee mug and reached for his radio. He pressed the "speak" button. 'Foyle here. What's the problem, over?'
'I'm worried about Airman Knight. Spoke to him just now, near the blockhouse steps, and he seemed agitated. I told him to go and inspect the harmonic filters, but he isn't there. Over.'
'Do you think he's having a relapse? Over.'
'Possibly. Psychotronysis is very unpredictable, over.'
You can say that again, Foyle thought. 'Where is he now? Over.'
'I don't know. Corporal Campbell says he's showing signs of increasing paranoia. I checked with the infirmary, but he's not there. Over.'
'Thanks for letting me know, Maurice. Foyle out.'
Foyle rubbed the old scar on his wrist absent-mindedly. Then he switched channels. 'Foyle to Captain Coulson. You copy? Over.'
'Coulson here. Over.'
'Wheatley thinks Airman Knight may be suffering from a relapse of his condition. Nobody seems to know where he is. If you're not busy, could you send one of your SPs to find him? Could be a danger if he's still delusional, so watch yourselves. Over.'
'I'll see to it, sir. Coulson out.'
#
Steven glanced both ways down the corridor to make sure nobody was watching him, then slipped down the metal staircase that led to the basement. Luckily for him, security systems had been placed on standby for diagnostics for the next hour. His job would be very hard indeed with them still active.
He paused before the door, pressing his ear against the metal to listen for any signs of activity. He waited. He heard nothing for at least twenty seconds, so fished out the spare key he'd borrowed from Doctor Morgan's quarters. The key slotted into the lock and turned smoothly.
Once inside, he scrabbled for the light switch, and stood back as the ancient light fittings spluttered into life.
The control centre looked like a bomb had hit it. Cables, circuit boards and miscellaneous components covered every console and workbench, and all of the wall panels had been removed to allow access. At a glance, Steven could tell that the computer wasn't operational: most of its components lay littered around the room.
You don't need the main computer, the reassuring voice told him. You need core storage. Use the microcomputer.
So obvious!
Steven looked for the small desk with the standalone computer. He found it buried under a pile of clutter in the far corner. After shifting the junk onto the opposite desk, he switched the terminal on and waited for the screen to fire up.
After a few moments, a small prompt glowed green in the upper left corner of the screen. The text "441A SHELL, VERSION 8.2, (C) HARRY MORGAN 1978" appeared beside it.
Yes, the voice said. Yes.
Steven tried to recall his computer training. Although the Doctor's shell was unique, it worked on common principles. And he'd used it before.
He typed in "DETECT DEVICES."
After a moment, the computer returned three results: "MAIN", "CASSETTE (D)", and "CORE (E)".
Steven typed "ACCESS CORE", and a long list of files and directories scrolled down the screen.
Steven allowed himself a private grin of satisfaction, but knew that he didn't have long before the system's in-built security became active.
After reading through the long list of directories, he found the one he needed. He typed in "ACCESS E:/CBRAMIST/". Time for the secrets to be revealed at last.
The screen cleared, leaving only the directory heading at the very top, and below it, glowing brightly on its black background: "NO FILES OR DIRECTORIES FOUND."
No. They are there. They are hidden. Find them. Find them.
He returned to the keyboard, noticing as he typed that the shakes were returning to his fingers. And this voice in his head ... who was it?
"ACCESS E:/SERVICES/"
Yes. Locate files. Use the services. Yes.
As before, the computer returned only the message, "NO FILES OR DIRECTORIES FOUND."
Before he could react to this final defeat, the text vanished, and in place of Morgan's 441A SHELL interface, a single dot pulsed green in the centre of the screen.
Which could mean only one thing: he was being watched, his every movement recorded.
He kicked away from the desk, leaping from his chair and diving for the open door. Psychotronysis broke over his senses in a great wave of colour and pain and sound; paranoia returned; and that peculiar presence vanished from his mind.
He was alone.
But in his mad rush to escape justice, the tiny part of Steven that was still sane cried out to him, begging for him to slow down and stop running. He was acting like a criminal. He could explain all this; claim that the illness was making him act in unpredictable ways.
And although he knew he was doing the wrong thing, although he knew that it was the psychotronysis acting and not himself, he banished all thoughts of giving himself up. The risk was too great. He had attempted access to the most restricted records in Cold Witness without permission. And, after all, they were probably after him by now.
No: escape was the only option.
He heaved himself up the last few steps into the foyer and accelerated to the open door at a mad sprint. A few more yards ...
A startled civilian receptionist shot bolt upright in her chair as he careered over the floor.
'Hey--!'
Steven ignored her. Even as he ran for the invitingly open exit, he realised that the main gate could have been locked down by now. But where else could he go?
Steven sucked the sweet outside air as he exited the blockhouse at a flat run. He hurled himself down the metal staircase and set off in a new direction, making for the gate leading to the outer compound. It was still open, and better luck, no guard was on duty. He lowered his stance and put on extra speed, hoping to fly through the gate and beyond before anybody saw him--
'You there!'
American voices. Grey uniforms. Rifles.
Security Police.
Steven's blood ran cold. Guards charged across the shingle courtyard to intercept him, M16s held at firing height, the gaping muzzles of grenade launchers pointed in his direction. They were going to try to stop him. Perhaps ... perhaps they were acting under orders from--
No. Destroy them.
His gut gave another twinge. What could he do? Give himself up and throw himself to the mercy of the SPs? No. That would be a disaster. But his pistol was no use against a dozen heavily armed soldiers.
Destroy them.
Steven hesitated, but momentum kept him going. He stumbled over a patch of loose pebbles, the rough stone tearing skin from his knuckles. He launched himself back into the air and kept on running. Despite the mad pounding of blood in his head, mingled with the insanity and the pain and the clamour of voices, he heard the sharp double-click of a round being cycled into the chamber of an M16. They would show him no mercy. He was going to die.
Destroy them!
He fumbled at his belt, releasing the pistol from its holster, and raised it to face the enemy--
And a burst of bullets slammed into his chest.
He continued for several more flying steps before even realising he had been shot. With the realisation came more bullets and sudden, raging pain. Another shot coursed through his body in a wrenching stab of white-hot agony.
His legs failed suddenly, and the cold ground came up to meet him, sharp flint hitting his cheek and breaking teeth. He no longer felt the pain. Blood filled his throat, spraying out through his mouth and nose as he struggled to breathe. The surroundings faded into a chaotic mass of fractured colours. New pain lanced into his chest, deeper this time, right into this heart and soul, and he gave out one last choked sob before the cold blackness claimed him.
Yes, the voices called, rising above the roaring ocean of blood that filled his ears. Come and join us.
Feel free to read and comment if you wish. Any and all comments will be welcome. (Question: is this piece too long? Are there any upper limits for posts?)
CHAPTER 6: UNAUTHORISED ACCESS
November 28th, 1980
Cold Witness complex, Orfordness, Suffolk, England
Scene 8
Steven Knight felt his hands beginning to shake of their own accord. He couldn't stop them. A peculiar prickling feeling stole over his mind, spreading from the base of his spine over the inside of his skull. The air smelled metallic ... like copper. He tasted bile in his mouth.
He clenched his fists around the railing surrounding the first harmonic filter shed, willing away the trembling, desperately trying to bring order to the chaos of his senses. It was different this time. He felt as if he was being physically attacked by something. Something that could induce this terrible psychotronysis. Or was it simply another hallucination? He had no control over his own thoughts any more. Strange orders and commands would pop up at random into the stream of his consciousness, and his sleep-deprived body didn't have the strength to resist them. And the nightmares ...
He stiffened. Something had brushed against the back of his neck--or was it the wind? He concentrated on normal things, like the texture of the pebbles through the soles of his boots, the warble and cry of waders over the marshes. No use. His mind was being invaded again.
Slowly, the anxiety faded. He knew what he had to do. It was clear now that he no longer had the time to tell Johnny of his findings--if he wanted to stop this, if he wanted to eliminate the threat, he had to act.
Yes. Action. The control centre. The computer, the compelling voice said. Find the records, and it will become clear.
Why, of course. Why hadn't he thought of that before? Now he had been told, it was so obvious, so perfect. And the tingling numbness to his skull had faded, leaving only blissful certainty. He was doing the right thing.
#
'Wheatley to Foyle, Wheatley to Foyle ... do you read ... over.'
Foyle put down his coffee mug and reached for his radio. He pressed the "speak" button. 'Foyle here. What's the problem, over?'
'I'm worried about Airman Knight. Spoke to him just now, near the blockhouse steps, and he seemed agitated. I told him to go and inspect the harmonic filters, but he isn't there. Over.'
'Do you think he's having a relapse? Over.'
'Possibly. Psychotronysis is very unpredictable, over.'
You can say that again, Foyle thought. 'Where is he now? Over.'
'I don't know. Corporal Campbell says he's showing signs of increasing paranoia. I checked with the infirmary, but he's not there. Over.'
'Thanks for letting me know, Maurice. Foyle out.'
Foyle rubbed the old scar on his wrist absent-mindedly. Then he switched channels. 'Foyle to Captain Coulson. You copy? Over.'
'Coulson here. Over.'
'Wheatley thinks Airman Knight may be suffering from a relapse of his condition. Nobody seems to know where he is. If you're not busy, could you send one of your SPs to find him? Could be a danger if he's still delusional, so watch yourselves. Over.'
'I'll see to it, sir. Coulson out.'
#
Steven glanced both ways down the corridor to make sure nobody was watching him, then slipped down the metal staircase that led to the basement. Luckily for him, security systems had been placed on standby for diagnostics for the next hour. His job would be very hard indeed with them still active.
He paused before the door, pressing his ear against the metal to listen for any signs of activity. He waited. He heard nothing for at least twenty seconds, so fished out the spare key he'd borrowed from Doctor Morgan's quarters. The key slotted into the lock and turned smoothly.
Once inside, he scrabbled for the light switch, and stood back as the ancient light fittings spluttered into life.
The control centre looked like a bomb had hit it. Cables, circuit boards and miscellaneous components covered every console and workbench, and all of the wall panels had been removed to allow access. At a glance, Steven could tell that the computer wasn't operational: most of its components lay littered around the room.
You don't need the main computer, the reassuring voice told him. You need core storage. Use the microcomputer.
So obvious!
Steven looked for the small desk with the standalone computer. He found it buried under a pile of clutter in the far corner. After shifting the junk onto the opposite desk, he switched the terminal on and waited for the screen to fire up.
After a few moments, a small prompt glowed green in the upper left corner of the screen. The text "441A SHELL, VERSION 8.2, (C) HARRY MORGAN 1978" appeared beside it.
Yes, the voice said. Yes.
Steven tried to recall his computer training. Although the Doctor's shell was unique, it worked on common principles. And he'd used it before.
He typed in "DETECT DEVICES."
After a moment, the computer returned three results: "MAIN", "CASSETTE (D)", and "CORE (E)".
Steven typed "ACCESS CORE", and a long list of files and directories scrolled down the screen.
Steven allowed himself a private grin of satisfaction, but knew that he didn't have long before the system's in-built security became active.
After reading through the long list of directories, he found the one he needed. He typed in "ACCESS E:/CBRAMIST/". Time for the secrets to be revealed at last.
The screen cleared, leaving only the directory heading at the very top, and below it, glowing brightly on its black background: "NO FILES OR DIRECTORIES FOUND."
No. They are there. They are hidden. Find them. Find them.
He returned to the keyboard, noticing as he typed that the shakes were returning to his fingers. And this voice in his head ... who was it?
"ACCESS E:/SERVICES/"
Yes. Locate files. Use the services. Yes.
As before, the computer returned only the message, "NO FILES OR DIRECTORIES FOUND."
Before he could react to this final defeat, the text vanished, and in place of Morgan's 441A SHELL interface, a single dot pulsed green in the centre of the screen.
Which could mean only one thing: he was being watched, his every movement recorded.
He kicked away from the desk, leaping from his chair and diving for the open door. Psychotronysis broke over his senses in a great wave of colour and pain and sound; paranoia returned; and that peculiar presence vanished from his mind.
He was alone.
But in his mad rush to escape justice, the tiny part of Steven that was still sane cried out to him, begging for him to slow down and stop running. He was acting like a criminal. He could explain all this; claim that the illness was making him act in unpredictable ways.
And although he knew he was doing the wrong thing, although he knew that it was the psychotronysis acting and not himself, he banished all thoughts of giving himself up. The risk was too great. He had attempted access to the most restricted records in Cold Witness without permission. And, after all, they were probably after him by now.
No: escape was the only option.
He heaved himself up the last few steps into the foyer and accelerated to the open door at a mad sprint. A few more yards ...
A startled civilian receptionist shot bolt upright in her chair as he careered over the floor.
'Hey--!'
Steven ignored her. Even as he ran for the invitingly open exit, he realised that the main gate could have been locked down by now. But where else could he go?
Steven sucked the sweet outside air as he exited the blockhouse at a flat run. He hurled himself down the metal staircase and set off in a new direction, making for the gate leading to the outer compound. It was still open, and better luck, no guard was on duty. He lowered his stance and put on extra speed, hoping to fly through the gate and beyond before anybody saw him--
'You there!'
American voices. Grey uniforms. Rifles.
Security Police.
Steven's blood ran cold. Guards charged across the shingle courtyard to intercept him, M16s held at firing height, the gaping muzzles of grenade launchers pointed in his direction. They were going to try to stop him. Perhaps ... perhaps they were acting under orders from--
No. Destroy them.
His gut gave another twinge. What could he do? Give himself up and throw himself to the mercy of the SPs? No. That would be a disaster. But his pistol was no use against a dozen heavily armed soldiers.
Destroy them.
Steven hesitated, but momentum kept him going. He stumbled over a patch of loose pebbles, the rough stone tearing skin from his knuckles. He launched himself back into the air and kept on running. Despite the mad pounding of blood in his head, mingled with the insanity and the pain and the clamour of voices, he heard the sharp double-click of a round being cycled into the chamber of an M16. They would show him no mercy. He was going to die.
Destroy them!
He fumbled at his belt, releasing the pistol from its holster, and raised it to face the enemy--
And a burst of bullets slammed into his chest.
He continued for several more flying steps before even realising he had been shot. With the realisation came more bullets and sudden, raging pain. Another shot coursed through his body in a wrenching stab of white-hot agony.
His legs failed suddenly, and the cold ground came up to meet him, sharp flint hitting his cheek and breaking teeth. He no longer felt the pain. Blood filled his throat, spraying out through his mouth and nose as he struggled to breathe. The surroundings faded into a chaotic mass of fractured colours. New pain lanced into his chest, deeper this time, right into this heart and soul, and he gave out one last choked sob before the cold blackness claimed him.
Yes, the voices called, rising above the roaring ocean of blood that filled his ears. Come and join us.
I don't know about anyone else, but I tend to go cross-eyed when a long post has no white space (generally because of no extra spaces between paragraphs).
