Archive for November, 2009

The Never Ending Battle (part two)

Back at my condo, I changed clothes and carefully washed the wine from my face without thinking.

It had taken me over a decade and close to fifteen billion dollars to create meta-humans, people who could fly, lift entire buildings, race across the country in seconds, and who could giggle after being hit with mortars.  (“What?  No heat vision?” was the comment that one of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had made after seeing the Force for the first time.  Considering his counterparts were all but pissing themselves, I had to give him high points for cool.  I hated him, but I had to give him points, but that’s beside the … um … point.   Yeah.)

The point is that at no time did I consider using anyone who wasn’t absolutely perfect as a subject.  I tried, but I couldn’t remember if any of the students who applied were in chairs.  I pulled out my com unite and recorded a message to myself to ask Wanda or Daniel.

My grandmother lived the last decade of her life in and out of wheelchairs.  I have friends, colleagues, and other relatives who were – for one reason or another – chair-bound at least part of the time and many who lived their lives sitting.  I knew from first hand experience (the result of a bad skiing accident) just how hard it was to get around in one of those things.

So why hadn’t I thought to apply any of the breakthroughs to the world’s handicapped?  Why weren’t any of the Force paraplegics … and why hadn’t I heard from any organizations representing the millions of paraplegics among all the other special interest groups?  I walked into my study and booted up my work computer, the one that was permanently linked with the mainframe at work.

It only took a few minutes to ascertain that, although I even had petitions from a group representing left-handed transsexuals with speech impediments, the bureau had not received on piece of mail from any group even claiming to represent the handicapped.  I checked and there were dozens of groups out there.  There was even a foundation that was created in the name of an actor who once played a superhero on film … why hadn’t any of them contacted the bureau?

I shut down my computer and walked into my den, stopping to pour myself a cognac along the way.  (Yes, as one of the world’s few metas, alcohol no longer had much of an effect on me.  Believe it or not, there are actually a few of us who drink because we enjoy the taste of whatever tipple we prefer.)  I sat down in my wing chair and put my feet up, staring at the fireplace.

I was reasonably sure that no aspect of the procedure would regrow damaged or dead myelinated fiber tracts, nor would it regenerate or repair white or gray matter.  For that matter, nothing I’d come up would either regrow severed limbs or grow brand new ones for those who were born without.

On the other hand, I did have a way to let them fly, which – although not exactly the same as walking – wasn’t anything to sneeze at.  I tossed back a healthy slug of cognac and, with a small snort, corrected myself.  I had a way to let them fly, provided their body chemistry fit into the incredibly narrow tolerances needed for the necessary procedure.

What would be worse, being trapped in a wheelchair while superheroes soared overhead, or trapped in a wheelchair while other cripples floated by?

I fished my com unit out of the pocket of my robe and said “Daniel.”  A few seconds later, he answered his phone with a blurry “What?”

“Daniel, you’re a physical therapist,” I began, only to be interrupted with his slightly amused and slight outraged, “You called me at this hour to confirm my specialty, Al?”

I apologized and cut to the point, asking him why we’d never considered using any paraplegics as subjects?

He didn’t say anything , then asked that I hold on for a moment.  While I was waiting, about ten seconds later, somebody knocked on my front door.  I sighed, hung up, and let Daniel – still in his pajamas and robe – in.  He requested a scotch and walked into my study.

We spent the next four hours discussing spinal injuries and possible cures … which is to say, he lectured and I listened, trying to limit my ignorant questions to one or two an hour.  He explained what they were doing in Miami, spoke rather eloquently on the efforts of Mr. and Mrs. Reeve, touched on the rare Brown-Séquard syndrome, and otherwise educated me in the many facets that comprised paraplegia.

When he was finished, I refilled both our glasses and simply sat there with him for a few minutes before telling him about my encounter earlier that night.  He nodded and said that he’d been worried about the possible future shock to the paraplegic community.

Okay, even I’d heard of Toffler’s book and how it postulated that individuals, faced with too much change in too short a period of time, could end up disconnected from the world and society around them, suffering from stress and disorientation.  Wanda and I had discussed the possibility of the metas causing this condition on a global level, but dismissed it as a necessary risk.  But we’d only considered the impact that the metas would have on the general public, as I explained to Daniel.

He nodded again and replied that it was only the general public who were considered whenever anything was thought up, planned, or executed.  That’s why, even in the day and age of the American’s with Disabilities Act, buildings were still built with no handicapped access and stores still made aisles too narrow for easy wheelchair access.  The curse of ergonomics:  Build to the norm and deal with the unique only if they scream loudly enough.

I glanced at my watch and noted we only had an hour or two before sunrise.  A secondary side effect of the process made rest and sleep on a daily basis pretty much non-essential, but I was still glad to remember that it was Saturday.  I stood and asked him one final question.

“In your professional opinion, in your professional belief, would it be better or worse to offer a sort of limited flight ability to those unable to walk, considering how many would be rejected for the procedure?”

In reply, he floated up out of his chair and did a lazy backstroke to the front door.  “Did you know, Al, that the majority of drowning victims never receive assistance?  That nobody manages to reach them in time, before they drown?”  I shook my head and opened my front door as he righted himself.  “With that in mind, given that the odds are against anyone getting there in time, is it better or worse to maintain a Coast Guard and try to rescue the few?”

We stood there regarding each other for a moment.  Then, with a muttered “‘Night, Al,” he shot into the sky.

I walked back into my home office and booted up my computer.

I had work to do.

Painted myself in the corner again, damn it!

I realized that creating a meta-human would be creating a new level of have and have not, but I never considered how far that went.  Dian pointed out the problem of the handicapped and how they might react.  Bad enough that they can’t afford an operation that might get them out of the chair or a new chair that can lift them high enough to reach the top shelves at the market, but now those who take their legs for granted are beginning to fly.

I thought it over and decided it was a marvelous hook.  I could ridicule the vast majority of whiny society, but still have a legitimate conflict to solve.  I thought I could bring in references to the Christopher and Dana Reeve Foundation, which seemed incredibly appropriate considering the subject matter, and give it a fairy godmother sort of ending … perhaps even have the our chemist fall in love with the crippled woman who opened his eyes and blah, blah, blah.

Right, so Never Ending Battle was suppose to end up, all romantic concepts aside, with his giving those unable to walk the gift of flight.  Limited, of course, and with no other powers; the idea was that they’d be able to mimic normal movement, reach the tall shelves and maneuver in situations that wheelchairs were never meant for.

Yeah, sure … as usual, I didn’t bother thinking it out until I’d already written the first bit.

Problem 1:  Security.  The reason nobody can replicate his process is because they’d need a blood sample to do so … and, since all of his subjects are invulnerable, getting a blood sample might mean using an atomic bomb.  However, even a watered down version of the flight injection would reveal too much and, since none of the handicapped will be invulnerable, they’d become targets of everyone trying to duplicate his success.  No security for the process, no security for the handicapped.

Problem 2:  Society.  The minute he makes those who cannot walk fly, those who can walk are going to start freaking out.  Jealousy, anger, resentment; the able bodied will have a shit fit.  “That guy can’t walk because he was in a drunken accident that killed my kid … why the hell are you giving him wings, damn it?!”  “Hey, I know that lady … she’s one of the nastiest, meanest people in town!  What the hell did she do to deserve this?”  Then there’ll be those who do their best to cripple themselves just so they can fly, those who try and fake out the doctors, those that take up incredibly dangerous hobbies and sports with the justification “hey, if anything goes wrong, I’ll still be able to fly, right?”  Why wear a safety belt when one of the possible outcomes of an accident is being able to fly?

Problem 3:  Suitability.  The process only works on those who’s body chemistry is right, so there’s a good chance that only a small percentage of those who cannot walk would match. What about those who’s disability might be temporary?  At this point, all the powers are a one way trip, so there wouldn’t be any way to take them back.  More to the point, who would bother with physical therapy when they could fly?  Between the mental and the physical requirements, how many handicapped would qualify, overall?

Bugger.  I’m going to have a tough time figuring a way out of this one.

The Never Ending Battle (Part One)

Hello, posterity.  I’ve decided to once again put pen to paper to record and document the continuing scientific and legal struggles involved in taking the human race into the next evolutionary step.

When last we spoke, I had reigned supreme above the attempted takeover of my initial superhero project by the military.  Once again, brains triumphed over brawn and the cell phone was mightier than the semi-automatic weapon.  (The fact that my old college roommate happened to be the Vice-President didn’t hurt, either.)  History, or what passes for history after it’s been nationalized and purged of any events that might embarrass those in power or cause the historian to be sued, records in detail how the Justice Force burst onto the international scene, to the applause and appreciation of the world.

In the days that followed, the newly formed BMA (Bureau of Meta-human Affairs) dealt quickly and efficiently with all international queries and demands with brilliance and ingenuity, maintaining a careful balance between the scientific advancements involved and the political pitfalls that loomed ahead.  Needless to say, the head of the BMA was a master at communication and diplomacy, with an uncanny knack at simplifying scientific explanations, being able to dumb them down to the level of any national leader.

I speak, of course, of Dr. Albert Eugen Socks, Chemist.  (Modesty is a highly overrated quality, one that is generally the purview of those who otherwise have very little to be modest about.)  I headed up the bureau, of course, since I was the only person on the planet who had the necessary knowledge to do so.  Oh, there were blood-curdling screams from career government bureaucrats who saw the opening of a new department as a rare opportunity for advancement, one that their obvious accomplishments and seniority made them a shoe-in for, but calmer heads prevailed and I’m rather happy to report that there are no Washington insiders anywhere within the top branches of my bureau.

On the other hand, I’m not too proud a man to admit that a few experienced career pooh-bahs might have made the next determined assault somewhat easier to deal with, in that I never saw it coming, myself.

One of the problems with being a scientist is that one naturally assumes that one’s fellow citizens will react, overall, in a logical and thoughtful manner.  I believed, really and truly believed, that when presented with the miracle of superheros, the only problems that would arise would come from foreign countries.  Spies trying to steal the secrets behind my process, demands from both friendly and unfriendly countries that we willingly share those secrets to maintain political and military balance, attacks through  the public press, the U.N. chambers, and on various battlefields to try and make us reveal as much as possible.

That terrorist kidnapping, for instance, where they demanded we reveal the process in detail on the internet or they’d start killing hostages.  I have a copy of their second demand tape, the one where their leader was about halfway through his diatribe when Bia and Buzz came through the wall.  (I’d assigned Cratos, but Bia – in that the terrorist’s cultural opinions about women offended her so deeply – managed to convince me to let her go.)  When we released the tape to the world press, the sight of three heavily armed terrorists being juggled by Bia (garbed in a rather fetching abaya specially made for the occasion)  cause so much mirth and scorn within their c0untry, that the entire terrorist branch of that particular group disbanded rather than deal with the embarrassment.

No, I expected and prepared for international assaults and attacks.

What I didn’t expect were the assaults and attacks from my own nation.  The head of the NAACP went on television the day after our debut and demanded to know why none of the Force were black.  She wasn’t amused when I publicly pointed out that neither were they white (for the record, they are blue, pink, yellow, green and brown since the original process caused a color shift of their pigmentation.)  The fact that there was only one woman was a sticking point for several woman’s organizations.  Other minority groups alternately demanded representation or, when I revealed – without giving out their actual names – that one of the Force was Hispanic, one was Jewish, one was of Greek ancestry, and two came from mostly European stock, demanded more specifically precise representation.

Honestly, if I’d catered the various special interest groups, the Force would have close to a hundred members.  One male and female of every possible nationality … oh, and don’t get me started on the entire gay issue.  I mean, if there was one group that I thought would be pleased with the skin colors …

Then there were the DAR and the radical right-wing groups that were pissed that the Force wasn’t comprised entirely of “pure Americans.”   Add to the mix the almost hourly demands from the armed forces for a new Special Forces Brand of metas, the Congressional leaders who screamed bloody murder that they had no input on who the first superheroes were (not to mention the fact that we were not letting them choose any new members), and the constant requests from the security organizations for meta participation in their various spy missions.

Then there were all the phony superheroes turning up, the wanna-be’s and the pathetic losers who daily crowded the sidewalks outside our headquarters, pleading with us to let them join.  I’d more than once explained to the press that the process, at this point in time, required a very specific type of person, someone who’s chemical composition was within very exacting tolerances for the process to work, but that didn’t deter any of the pundits or posers.  At least twice a day, editorials appeared in major newspapers renouncing our fascist methodology and obviously elitist choices, while the Fox network kept a running pressure up demanding full and immediate disclosure of all the true identities of the Force.

I finally had the Force dig out an special underground parking lot and tunnel entrance so we could all come and go in privacy and safety.  None of the Force ever entered or left the building in civilian guise, since the photographers routinely snapped pictures of everyone who did so and then spent hours comparing them to the few pictures of the Force.  Not that doing so really helped, since Wanda – who I really should have listened to more regarding the press – insisted on full face masks for each member of the Force.

Keeping their true identities under wraps was job one for both the Force and their support teams, with the lone exception of Chuck.  Chuck was an orphan, one of the rare few who actually grew up in an orphanage and was never fostered out.  He had no kin to threaten or kidnap, no wife or girlfriend to terrorize or to be placed in danger, not even any terribly close friends.  He’d lived his life as a loner, only interested in his art and his studies.  Oh, and getting as wasted as possible each night, which – due to his new metabolism – was no longer possible.

The college had no idea which students had been selected for our study, since my government sponsor (once the process worked) hired several dozens of the hundreds who’d applied and put them in false studies, muddying the waters.  None of my technical team were easily identifiable as having dwelt in the basement of the Croppy Building for the few months we were on campus and, thankfully, Wanda, Daniel and I had pretty much average faces and didn’t stand out from the crowd.  Regardless, we all changed our hair styles; I dyed mine and grew a mustache, Daniel shaved his goatee and started wearing a topee, and Wanda abandoned her Afro and started sporting cornrows.  (Thankfully, all of this was on the government dime and maintained by government stylists, so none of us had to bother.)

I assigned entire offices of underlings to deal with the various special interest groups, twice that number to deal with the press, and simply ignored the political end of it all after Wanda pointed out that they really didn’t want any actual involvement, just an opportunity to show their constituents that they were doing … something.  Our government liaison occasionally pushed for open recruiting to ease the public pressure, but – as I kept explaining to “Doctor Bill,” the President’s scientific adviser – this wasn’t something that could be either done in the open or with any sort of democratic process.

(If I might … one of the most secret aspects of all this was the constant attention and requests from celebrities.  All of Hollywood either wanted exclusive rights to do movies and television about the Force, wanted to actually use the Force in their movies and/or television shows as either stars, stuntmen, or just for interviews, or – and this is the part that astonished me – seemed to expect that they, the actual celebrities, could simply request to be super-powered … and it would be done!  Nicolas Cruise visited me the day after my office was done, simply presenting himself for the process.  Brad and Angelina came in together, Governor Schwarzenegger seemed to believe that he had dibs simply because he was both a movie star and a governor, and the really top tier stars simply had their agents call to schedule appointments.  Unbelievable.)

Nonetheless, within six month of the Force’s debut, we had everything pretty much sorted out.  I rarely dealt with any of it personally, spending most of my time either in my new lab or in technical meetings.  I occasionally attended Washington functions, since most of my appearances tended to end up with powerful men and women whining and begging for immortality.    (One of the most misunderstood aspects of my process was that everyone seemed to assume that it made the subject immortal.  Invulnerable, yes, but immortal?  How the hell would I know if it made anyone immortal?!  Ask me in a few centuries, people!)

I was attending one of these function at the request of Charlie, my old roommate and current Vice President, when a young woman in a wheelchair rolled up to me and threw her drink into my face.

Conversation stilled as I stared at her in astonishment.  I raised my hand to waive off security and asked her, as politely as possible, just what had I done to deserve the impromptu baptism?

She stared at me with open hatred and scorn, and replied, “You made it possible for me to be even more handicapped than I was before your flying wonders showed up.  You granted able bodied men and women with the ability to fly … while I can’t walk two inches.  You destroyed whatever mental stability I’d managed to gain since the accident and you don’t even know how horrible you are!”

She wheeled off, silent tears steaming down her face, and I found myself at a total loss for anything to say.

Damn.

From the journal of Dr. Albert Eugene Socks, Chemist (Conclusion)

December 4th, 0700.  Good morning, posterity.  A new era dawns, a new book for the human race opens, a new song for mankind starts, and my head feels like doo-doo. I remembered … actually, I didn’t really remember much of anything after a certain point.

I did remember sitting around with Daniel and Wanda, trying to come up with a clever name.  I rubbed my right bicep where it still hurt and grinned.  We’d been drinking for awhile, celebrating the successful testing of the single most difficult aspect of the entire project … even the most cynical of my critics had halfway believed that I could increase human strength to hitherto unbelievable levels,  and most of them more or less admitted that – theoretically, at least – my theories on invulnerability were perhaps possible, but only after decades of research and experimentation.  Mad, of course, but theoretically possible … maybe.

Flight?

McCullen summed up the overall opinion when he simply grinned and quipped, “When pigs fly.”

(I would have to make sure Professor McCullen was present and sitting next to me when I unveiled my super-team publicly.  Perhaps I could get one of them to wear a pig costume?  Naw, too unprofessional … maybe just a small “oink” under my breath when they buzzed the reviewing stands would suffice.)

I had a leisurely breakfast of French Toast, eggs, and sausage, then an even more leisurely shower.  For once, I wasn’t in any hurry to get to the lab.  In a very real way, my work was done.  All that remained was training the subjects to use their powers cautiously and responsibly, which was more Wanda’s and Daniel’s field than mine.  All that remained for me was to be visible (so the subjects stayed calm) and to type up a future acceptance speech for my next Nobel.

I drove to the campus, which – by all indications – had become a military  base overnight.  There were uniformed men and women all over the place, with enough Hummers parked all over for a Schwarzenegger movie and enough weapons in sight for an invasion of Europe.  I parked where the nice man with the machine gun indicated and exited my car gingerly, hands in sight at all times.  I could see the Croppy Building from where I stood; rather, I could see the three story tent that enclosed the Croppy Building.

Perhaps it was due to my lingering hangover or the chemicals in my system, but I only started to get concerned when I saw that.  Up to then, I sort of assumed that some local National Guard unit was using the campus during break for maneuvers of some sort.

I pointed the tent out to the guy with the machine gun, explaining that my lab was in the basement of that building, and he quickly broke out a radio.  He told someone with the unlikely name of “Alpha Niner Twelve” that “Alchemist” was located.  I sighed and rolled my eyes heavenward.  I hadn’t heard that corny nickname since Grad school.  As a matter of fact, when my first roommate at college combined my first name with my major, I almost changed over to Physics on the spot.  I’d never heard of anyone being called an “al-physicist.”

The voice replied that “Victor One One” was dispatched to escort “Alchemist” to “Hall of Justice”  … oh, come on!  I sneered at the soldier and repeated the new name for my lab, scorn dripping from all four syllables.  He had the grace to look a tad embarrassed, muttered that it wasn’t his idea, and – louder – informed me that my escort would be joining us momentarily.

To my total lack of surprise, “Victor One One” turned out to be General Victor Python.  The general wasn’t my official contact with my sponsors, but had taken it upon himself to act as the unofficial gadfly for my project, routinely showing up for surprise inspections and audits, doing his level best to turn every minor setback into a reason to shut me down.  That he’d be sent after I’d succeeded would, most likely, be someone highers way of rubbing his one-star nose in it.

He stomped up to me and officially took possession of me from the guard.  Conversationally, I asked him if the Pentagon had reimbursed him for the tire subject number seven had melted.

His reply was a raised eyebrow and a slight sigh.

I gestured at the entire Omaha Beach reenactment going on around us and inquired, as politely as possible, if this is what my sponsors considered to be “low profile,” since they’d insisted on (demanded) just such a thing from the first moment I’d made my original proposition.

He added a noncommittal shrug to his end of the conversation and kept walking.

After a few steps I congratulated him on his remarkable and quite astonishing success in the face of almost impossible odds.

He stopped and, frowning, asked me what I was talking about.

I paused, grinned, and replied that since he wasn’t going to say it to me, I’d decided to be gracious and say it to him.  I turned and set off walking again.  He caught up in a few steps and glowered the rest of the way.

Daniel and Wanda were standing by the entrance to the huge tent, each with a guard watching them.  I stopped and ignored the general when he tried to get me to continue to ask them what had happened.

Daniel explained that the circus came to town sometime after we’d shut down for the night, arrested the night monitoring techs, and set up the big top since then.  Wanda added that all the techs were under arrest in one of the classrooms on the first floor and that the lab was full of military scientists (we all rolled our eyes at that oxymoron) doing their level best at pretending to understand what we’d been doing.

I asked about the subjects and that’s when the general’s patience gave out.  He ordered the guards to have the doctors put under confinement with the techs and ordered me into the tent.  I told Wanda and Daniel to do nothing and go along with it, then – as they were led away – gave the general a gimlet eye and reminded him that I wasn’t one of his toy soldiers, nor was my project under military control, as per my contract

As eloquent as ever, he simply drew his pistol, aimed it at my groin, and suggested that I engage in various unhygienic activities with my contract.  I sighed, shook my head, and – in as concerned and pitying a voice as I could manage – asked if this was all because his more intelligent, but less popular, classmates in college now owned their own multi-billion dollar businesses, while he, the football hero, ended up in a glorified civil service position?

He cocked the pistol and jerked his head towards the entrance.  I rolled my eyes again and, with a weary chuckle, walked into the tent.  As we walked down the steps to the lap, I explained to him the psychological relationship between men who needed firearms to exert their manliness and impotence.  I think I heard him grinding his teeth behind me.

Why was I taunting an armed moron?  Because he needed me and there wasn’t anything he could do to me until he got what he needed.  There was only one reason for all the military and weapons, and that was because someone at the Pentagon flipped when they saw the documented video of the subject’s initial training session.  Which meant that they, the military, intended to take over the project at this point, regardless of the legal ramifications, but needed me to do so.

Specifically, they needed all the various code phrases and chemical processes that weren’t written down in the official records.  (I might be a scientist, but that doesn’t mean I’m totally unworldly.)  The official reports were complete, as far as they went, but I was the only person who knew the actual procedures involved in turning a human being into a meta-human, as well as the exact chemical composition of the “Vapor Kryptonite.”   Whereas their “scientists” might be able to reverse engineer the gas, the fact that the subjects were now impervious to any needle meant that there was no possible way for them to analyze their blood.

And the only people who knew all the various activation phrases, quit phrases, and the lone master phrase were Wanda, Daniel, and I.

Until they had everything they needed to both create more supermen and to control those already in existence, they couldn’t harm me.  That’s why I could happily insult and mock a mental case with a pistol aimed at my back … well, that and one other reason, but that was my little ace in the hole.

As Wanda had warned, there were uniformed men and women at all the terminals and desks, shuffling through every piece of paper and byte of data with what seemed to be a slight edge of panic.  I glanced at the monitors and relaxed; the sleepers were undisturbed.  The monitor screens showed there was an armed guard in each room and I choked down a laugh at the silliness of it.  What did they intend to do if the subjects woke up and started anything?  What could they do?

Leaving the general to fondle his pistol in relative peace, I walked ahead and sat down in the visitor chair at my desk, asking the young female officer pawing through my records if she’d found anything of interest.  She glanced over at where the general was no doubt having a massive internal battle over shooting me, but replied that all she could find was the reports I’d been sending my sponsors each night.

I nodded and, with a slight shrug, asked her what she’d expected to find, a how-to manual?  While she sputtered out a reply, I stood and, raising my voice only as much as needed, reminded everyone searching that government security regulations – which had been fully explained to me the day I signed my contract – required no secure files or information be kept in any unclassified areas … so what the hell did they expect to find here, in the basement of a college daycare facility?

They passed around a rather sheepish glance and, slowly, set down whatever they were going through to stare at the general.  He simply stood there, mouth opening and closing silently, until the highest ranking (I assume) of the rest of them officially asked him what to do.

While he continued to do a carp impression, I coughed loudly to gain everyone’s attention, removed my cell phone from my inside coat pocket (slowly and carefully, just in case anyone was trigger happy), unfolded it, and pressed one button.  As soon as the ringing started, I pressed the loudspeaker button and waited.  General Python came out of his momentary piscis epiphany and demanded to know who I was calling.

With the precise timing of a perverse universe, the phone was answered with a curt, “Vice President’s office; Who may I say is calling?”

The combined shocked inhales made my ears pop.  I informed the pleasant voice that it was Dr. Albert Eugene Socks calling and asked if Charlie was in.  The fact that she immediately put me through was not lost on the general.  In a beat or two, Charlie’s vibrant speaking voice filled the room.  “Alchemist!  You still stupid enough to be chasing fantasies instead of earning millions, boy?”

I paused to drink in the pale face of the general before informing my old college roommate that I’d finally pulled it off … or hadn’t the Pentagon let him know yet?  He caught his breath and asked me to repeat myself.  I simply said, “Project Up, Up, and Away is a go, deliverable almost immediately, and the boys at the puzzle palace have known since yesterday … as a matter of fact, General Python, replete with Flying Circus, has descended on my poor labs like Normandy, part two.  He’s standing right here if you’d like to confirm any of this, Charlie.”

I held out the phone to the now white-as-a-sheet general.

By noon, the campus was back to normal and the National Guard news release about the terrorism drill was on all the local radio stations.  Okay, we now had on-site representatives from the NSI, the Secret Service, and the Army, but only one or two from each and all behaving themselves nicely.  (The President’s science adviser was also present, but – being that he was more of a popular television personality than hard scientist – he mostly kept to himself, occasionally hitting on the more attractive of the techs.)

It was time to wake our subjects once again and work on strength.  According to Wanda, we’d still have to give them at least a half hour of flying before we’d be able to get them to settle down to work on the more prosaic powers, but I’d anticipated her on this and arranged for us to use the college basketball arena that afternoon.  Our new guests were more than happy to ensure a secure environment for our playtime, provided they could watch and film the exercise … which, of course, was no problem.

Strength today, strength tomorrow, and speed starting next week.  First the brute aspects, then the more subtle uses, with the miraculous flight as the carrot.  We had three months to train and perfect their abilities before I they’d be presented to the world as the next step in evolution.  After that, we’d be head of their support team, but they’d be under the direct control of the White House.

I looked around the room and, noticing that everyone was either preparing to wake the subjects or closely watching the preparations, caught Daniel and Wanda’s eyes and flexed my right arm slightly, rubbing the sore spot on my bicep.  She rubbed hers, too, and he simply made an ouchie face.  I looked around again.  If my second level process worked as it should, the final injection I’d given us last night should already be effective.  Smiling at my two partners, I concentrated and rose a few inches above my chair.  Wanda, one-upping me, held onto her chair and brought it with her up an inch or two from the floor.  Daniel silently mouthed “showoffs” at us … but casually pushed his index finger through the metal arm of his chair while doing so.

I told you there was another reason I wasn’t afraid of the general’s gun … well, what did you expect?  That we’d send the human race on ahead without us, the very people responsible for the trip?  Besides, how can someone unable to even tread water train Olympic level swimmers?  In addition, if all worked accordingly, we three would  be half again stronger and faster than any of the subjects, which provided the project with a final fail-safe in case any of them broke psychological conditioning and went rogue.  (Without, I might add, any of the silly color changes … hopefully.)

Half drunk, we’d decided on our own code names moments after giving each other the final injection.  Wanda decided that she wanted to be known as Ego.  Daniel was torn between the simple Teacher and the edgier Physio.

Me?

What else?  I’m Dr. Albert Eugene Socks, Chemist … but you can just call me The Alchemist.

End

From the journal of Dr. Albert Eugene Socks, Chemist (Part 10)

I permitted playtime to continue while I left the playpen to seek adult input.  Daniel was sitting at his desk, going over the training schedule with Wanda via computer, so I asked a monitoring tech to alert me as soon as the subjects started getting bored trying to hurt themselves and joined them.

Wanda was of the impression that the test subjects, given that they were normal American college students, would demand full control of their powers as soon as possible, would immediately demand to know their activation phrases and, if denied, would start blurting out random combination of words to see if they could luck out.  Daniel, with his background in pediatrics, disagreed with her, stating that he believed that they’d go along with their training until they learned their activation phrases … and then go nuts.

Such cynicism.  Not that I disagreed, mind you.  I agreed with them both, since it was obvi0us that the subjects would first demand control, try to secretly discover through trial and error their activation phrases, while pretending to go along with the training, but still go rogue the instant they could … but that was only because I planned the entire procedure and knew exactly what would happen at every step.  From me, it was knowledge; from them, cynicism.

We were still trying to pinpoint the moment I’d have to crack the whip on our test subjects when the monitoring tech alerted me to the fact that the subjects were no longer smacking hard surfaces and each other, and starting to talk in nonsensical phrases.  I walked back to his station and he cranked up the volume.  I heard Shazam a couple of times, Wonder Twin Powers Activate once or twice, and several variations on Up, Up, and Away, before I nodded and reentered the lounge.

The room was covered with oddly shaped dents, but the subjects were now sitting reasonably calmly at the table, drinking coffee (or whatever passed for it for them) and tossing around comic book, movie, and television superhero catch phrases.  They stopped when they noticed me and were relatively silent until I’d refreshed my cup of coffee and joined them at the table.  After a moment, they all looked at Tom.

He cleared his throat and asked when they’d be told their activation phrases for their other powers.  They others made agreement noises as I stood up, still drinking coffee, and walked around the room, studying the various dents.  An embarrassed silence settled on the table.  I walked back to my seat and asked Tom exactly what he, personally, planned to do once he knew his activation phrase.

He looked around at the others and shook his head, admitting that he didn’t exactly know what he’d do, probably start practicing or something.  I nodded and reached into my shirt pocket, removing a small group of index cards.  I dealt them out, one per subject, face down on the table roughly halfway between each subject and myself.  Nobody made a move to pick theirs up.

I explained that their individualized training activation and quit phrases were written on the cards … and waited.

Chuck … I made a mental note to myself to have Chuck reevaluated as soon as possible.  I had him pegged for the group flake and troublemaker, but he’d repeatedly shown himself to be a man of depth and careful thought.  I’d have to seriously change the program if it turned out that our original estimations were mistaken.  In this instance, he carefully slid his card to in-front of him, not making a move to turn it over, and asked if there was a difference between an “activation phrase” and a “training activation phrase.”

I nodded at him and explained that their training activation phrases would activate their powers, but not fully.  They would only be at around half power and, even then, their powers could be turned off by a termination phrase spoken by any of their trainers.  Barbara reached out and picked her card up.  She pointedly didn’t read it, just tapped it on the table and asked me how was it that their powers could be turned on and off with spoken phrases.

I explained that their powers were, at the heart of the matter, mostly mental in nature, tapping into that ninety percent of the human brain that goes unused.  Oh, sure, part of the process had to do with nano-technology and cellular growth (or else the invulnerability and strength wouldn’t happen), but that almost all of it depended on their minds.  Since it depended on their minds, then it was susceptible to psychological controls.  I then directed their attention to the tarp covered hole in the wall and explained how it happened, adding that we’d only realized the need for a passive control afterward.  So, as they had slept, psychological conditioning had gone on that not only made it possible for them to use their powers at all, but to also place these minor training controls in place, which solely existed to ensure their (and our) safety until such time that they had full and absolute control of their powers.

Since I’d written and rehearsed that rather flamboyant piece of bullshit for days prior to their waking, I was able to rattle it off with all the sincerity and honesty of any soap opera actor.  By the end of my speech, they were all nodding and picking up their cards.  I reminded them that, even at half power, they were about to experience something that no other human every had … so please be careful.  It was possible to still damage the building and my still human staff very easily.

Tom led the way.  He looked at his card and spoke his training phrase out loud (sexy tuna, if you must know).  An instant later, he was floating in the air a foot above his chair and looking flabbergasted.  Chuck walked over and, standing on a chair, checked to be sure there were no wires on Tom.  Then he spoke his phrase (glass mama) and stepped off the chair into the air, simply standing on nothing and doing his best to suppress all emotion.

Barbara, Frank, and Brad followed suit (stop water, kitty bridge, and Melba trombone) and soon the only person left sitting in a chair was myself.  Frank panicked first, asking how to control his flight, and I explained to all of them that it was controlled much the same way that walking was controlled: simply do it.  Barbara immediately caught on and started moving around the room in graceful arcs and glides, practically giddy with the effortlessness of it. The men, lacking Barbara innate natural physical abilities, tended to over-control and spent a few minutes ricocheting off of each other and the walls.

However, within the hour, they had all gained sufficient proficiency that they could move about the confined area effortlessly and with confidence.  They learned how to land and let gravity still have its way, walking and sitting like normal, and then to simply slip the surly bonds of Earth and take to the air.  Even then, it was obvious that the process was working exactly as I’d planned.  Brad was faster and more nimble than the rest as he moved around the room, with Chuck a close second.

I then asked them to land and spoke the termination phrase (publishable proton) to bring the session to a close.  They slumped in place, feeling the Earth reestablish itself fully, and looked exhausted.  I took out my handset and asked for a meal to be brought in as soon as possible.  (I didn’t need the handset, but the longer we could continue the illusion of privacy, the better.)

I asked them to sit back down and explained that they’d just used up quite a bit of calories.  Barbara, the Kinesiology  major, objected, pointing out that they’d hadn’t done anything physical that would burn calories.  Tom laughed and, as the resident Chemistry student, explained that mental activity also required energy and burned calories, just not as much as most physical activities.

I agreed with Tom and added that I’d assumed that flight would burn up quite a bit of energy, but had no real measure with which to gauge it prior to this.  (Bullshit, again; they were exhausted because they’d always be exhausted when they heard a termination phrase.  A small fail safe built in to ensure their cooperation immediately following training sessions.)

Frank laughed weakly and said he knew a surefire cure: kitty bridge!  He then sat down on air and fell on his ass.  I helped him back up and explained that they’d all need to rest and build up strength before their next session … for which reason none of their training activation phrases would work until then.  (Another fail safe and another small lie; they had to have either Wanda’s, Daniel’s, or my permission for their phrases to work.)

The meal was brought in and I told them to take the rest of the day off and enjoy themselves.  They’d just made history and changed the world; they deserved a night of fun.  On cue, several bottles of wine and a large cake were carried in and added to the table, while all the support personnel rushed in, shouting congratulations and clapping our subjects on the back in pride.  A video of their maiden flights started on the wide screen television and I popped open a bottle of imported champagne.

Glasses and plates were filled and I proposed a toast to our five subjects, the first of the next generation of human!  Music welled up and everyone had a jolly time congratulating themselves and the subjects until the drugs in the food and beverages had taken effect.  Then we tucked them back into their beds, hooked up the various equipment, and retired to the labs for the real celebration.

I’d done it!  I’d proven my “crackpot” theories and chemically changed humans into super-humans.  The tape of their first flights was already transmitted to my government sponsors and my place in history assured.

Feel free to insert whatever piece of ominous music you fancy at this point …

From the journal of Dr. Albert Eugene Socks, Chemist (part 9)

Tom snorted and rolled over as I raised my handset to my lips and gave the order to start waking the sleepers.

I walked back into the common room, closing Tom’s bedroom door behind me.  If everything worked according to specs, they’d be up and wandering into the room in just a few minutes.  I started the five coffee machines to brewing.

While setting the living quarters up, we ran across one major problem.  Not race, gender, politics, or even ancestry … coffee.   One of our subjects liked regular coffee, where another simply couldn’t drink anything but decaffeinated coffee, but drank it all day long.  Still another demanded espresso, just plain coffee didn’t do it for him anymore, while yet another drank nothing by espresso, but – like the second named – had to have it decaffeinated.  The final subject stood firm on his need for decaffeinated flavored coffee (but it was generally accepted that the only reason he did was because he didn’t want the rest to get anything he didn’t).

I cut the heated and pitched argument over coffee short by simply having five machines brought in.  I made each of the subjects responsible for the washing and care of his or her coffee machine, supplied the needed ingredients, and took a couple dozen aspirins for my headache.  I was offering them mankind’s dreams and they wanted to bitch about coffee … Jesus Wept!

I remember watching one of them fill their coffee cup with decaffeinated coffee, adulterate it with artificial sweetener and non-dairy creamer, take a long sip and sigh how great it was to have a cup of coffee in the morning.  I simply rolled my eyes and didn’t bother commenting on the fact that all he held in his hand was a hot cup of illusion.

I heard the first shout of alarm.  It came from Frank’s room, I thought.  A higher pitched yelp quickly sounded from what surely must have been Barbara’s, closely followed by a shouted obscenity from Chuck’s … or maybe Brad’s.  No, the hysterical laughter had to be Chuck, so the curse had to be Brad.

I poured a cup of coffee from the caffeinated pot and sat down.  I didn’t have long to wait before Tom burst out of his room, dressed but still wet, focused on me, then walked over and in a carefully controlled voice asked (demanded to know) why he was green.

I looked up over the rim of my cup and, after a sip, corrected him, pointing out that he was more a blue/green.  Frank ran into the room in a towel at that point, giving me the perfect opportunity to point out that he was green, not Tom.  Soon they were all standing there in various degrees of anger, ranging from the bemused (Chuck) to the outraged (Barbara), all of them interupting each other with their repeated demands for information and/or medical treatment to change them back immediately.

It took a few minutes to convince the one’s who were not fully dressed to take a moment to correct that omission, at which time I’d be more than happy to explain to them all exactly what had happened.  I carefully kept the others at bay until they were all seated at the main table with cups of variously coffee-like beverages in front of them.

Pointing, I named what color (or colors) they were.  Tom was several shades of teal, his hair being the lightest and his eyes the darkest.  Barbara was, ironically, various levels of roseus, Latin for pink.  Brad was shaded in yellow, from cadmium to ocher, and Frank, as already mentioned, was green (his emerald eyes were Wanda’s favorites).  Chuck, for reasons that nobody could explain (not that we could explain any of the changes), looked the most normal of the bunch in autumn shades of brown.

I then spread my hands and explained, with as continental a shrug as I could muster, that the color change was (a) an unforeseen side-effect of the process, (b) totally inexplicable, no matter how many times we ran computer simulations, and (c), to the best of our knowledge, irreversible.  I waited a beat or two into their stunned silence and added that the good news was that the color change made designing their individual costumes that much easier!

I let them rant and rave for a few minutes, then loudly asked them if they otherwise felt okay?  I got a yes, two nos, a what, and a who the hell cares.  I explained that if there was one unexpected side-effect, there was a very real possibility that their might be at least one or two more … and that they might be serious,  so do you all feel okay, except for being pissed at the change of color?

They all, slowly and hesitantly, admitted to feeling fine.  After a few seconds, they unanimously changed that verdict, in various baffled tones, to that they felt absolutely incredible.  Barbara explained that her right hand had always ached a little since she’d broken a bone in it a few years ago, but reported that it felt fine,  now.  No pain whatsoever.

A shocked gasp to the side made us all focus on Brad, who was staring at his forearm.  He explained that he’d injured himself as a child and always carried a rather nasty looking scar on that arm ever since.  Now the scar was gone!  Everyone started looking for missing scars and I started a silent count in my head.

On six, Chuck screamed and jumped up.

He’d noticed his tattoos.  Rather, he’d noticed that he no longer had any tattoos, whatsoever.  I started my mental count back up and waited for him to further notice that all his piercings had healed up, too.  (Oddly, he either missed that entirely, or – if he did notice – manged to keep his cool when he did.)

I nodded and explained that the color showed up shortly after the treatment for flight, whereas the universal healing of any imperfections or old injuries showed up after the final treatment, that of invulnerability.  Five pairs of eyes locked onto my face with an almost audible click as I took another sip of my coffee, all other petty concerns now forgotten.  I looked around as if slightly puzzled by their rapt attention, then confirmed that the process had been completed.

They were all now super-humans.

Tom subtly pressed against the table with his right hand, trying to slide it.  Brad seemed to be straining upwards in his seat against gravity.  Chuck surprised me yet again and sat completely still, waiting.  I couldn’t see Frank, but Barbara – with a rather refreshing directness – simply slammed her right fist onto the table top, making everyone else jump a little.

The table stayed where it was, didn’t explode into splinters, and Frank stayed in his seat.  Barbara looked at her hand for a moment and then slammed it again into the table.  She once more flexed her hand, studied it, then – without any warning -  slammed her face into the table.  When she sat back up, obviously unharmed, I again found myself on the receiving end of five penetrating stares.

I shrugged and explained that we couldn’t have them breaking up the place or shooting off into space … not until they had learned to control their powers, now could we?  So, in order to protect them, activation phrases were embedded into their subconscious’ while they slept.

I smiled and told them to think of them as battle cries, if that helped at all.  When they spoke their phrase, their powers would kick in.  Contrariwise, they each also had a quit phrase which, once spoken, would return them to a relatively normal state. The only power that would never turn off was invulnerability, but only because it was almost impossible to do any damage to themselves simply by being impervious to harm.  (I saw no reason to admit that there was no way to turn the invulnerability off … better if they didn’t know, really.)

I sat there and watched as they all walked around the room, headbutting concrete walls and steel doors with the carefree abandon of children playing with a new toy.  Tom and Brad repeatedly punched each other in the face and grinned at the lack of damage to either jaw or hand.

I mean, really … physically impervious, but still mentally damaged.  Sad.

Okay, enough with the cold already!

Y’know, this is the first house I’ve ever lived in with a basement.  No, really; none of the other houses I’ve lived in or owned have had basements.  To to good side, I find that putting my writing room in one of the lavishly finished basement rooms is strangely comfortable.  I originally thought that the lack of windows (only one small one towards the ceiling) and the rather odd echoes would make the experience unpleasant.  I’m pleased to find that I was wildly mistaken.

Dian, in her professional guise, suggests that the basement feels like being onboard a ship again.  She may have a point.

On the other hand, it is somewhat disconcerting to look up and see the window start to disappear under a blanket of snow.

When I was a teenager, growing up in Los Alamos, New Mexico (town motto: Hell, yeah, we glow in the dark … doesn’t everyone?), I always looked forward to the wonder that was winter.  The ice and snow make everything different, strange, and unpredictable; it kept boredom at bay wonderfully.  I didn’t have to mow or rake the yard, but I did have to shovel the drive.  I didn’t have to clean up my dog’s poop out of the yard, but I did have a hell of a nasty surprise waiting for me when the snow melted.  It turned life around, made it okay to simply sit and read, and – when Nature was at it’s absolute worse – canceled school!  (I never had any school days canceled back in California, the state we’d moved from, and why would I?  Who the hell cancels school because the day is too nice?)

In short, I looked forward to winter.

Okay, so set the wayback machine ahead and there I am, stationed onboard the Mesquite in Charlevoix, Michigan (town motto: We looooove our summer people!) and watching as Winter blew in much the same way Sherman blew through Atlanta … and with much the same results.  The ice got so bad on the ship that one of the chief’s would take the ship’s shotgun out of the weapon locker and blast away at the build up.  (It was the only way to clear a path to the locker that held the sledge hammers that we used to beat on the ice.)  Winter that froze entire lakes and trapped military vessels while they were trying to get to port, necessitating our going out and breaking them a path back to their home port.  Winter that froze me through multiple layers of thick socks, long underwear, snowsuits, and sweats.

Needless to say, I came to the conclusion that people who lived in the North were insane.  Okay, granted, the summers are really nice … but so fucking what?  Having somebody from the U.P. brag about the summer was a little like having a guy falling past your thirtieth floor window brag about the view.  Who in their right mind would live some place, any place, where nature did it’s dead level best to kill you for several months a year?

(Yeah, yeah … I know; hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, blah, blah, blah.  Listen, shipmate, them are Nature’s wild cards.  Catching a hurricane is like drawing to an inside straight, whereas bad winters in the North are as common as low pairs … no comparison.)

So here I sit, perched on the edge of the Great White North and getting ready to rediscover exactly how it got that nickname.  The almanac says that Flatland doesn’t get really bad winters, while the natives brag about having to eat the family pet to survive blizzards.  I don’t have a driveway to shovel, nor do I have to beat on the outside of the house with a sledge hammer, but I still have to deal with winter and, frankly, I’d rather prefer a White Christmas sort of winter to any other.

(And by “a White Christmas” sort of winter, I don’t mean a postcardy snow covered movie type of winter … I mean I’d like to watch it on late night television with a Irish Blessing in one hand and the remote in the other, just in case I get too cold watching Bing and Danny dance around Vermont.)

From the journal of Dr. Albert Eugene Socks, Chemist (part 8)

I entered the subjects living/dining area and took in the unbroken line of green lights above each door.  Nobody awake, nobody active, nobody even having a bad dream.  I opened Tom’s door and looked inside.

I hadn’t expected the few side effects that presented in the human subjects, especially the hair and skin changes.  Take Tom, blond and blue eyed with fair tones when he started, now his hair, eyes, and skin were rather intriguing shades of teal.  Frankly, I don’t know which aspect of the pigmentation changes caught me more by surprise: the fact that it happened at all, or the even more unrealistic fact that each subject was now color coordinated.

I remembered when I first explained the necessity for all of them to be totally immobile during the procedure.  I expected more of a fight.  I suppose the years that had passed since my own university days had dimmed the memories of how bloody tired I’d been most of the semesters.

It was only after I informed them that they’d be physically unable to move that any of them put up any real objections.  I showed them a slide of test subjects two through five.  They all looked at the picture of my old lab’s south wall for a few minutes, then started muttering between themselves.  Frank, head slightly tilted to one side in contemplation, finally asked what they were looking at?

I replied that, as I said, they were looking at test subjects two through five.  Frank frowned, squinted at the screen again, and asked where they were?  I pointed at the wall and told him that they were right there.  He frowned more, stared at the screen again, and said all he saw was a wall with a Jackson Pollock abstract on it.

I sighed and explained that the wall didn’t have any painting on it, abstract expressionism or otherwise, only four test subjects that possessed enhanced strength without invulnerability.  Barbara and Tom turned away, Frank and Brad looked from the screen to me, and Chuck nodded thoughtfully.

I then introduced them to test subject one and assured them that he was still alive.  I then took a ball peen hammer and smacked test subject one a few times with it to demonstrate that he was, indeed, invulnerable, just not strong enough to move now that he was.

Chuck surprised me by nodding again and stating that it was obvious that super-strength, minus invulnerability, was practically a death sentence, while invulnerability, minus super-strength, was obviously a case of a fate worse than death.

Given the graphic examples, they all agreed, signed the necessary releases, and permitted themselves to be secured.  In that I wanted them to be able to provide feedback as to any individual reactions to the process, they were kept awake at first.  When that proved to be almost disastrous, regardless of spinal blocks to inhibit motion, we had no choice but to render them unconscious and to keep them under for the duration of the process.

As a result, none of them were aware of the rather unusual and unique chromatic alterations of their pigmentation.  Wanda was ready to help them through adjustment as needed, but we’d added a few lines to their conditioning tapes to lessen the shock.  I walked into the room and glanced at Tom’s readouts.  I was pleased to see full neurological activity in both lobes.

Flight was a problem at first, given that there was no chemical way to defy gravity.  Originally, all my “superheroes” were going to be ground-bound, with only the occasional astonishing leap for any aerial activity, but then I accidentally stumbled across a solution.  A solution to a different problem, actually.

Enhanced speed was a combination of specialized strength, focused more on the fast-twitch muscles rather than on the more powerful slow-twitch ones, and of friction reduction.  Towards that end, I experimented with various costumes and so forth, but even the best of these were satisfactory (as well as damn stupid looking), so I explored a few alternative concepts (ie. I went back to the comics).  The most famous of the comic book speedsters utilized something like a bio-electric field, both to reduce friction and to serve as a sort of force field, protecting the speedster from minute airborne debris.  (For reasons only known to the original writer, the character was not invulnerable, hence the necessary protection.)

Well, there are many creatures that generate their own bio-electric fields (the elephantfish sprang to mind), so I started looking into the possibility of either adapting existing DNA to the need or, perhaps, building my own, when the solution was suggested by the self-same comic book.

The character was fighting a foe who, apparently, was a match for the most powerful of super-humans, with none of the weaknesses thereof.  A rather decisive mismatch, I thought, so I read the story through.  (I’d never seen this particular issue before and had no idea in advance as to how the hero would overcome the much more powerful foe.)

It turned out that the foe didn’t really have any enhanced physical powers, just an astonishing array of mental powers, the foremost of which was telekinesis, the ability to move objects with one’s mind.  By using his telekinesis, he was able to perform astonishing feats of apparent physical strength, including displaying invulnerability and a rudimentary bio-electric field, not as powerful as the hero’s but still permitting …

And that’s when it hit me.

Three years later, I had my answer to friction.  True test subjects with esp abilities were few and far between, but there were enough that several who specialized in telekinesis had been fully documented … and tested.  Not just observed under clinical conditions, but actually tested on while demonstrating their power.  More than one had even consented to EEG and computed tomography while demonstrating their abilities!

In short, studies showed what part of the brain was involved with telekinesis. I had perfected cellular growth of almost all human cells, primarily to increase density and strength, so it was a small step to come up with a way to increase cellular growth of neurons and glial cells and then to direct that growth into the proper areas of the brain.  My first telekinetic rat was astonishing.  He could actually move his food to him from across the cage or across the lab.  (Eventually, we had to place him somewhere he couldn’t see the rest of the cages.  He had been stealing others food and damn near killed a female rat when he tried to bring her to him for mating.)

The first time we caught him flying, however, was almost biblical.

He’d moved his cage closer to the door and right off the table, but – although his cage fell the six or so feet to the floor – he stayed suspended in the center of the cage and was uninjured.  I’d been looking for a way to decrease friction and, instead, found a solution to flight.  A mighty leap with enhanced legs to get into the air and then let the mind take over, making speed almost limitless.

So we gave our human test subjects strength, then telekinesis, and finally invulnerability.

But we also gave them carefully crafted limits and a way to control their powers … plus a way to be controlled.

Time is Entropy is Death

Interesting dreams and realizations last night.

There is no past.  It’s an illusion that we convinced ourselves to believe since humanity has such a terror of death.  Each second that passes, actually passes away.  There is no going back because to travel into the past means to travel into the grave.

I understand the appeal of the time travel story.  It’s a denial of death, of the inevitability of entropy as everything slowly slides into nothingness.  A chance to be reborn, to travel the road not taken, and to refute our all too mortal flesh, but it is the single most impossible concept in science fiction.  As a matter of fact, I’m surprised that this particular story plot is actually classified as science fiction and not fantasy, since there is no possible scientific aspect to it.

Travel into the future is possible, but only if you can halt time for the individual.  In one sense, we are all time travelers into the future, so it’s not nearly as impressive.  Cryogenics, that laughable bastard child of plausible scientific theory, is a time machine to the distant future, but – since it exists (admittedly as more of a joke or urban legend than as science) – it’s not nearly as impressive.  Plus, it’s merely putting off inevitable death, not refuting it, so it’s far less attractive to the mind.

There is no past to return to, we haul it along with us as we all move along, like some sort of cosmic u-haul trailer hitched up to the pick-up of our lives.  It slowly decays and rusts away, bits and pieces falling off, never to be seen again, until we finally pull over and hitch up a newer, shinier trailer of past … one built with equal parts of reality and fantasy.  The further we travel, the more the trailer becomes complete fantasy, idealized and carefully purged memories of a much worse reality, and the baggage it hauls becomes more permanent for the trade-off.  It’s like the reality somehow passes from the trailer to the baggage, making it that much more painful when we finally unpack.

In the cab of the truck, there are three GPS units to map out the unknowable future of the trip.  One is based on religious beliefs, which shows you the best way to reach it’s ultimate destination … unfortunately, many of the roads it recommends simply don’t exist or cannot be driven on.  The second is based on the advise of various authority figures, which tells you how they traveled the road so sucessfully during their time … unfortunately, almost all of the roads and travel conditions that they used simply no longer exist or apply, and at any rate, are all miles and miles behind you.  The third is based on your own experience and desires … but what the fuck do you know?  Your experience is knowledge you’ve gained by driving on roads that may or may not have anything in common with the roads ahead of you and your desires amount to zip on the trip.

Besides, the windshield is painted black, or might as well be because you can’t actually see that far ahead.  Only guesses and rumors, hopes and dreams.

Thankfully, there are lots and lots of places to pull over for the occasional breather, almost any of which can become – in a flash – you’re final destination, that place where you finally decide to stop traveling and settle (both for, in, up and down), and unpack, finally dealing with all that baggage you’ve been hauling around for so long.  There you will stay, occasionally admiring the shiny trailer of your past and reading travelogues of other peoples trips, wondering what would have happened if you’d stayed on the road just a little longer, just a few more miles.

I’ll pass on the obvious analogs of road rage, accidents, breakdowns and flat tires (and especially the fact that every road is a one-way street).

An interesting night and an excellent example of why one should never eat spicy food just before bedtime.

By the way …

The adapted version of the coffee cake was a big hit at Dian’s office party.  I wanted a version that would pop on the taste buds and, boy howdy, did it ever.

Oddly enough, while I was making the cake that I sent in with Dian, I hit a strange moment.  I’d done the main batter and was working on the streusel when I noticed that I hadn’t changed the fact that it called for a teaspoon and a half of ground cinnamon.  Okay, I’d changed the vanilla to lemon, added zest, completely rebuilt the glaze from maple to lemon, and even added cranberries to the mix … did that sound like it would work with cinnamon?

Actually, it does work, in a kinda wacky way.  The lemon and cranberry mix wonderfully, creating a sharp grace note in the sour cream batter and bursting on the tongue … then the cinnamon overlays it all with a smokey sort of fog.  Odd, but very nice.

Anyway, if any of you want to play with the recipe, here’s the finished product:

Sour Cream Lemon Cranberry Coffee Cake

Main Batter:

• 12 tablespoons (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter at room temperature (around 65 degrees)
• 1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
• 3 extra-large eggs at room temperature (ditto)
• 1 1/2 teaspoons pure lemon extract
• 1 1/4 cups sour cream
• 2 1/2 cups cake flour (not self-rising)
• 2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1/2 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/2 teaspoon kosher salt
• 1 teaspoon lemon zest

For the streusel:

• 1/4 cup light brown sugar, packed
• 1/2 cup all-purpose flour
• 1 1/2 teaspoons ground cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon kosher salt
• 3 tablespoons cold unsalted butter, cut into pieces
• 3/4 cup dried cranberry

For the glaze:

• 6 ounces confectioners’ sugar (by weight)
• 2 1/2 tablespoons lemon juice
• 1 teaspoon lemon zest
• Pinch of sea salt

Directions

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F. Grease and flour a 10-inch tube pan.

Cream the butter and sugar in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment for 4 to 5 minutes, until light. Add the eggs 1 at a time, then add the lemon extract, lemon zest and sour cream. In a separate bowl, sift together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. With the mixer on low, add the flour mixture to the batter until just combined. Finish stirring with a spatula to be sure the batter is completely mixed.

For the streusel, place the brown sugar, flour, cinnamon, salt, and butter in a bowl and pinch together with your fingers until it forms a crumble. Mix in the dried cranberry.

Spoon half the batter into the pan and spread it out with a knife. Sprinkle with 3/4 cup streusel. Spoon the rest of the batter in the pan, spread it out, and scatter the remaining streusel on top. Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, until a cake tester comes out clean.

Let cool on a wire rack for at least 30 minutes. Carefully transfer the cake, streusel side up, onto a serving plate. Prepare the glaze while it cools.  Mix the lemon juice, lemon zest, and salt, then slowly whisk the confectioners’ sugar in (in small doses, to keep it smooth), adding a few drops of water if necessary, to make the glaze runny. Drizzle as much as you like over the cake with a fork or spoon.