I open my eyes. Bright. Blurry. Makes me feel even more sick. I shut them again.
“Are you okay?”
Voices. Go away, voices. They shake me. Goddamn it.
“He’s got a pulse... thank goodness, we’d be in trouble if we’d killed him”
Killed... what? Something...
“Wh...”
“I think he’s regaining consciousness...”
Try eyes again. Better. There are faces. Why are there faces? I need to get up, I’ll need to... need to...
“Whoa there, take it easy. Just stay lying down. We’ve put you through quite a shock there.”
...need to... get out of bed, but... This isn’t my bed. It’s too hard-
Everything comes back. I sit bolt upright, and almost pass out from the wave of dizziness which blasts through my head. I phrased my question carefully, choosing my words well, picking a tone which I hope sounds accusatory but ends up just sounding hungover.
“What the hell?”
--
Ten minutes later, and I was properly conscious, with a bag of ice pressed against my head. I’ll be honest, things still weren’t making a lot of sense. Like, I wasn’t in the first aid post, or the break room. I was in one of the medical labs. Why? Someone presses a glass of water into my hand. I almost choke on it when I try to drink. I decide this is a good time to ask another question.
“No really, what happened?”
Everyone’s avoiding eye contact.
“Somebody tell me, what just happened?”
There’s a quick scuffle, like an impromptu conference crossed with a fistfight. Then a lab-coated scientist type (obviously against his will) is pushed forwards.
“Er. Congratulations?”
I stare blankly. “On what?”
He looks pleadingly behind him for some kind of support, but none is forthcoming.
“Um. Okay. So tell me everything you remember.”
“My name’s Roy.” I start off sarcastically. “I’m a cleaner. I work in a university, apparently with a bunch of people who have as little idea of what’s going on as I do.”
He looks a bit taken aback.
“Yes. Right. Well. Actually we do know what happened, because we sort of set it up.”
I just look at him.
“Er. Yeah. We’ve been looking for a suitable test chamber for weeks, and we realised the broom closet was just the right size, so we, er, used it. We didn’t even think- well, obviously, we wouldn’t pick you... human trials are a while off anyway... not that... uhh...” He trailed off.
A second lab-coat type steps up. He’s obviously realised that whatever this guy is meant to be telling me, he’s totally screwing it up. Nothing new there.
“The cleaning supply closet on this floor was the correct dimensions for a test-firing of an experiment of ours. Unfortunately somebody-” He gestures at the previous speaker- “-forgot to put a sign on the door to warn you.”
“Or tell me. Or even just lock the door.”
He’s getting flustered now. Academics, bless their souls. Not a practical bone in their bodies.
“Quite, yes. In any event, you were unintentionally caught in the test-firing of an infinity bolt-”
An uproar breaks out behind him.
“Who told you you could name it? I thought we were calling it the entropy siphon-”
“-load of crap, I voted for universal anode-”
“-clearly should be quantum vault, since that’s what it does-”
“-rubbish, it’s relativity loop or nothing, I say-”
“-eternity lock is much-
“-decay transferance matrix-”
“-I still think we should work dark energy in there somewhere-”
Again, this is fairly typical. You’d think the squabbles at a research institiution would be about massive scientific breakthroughs, or as-yet-undiscovered theories. But no, those are accepted without question. But when you want to give something a name, oh boy do the knives come out. Normally I’d find this quite entertaining, but in this particular case, what they seem to be arguing about is pointed at me, so I’d like a few more answers.
I clear my throat. Silence.
“Yes. As I was saying, the purpose of an infinity bolt-” He glares at the others, daring them to bring up his choice of name again. “-is to quantum-entangle two masses, and then, using relativity, to slow down the passage of time for one mass while allowing the other to exist in real-time, thus drastically reducing the effect of entropy on the the target. Which in this case, is you.”
The research assistant from earlier gestures at two white mice in a cage behind me. “Er. It was, um, supposed to be Jesse and James over there. I guess we’ll have to give them back to the biology department now.”
“So what’s the practical result of all this?”
He looks at me as if I’m an idiot. Which I’m not. I just don’t have a physics degree, which is the same thing in their book.
“The subject is, essentially, preserved in perpetuity in its current state, from the passage of time.”
This takes a moment to sink in. He obviously thinks I haven’t understood, because he feels the need to clarify.
“Thus, the congratulations are in order, because you are now essentially ageless.”
“Yeah, I got that bit.” Nope. Still hasn’t sunk in.
“Can you, y’know, turn it off”
“Well, no. Not as such. Slowing down the acceleration mass would result in the annihilation of both masses, as would any damage to the device.”
“I see. And is there... a time limit on this?”
“At the current relativistic velocity, the acceleration mass will be totally decayed in about forty thousand years, at which point both systems will disentangle and revert to their pre-linking state.”
“I see.”
I grab my key ring from my pocket, walk over to the nearest supply closet, and grab a broom. I turn around and wave at them casually.
“Well, it’s been lovely, but I should be off. Loads to do. Call me next time you make a mess, okay?”
It’s going to be a long forty thousand years.
I've had this idea bouncing around in my head for a while:
- Cynical janitor
- becomes immortal
- and becomes cynical hero/hero-adjunct,
- with a 'cleaning up other people's mess' theme.
I think of him as the guy who cleans up the whole of Metropolis after Superman's done trashing it by throwing bad guys through buildings. No super strength. Not bulletproof. Can't fly. He's just jaded, cynical, and very, very patient.
No comments:
Post a Comment