Copyright © 2013 Elder Adok. First novel in the Buffalo Future series. First published in Great Britain in April 2013 by Hiss Farm Concepts www.hissfarmconcepts.co.uk office@hissfarmconcepts.co.uk Second edition September 2013. This blog chapter edition May 2015. The moral right of Elder Adok to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act of 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Silvanus was the result of a wild romance between a buxom tea-lady and a professor of psychology. Sounds crazy but then many things appeared crazy to Cynthia. That wasn't her real name but it suited her because she felt synthetic. She looked good although little of the original remained; the wonders of modern science!
Let's fill out some detail here. Tea-ladies had been phased out in the 1970s only to be replaced by machines and plastic cups. Old folk sang out how much they missed the personal touch and the anticipation of an approaching trolley. Then along came some bright spark who rediscovered the tea-lady. Tea-gentlemen didn't catch on in spite of mandatory gender-bias tests pedantically executed.
In the past an era of 'political correctness' had assumed male and female to be so boringly similar that you almost wondered why the Almighty had invented them in the first place. And so we come to the professor. Tea could be produced chemically by mechanical means without emotion. Tea-ladies combined the mechanics with sociological counselling skills (mothering?), firm discipline validated by respect gained rather than imposed through management structure, and last but by no means least a folk link with the past.
Here was tannin in the form of real ale. Tea from the cask; none of your plastic wrapped lager rubbish on this trolley. Irresistible to Professor Montague Woodlander. And Silvanus, the seed of this delightfully disastrous parentage, was a crafty bastard absorbed by his thirst for power.
The snug was comfortably furnished in traditional style with two leather sofas and some chairs arranged around a tatty oak table. Silvanus had a diverse membership to his Cell. They would gather at a hostelry named 'Five Miles From Anywhere' which was very popular to those who could find it. Regulars travelled out from Ely; there were always tourists attracted to the romantic spot where the three Lodes of Wicker, Burwell and Reach empty into the river Cam. 'Jack Frost' had painted the fens with ice and crystal; the lodes were frozen over. The pub included a bar for locals who rarely ventured from the Fens; they were fond of their brass sign 'Grumpies' screwed to the rough oak beam overhead.
The Cell had gathered at Silvanus' request (a command really) to have a jar at 'The Five'. The room was relaxing but strangely quiet; the low reflective ceiling allowed conversation at minimum volume. The door was behind one of the bookcases which swung open when activated by Silvanus. No one could quite remember how they had gained entry. Silvanus had designed his snug to be at the centre of a block of debugged rooms, rather like Rubik's Cube invented in the 1970s; nobody could ever see the centre because it was always screened by outside cubes. Trial release of sensitive but useless information had not registered on the swell.
Silvanus felt safe in his snug. He controlled access. In here you would never know the depths of winter outside. He addressed his Cell in riddles.
"I'm not playing about here - and neither are you. Minds can wander, secrets spill but so does blood. You know, but never know. I always know".
"Honey", interrupted his shapely girlfriend Jeanette, "can you explain what the hell you mean?"
She wasn't the sharpest tool in the box, so Silvanus used her question as a convenient opportunity to draw breath before continuing.
"Hardware can be seen by ultrasound or whatever but software is more subtle. You know that Christmas party we had last week at Tuddenham Mill. OK, you were too stoned or pissed to remember; that's the point, you can't remember".
"Good party Boss, but if we can't remember nout why bring it up now?" queried Victor as he scratched his beard and blinked rapidly through a rather heavy set of glasses. He enjoyed traditional ales.
"You brought enough up at the time, Victor", said Charles, a contented bachelor with a wild mop of fair hair.
"The elephants don't wish to know", quipped Victor, but Silvanus cut him off.
"And neither do I".
He treated the chatter as space for thought rather than conversation. But Silvanus had a canny knack of knowing when an important point was raised; it wasn't now though. His was a style of conversation that gave the impression of lighthearted intercourse, but he was quite ruthless in driving to his destiny.
"You can't remember that I brought you by taxi one at a time to this snug. It wasn't just the drink; the anaesthetic draught helped knock out your minds and in particular the feeling in your wrists".
A Freudian reaction from Silvanus' Cell made them rub their wrists as a chill ran down their spines. A clammy fear gripped them as they gripped their wrists. This kind of poetry in motion warmed Silvanus to his theme. How quickly the mood could change. They say tears and laughter are close; mirth and mistrust hand in hand.
"Your pics have been replaced. I have the originals here". Silvanus held up a small flask.
"They were used to programme the replacements in your wrists, but I've added software. I've added", Silvanus repeated himself for affect and dropped his voice.
"I've added a Silvanus special. Nothing can detect it, but it lets me know what you're up to".
"Bullshit, Silvanus", laughed Victor hoping to push the conversation towards banter.
"You expect us to believe that".
"Yes, Victor old chap. You can show the others but one of them will have to show you".
"Go on then ...", but Victor stopped suddenly.
The chill down his spine was real this time. It was as if his head floated above a body which he knew supported it but of which he could feel nothing. He kept breathing but seemed to freeze in time as he slumped back into the sofa. The others didn't notice at first for he seemed to be day dreaming. Conversation continued for a moment until everyone looked at Victor.
"I forgot to tell you about your neck implants", Silvanus lied.
"Your modified pics remotely control a kind of artificial hormone system in your blood stream. The implants freeze your spinal chord whenever I decide. Handy because I can immobilise you but your faculties remain active. You're the best bugs in the business".
"You bastard, Silvanus. You mean to say that you have fixed all of us, even me, your own father?"
Montague's anger was tempered by fear; there was a wanton ruthlessness about Silvanus which had an appetite of its own. What kind of son had he and Cynthia produced?
"Yes. Yes, I have. And no one will ever know because my stealth software can't be detected. It's stealth we are about. By the way, any interference with your neck implants will release sufficient toxin to paralyse you for life".
It wasn't true but he knew they wouldn't take the risk; the possibility was deterrent enough. They hated Silvanus, yet they loved his power because it gave them purpose, it gave them life.
"Riders are like red blood cells in this tinpot planet's comms network. They transport the oxygen of information around as they drift on their stratospheric currents. White cells are the military, always on the lookout for subterfuge. We, to be more accurate you, are going to infiltrate the riders. You're about stealth. How are you going to do it?"
Silvanus switched Victor back on but nobody could quite see how he did it.
"Victor, now your rigor mortis is over, what do you think?" Victor rubbed his neck.
"Can I stand and walk about; I feel all stiff?"
"Yes brains! And loosen up your mind at the same time. And you Spaniel; get your nose on that scent boy".
Charles Jarman had been nicknamed Spaniel by Silvanus when he learnt of his old-fashioned monarchist views.
"Come on King Charles, the Spaniel", he would tease.
It was a bit twee, and at first it rankled with him but now he had been effectively domesticated by the Silvanus' aura. For relaxation Charles took part in battle reenactments and if possible would always choose a royalist role. His strategic insight was uncanny in its power and simplicity. Many became absorbed by detail, not so with Charles who paused, as was his wont, before beginning.
"Last century, in the 1980s, at the height of the Cold War, a young man took off in a small domestic aeroplane and flew through all the fancy radar detection equipment to land safely in Moscow's Red Square. Many a theft has been carried out in broad daylight by crooks posing as normal removal men".
A grin crept across Silvanus' flat ugly face. The tree-man was amused. Here was the key he had been looking for. It all fitted so well.
"Go on, Spaniel, I like it. Might re-christen you St Peter, the saint with all the keys".
He laughed and the Cell relaxed a little. They broke for coffee.
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