(Dr. Novak’s real name is Peter Kane, because they are doppelgangers. Since this is his backstory, he is referred to by Kane because he has not yet adopted the Novak moniker to differentiate them. Novak comes from an mirror dimension per the lore of the universe).
(Harsh Language)
July 3, 2005 - Praetorian Earth, Neutropolis University
Peter Kane paced in a pristine white laboratory. He was alone, he had to be. If the other students knew what he was working on, one of two things would happen, he'd calculated: 1) they report him for endangering student and faculty lives with unsanctioned biohazardous experiments, or 2) they blackmail him with that to get in on it, too. But that was unacceptable, the discovery had to be his alone. How else could be prove once and for all that the Emperor had fallen short of his promises. How else to bring a god to his knees than by crumbling his kingdom's foundation built on false faith.
Cole was a god, he knew that, but in a world where gods could be made, he had full intentions to join if not supplant the king from his throne on Olympus.
And this was the key.
Peter drifted over the the large capsule-shaped device that hummed with energy.
*It just has to reach a balanced optimal output and then I'll introduce it to the spore containers.*
The Devouring Earth had grown too quickly to be destroyed by any kind of explosive, and even the deadly affects of radiation that tore apart human cells only promoted nature's demons to take over faster. How stupid could they be? Look at any example of a nuclear accident and see how nature had evolved to take it over and heal the scarred landscape. It had to be stronger, targeted. But Cole had everyone believing that there was nothing else to be done, and no one questioned it anymore. They were safe inside their sonic fences. And when *was* the last time any new land was reclaimed? These so-called forays into enemy territory never bore fruit. No, he was convinced now that the Emperor was comfortable and there was no need to expend resources to continue expansion -- and if there was, it would be for personal gain rather than anything humanitarian.
The Devouring Earth problem remained. Are we to live our entire lives in ignorance of our displacement? They hold no more right to this land than humankind. They are as much a scourge upon nature as humanity. Hamidon's hypocrisy was almost....quaint.
Peter smiled to himself as he watched the green glow shift to blue.
This was the Solution. He'd considered disease, bacteria would never work -- too liable to fall into Hamidon's hands; a virus, no, any virus that's lethal quickly burns itself out. But...we referred to radiation as a 'poisoning,' an 'infection.' If what happened to flesh and bone could be triggered in the Devoured, then humanity would watch gleefully as Hamidon’s children were themselves devoured by genetic corruption — a nuclear plague that would destroy the DNA of the Devouring Earth so wholly as to prevent their propagation. Then, and only then, would we achieve the victory we had fought so hard for. The power of science was truly the weapon of gods.
Dr. Hamidon knew that.
What a beautiful terrible war that now fell in Peter Kane’s hands to bring to an end. This was his calling and responsibility, it was his destiny. He’d been born knowing it, and now was the time to prove it.
The indicator light on the generator clicked on. The material had reached the proper electron configuration to create optimal damage. He checked his watch: 3:00 AM, plenty of time left before anyone entered the dark school. He moved to the receptacles that held the spore samples he’d stolen from locked closets. He slid the containment doors open and watched the blue ionization leak through reinforced hoses into the receptacles. It only need a few minutes of exposure, in theory, and the spores would be rendered inert.
It was almost a pity to watch these ingenious little beasties defeated. What Hamidon had accomplished was more than any warlord or monarch ever had--he’d taken over the planet and not through sword or armies of faith, but alone. With the power of his mind he saw crumble every human empire. Why, you ask? Why didn’t matter and never did. He did it because he could, and with swift and brutal efficiency. Humanity merely scrabbled around beneath his boot as he walked bravely across the face of the Earth in untouchable mightiness.
And as the blue radiation engulfed the little children of that Great Mind, he smiled. When it came to it, he realized he was in love with Dr. Hamidon.
Another light pinged on. He glanced over his glasses with furrowed brow, stirred from his reverence, What now?
OUTPUT HAZARD
The machine was working perfectly, perhaps too perfectly. It’s energy output was considerably higher than he’d planned for. *Fuel? Too much? Did I get refinement wrong? It should be perfect.*
WARNING
“Shit,” he took a final glance at the experiment he was about to abort, “Fuck!” he pressed the Scram button and slumped on the desk, head in his hands. A moment later he raised it, looking back at the generator with tilted head, “I pressed Scram…” the button sat there, depressed, but the machine was still glowing blue and hot to the touch, “What..?”
His mind whirred a million kilometers an hour. He checked connections, circuit boards, he pulled a control panel off the side, growing more frantic as the machine continued to spin up. He’d forgotten about the receptacles, that is, until the first explosion.
The containment cell that held Type 1 spores wasn’t meant to withstand that level of energy, and the viewing glass blew outward as it buckled under the heat. Radiation alarms immediately blared in the student lab. He left the detached control panel and ran to the doors that separated the cells from the generator and closed them off. As he held the hoses, he felt the blistering heat and a vibration coming from the generator. And that was it really. It just went dark.
.
. . .
. . . . . .
. . . . . . . . .
A foggy sense of pain and heat and freezing cold flickered into sensation. Second came the deafening ringing in his ears. He coughed up the water in his mouth and throat. He was prone on the ground and the sprinklers were raining down on the room. He could smell smoke and saw dancing shadows surrounded by orange halos that indicated the presence of fire.
He couldn’t move. He tried to get up but something was pinning him down.
“Ooww!! Ahhh!” He screamed. He couldn’t see past the smoke, water, and missing glasses, but he squinted at the mass that was next to him, a metal I-beam from the ceiling had joined him on the floor of the room, his arm was...somewhere under it.
“Fuck!” he pulled, but immediately stopped when the pain he was hazily aware of shocked into stark reality, “Jesus Christ! Help! HELP!” He coughed on the water. *You can drown in as little as 1 inch of water, they said. Fuck me. I’m not dying in a fucking inch of water.*
He grappled around for anything in reach finally finding a piece of glass from some shattered glassware in the lab.
“Here goes nothing—” he held the glass to his shoulder. But he never had the chance. As soon as he had made the bleary concussed decision to amputate his arm, he passed out.
……
Heart monitors beeped steadily in the hospital room. He blinked his eyes open. A doctor buzzed at the end of his bed writing in a file.
“------------------------------” he said, or thought he did. He blinked in confusion as the doctor looked up and walked over. He picked up a small eraser board by the bed and wrote on it.
You’ve lost most of your hearing, Mr. Kane, we are salvaging what we can. Please be patient.
Peter looked up distraught, “-----?!”
The doctor erased the board and wrote again: A seer will be in to debrief you.
“----!” he shouted in defiance.
The police will wait until you’re stable to receive your statement.
Peter slumped back as the shame washed over him. He’d failed. And worse….he’d been caught. He felt his throat catch and his eyes hot with tears. He tried not to cry, he didn’t want them to see him cry. But with one arm wrapped in a cast and pinned together with surgical steel, and the ringing silence in his ears, he couldn’t stop the tears from coming.
I failed.
He glanced at the poster on the wall depicting the proud countenance of Emperor Cole.
My God, I failed.
————
July 13, 2005 - Praetorian Earth, Neutropolis hospital
Salvaging.
Peter shook his head at the attending nurse urging him to use the wheelchair. He picked up his bag and awkwardly tried to put it over his shoulder that still had a functioning arm attached to it. Seeing his struggle, nurse stepped in and secured the strap.
"Thank you" he said in what he hoped was audible but hushed, as he heard only a muffled headvoice from his left side.
It had only been 10 says since the accident, 8 since the operation, and 5 since they presented him with the current bill and predicted costs of continued reconstructive procedures, but Praetorian medical technology was about as cutting edge as you could get. It did however, garner a high cost.
Novak had inherited a small amount from the loss of his family, though nothing compared to what it should have been. But then, no one could reasonably expect insurance to come through after global catastrophe. He was grateful for what he’d gotten. But that was gone now. It took every penny of savings to pay for the damages to both himself and the college.
He signed some final paperwork at a sterile looking glass window with an automated clockwork that handled billing. In the lobby, people bustled to and fro. Rolling wheels, high heeled pumps on tile, laughing, crying, flashing sirens-- all muffled as if heard through rain and blankets. Mouths moved wordlessly as eyes flitted over to him, and he wondered if they spoke words of pity or horror.
He was bruised badly, burned, and stood at an odd angle that accentuated the twisted arm bound in bandages on his right side. He felt like an invalid, an amalgam of shame and damaged pride, something repulsive, a human made of...salvaged parts.
-----
October 18, 2005 - Praetorian Earth, a park in Neutropolis
"Just tell me-- no-- right here, no, just write it down then!" Frustrated gesticulations flashed between Peter and the woman across with him as they failed to communicate properly. Sign Language wasnt the problem; Peter had memorized it quickly and continued to become more fluent every day. The trouble was, no one else knew it, and he wasn’t the type to watch faces when people spoke.
He was fortunate a portion of his hearing remained in his left ear, but in a noisy outdoor environment like this park, he still struggled.
He had always opposed the Resistance, but now he found he needed them. They were always in search of weapons and tech for their cause, and Peter was in need of money to pay for his operations.
It had been several months since the accident. His arm, through the miracle of modern medicine had mostly recovered, though it was weak, had little mobility, and trembled terribly at times as crushed nerves misfired in their attempt to perform their standard duties. He stood there trembling now, though half due to rage, in front of the Resistance member he tried to bargain with.
But the conversation would be short lived. A quick internet search later and the liaison found Peter's article in the press.
"Loyalist," the woman mouthed. That much was easy to read. The liaison reached for her side and laid a hand on a concealed firearm.
"No wait!!" Peter shouted, holding both hands up placatingly, "Please...I'm not going to sell you out, I just need money, not enemies. Please help me."
Her original look of fear and anger suddenly shifted to confusion. The sun beat down on them both and he felt a bead of sweat drip down his forehead. He didn’t dare move. The woman looked down slowly and pulled a small grey item from her jacket pocket, then looked around, pointing it at the air. Then she circled back go Peter, her look of confusion shifted to something almost horror. Why was it so hot??
She pulled the gun out and pointed it at Peter. He shouted and winced, but suddenly the woman doubled over and began vomiting. In fear and confusion, Peter bent down and grabbed her gun and backed away. People were gathering now. He had to run, weak though he may be. He backed up. Someone picked up the grey box and looked around. He ran.
———-
October 30, 2005 - Praetorian Earth, Neutropolis hospital
"Mr. Kane?" The nurse called to the waiting room. A tap on the shoulder, "Mr. Kane?"
She led him down the hall, back to a now-familiar room to meet with his doctor. The clockwork he'd come to know intimately was already waiting. It was an interpreter of sorts and served multiple purposes around the hospital. In his case, it had a sophisticated predictive AI that allowed it to process human speech and translate into sign language more efficiently and accurately than a human, though, it lacked in a very key area of expressiveness. Peter, however, didn't mind this. In his own way, he'd rather have whatever news the doctor had to say come from something cold and emotionless like a clockwork, rather than whatever feigned pity the doctor would perform.
A few minutes later the doctor entered. "Peter Kane, how have you been feeling?"
"The same."
"Have you been doing your PT?"
Peter looked away.
"You're not going to see improvement if you don't stick with the therapy."
He pretended not to hear by ignoring the robot. The truth is, that in this quiet a room, he had heard her just fine. He had memorized the particular timbre and affectation in her voice that made it easy to extrapolate sounds to form coherent sentences even if certain bits of clarity were lost.
"Mr. Kane?" the doctor pushed her chair in front of him. She'd gotten to know him a bit better now, and was familiar with his calculating apathetic personality. As such, she was unafraid to let down her bedside manner to be more frank with him, "Peter, if the pain is still unmanageable, we should look at other options. You're already at the maximum dose anyone should be taking, and --"
"Pain's not the problem."
"So, the medication is working? That's good to hear. Perhaps the nerves wi--"
"I didn't say the medication was working, I said the pain isn't the problem."
"Peter, we need to be making decisions for your long term health, and it's not healthy to be on narcotics like this forever."
There was the subtlest rolling of his eyes as he looked back at her, the robot stood behind her with hands raised like a mocking conductor.
"I've been looking into an alternative procedure. If it's done right, I could get the use of my hand back. I need this arm to do what I do. I'm an engineer, I'm working on my medical license. I'm *useless* without my dominant hand!"
"Mr. Kane, your hand is practically more metal than bone now. It's held together with pins and plates, you’re lucky you didn't lose it entirely. However, as we've said before, we believe the best option is to amputate right above the elbow. That should make the pain more manageable, and there are some very realistic prosthetics out there, no one would even know."
"I don’t WANT a bloody plastic arm, I want MY arm." He gestured harshly with both arms and winced at the shooting pain that radiated up through his shoulder, "Besides, I'm not talking about... saving this one. There's an experimental procedure that would remove the arm entirely, rebuild an artificial socket that allows the prosthetic to wire directly into my spinal cord. Theoretically, such an extremity would be even more precise than a regular arm, of course there'd be a learning curve --"
"Peter, that procedure has only been done experimentally where there were no other options but to lose the limb. You're talking about willingly removing a perfectly functioning shoulder, multiple ribs, shoulder blade, clavicle..." she trailed off and shook her head, "And the two subjects this has been done on both reported enormous amounts of pain."
"I told you, pain isn't the problem."
"Mr. Kane..."
"How much would it cost?"
The robot buzzed and clacked away at it's frantic signing, "I can... make some inquiries."
"Please do."
"I'm lowering your dose then," she said lowly, her head down and her eyes looking up piercingly, "If pain isn't the problem, then you won't be needing the medication."
"Fine." He stood up, "Just get me a quote."
------
November 6, 2005 - Praetorian Earth, Kane’s Apartment
"I'm sorry, Mr. Kane, Dr. Cohen is out this week," the nurse on the other end of the call said. Peter held the phone close to his ear.
"She was out last week, too? Is she sick? I really need to hear back--"
"I really am sorry, but all I can say is she is out indefinitely, but we would be happy to make another appointment with a different doctor."
"No. That's alright, I'll wait."
He hung up and frowned. Two of my doctors are now mysteriously out of work. As well as the surgeon who operated on me after the accident. It's like I'm cursed.
Or...infected.
The thought crossed his mind like a flash of lightning. The memory of the Resistance liaison in the park, and her expression when she pulled the gun. He sat down at his computer and started sorting through hospital staff. He gathered all his paperwork that might hold clues in signatures, date stamps, approvals. He dug out old crumpled prescriptions and set to work. Crosschecking, making calls.
"They died?" he exclaimed, "When?"
Peter Kane wrote down everything the nurse divulged, "From what? …. No I understand.... of course."
Obituaries...obituaries.... Marlow Dennis... here we go... Sure enough, a digital obituary had been published on a local page. He read through it until he found what he'd been afraid of.
"Unknown exposure to a highly radioactive substance. Investigations are ongoing..." Peter pushed away from his desk, "No... that's impossible." If only all his personal equipment hadn't been destroyed in the lab accident. He needed a Geiger counter and fast. The only thing he had was an old dosimeter from 1977, more of a piece of memorabilia than anything else, and it wouldn't work without calibration. "Where the fuck am I going to get a dosimeter..."
There were probably better options, but the one on the forefront of his mind was...his old school. He was signed up for classes to start in the spring, but if what he feared was true...there was no way he could attend classes, not without risking...killing everyone.
Christ, how many people have I--? No, don't think about that now. You'd be dead if you were that radioactive, there's no way I'm the cause. There's no way.
Nevertheless, he grabbed his bag and carefully slipped it over his good arm, something he'd become quite adept at, and dashed out the door.
A short bus ride away, Peter found himself outside the doors of the University in which he'd caused a massive explosion in less than half a year ago. A chill fell over him he hadn't anticipated. The smell of the fire, the feel of water in his throat, the look of Emperor Cole's face as it stared accusingly at him from the hospital wall. He did his best to shake it off, because the task at hand was far more important.
Inside, he slid by the office, opting to feign ignorance rather than risk checking in and being recognized. He was still a registered student, so he had right to be on campus. Up the stairs and down the hall, he passed by the wing that was still draped in thin plastic sheets while they conducted repairs. There was an old chem lab across the way, there was bound to be a dosimeter or Geiger counter there.
Class was out of session as it was close to dinner time, and few teachers roamed the halls. He slipped into the lab unnoticed and rifled through supply closets until he found his target. He debated using it now or taking it home.
I could have my answer and just put it back, don't press my luck.
But something didn't add up about the people he'd identified as currently missing, out of work, or even deceased. Something told him, this wasn't a simple yes or no he could answer now. After a moment of holding the dosimeter and finger hovering over the ON button, he slipped it into his bag and spirited it away back to his small apartment.
To be continued…