PERFECT STEALTH (standard:science fiction, 4177 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Jan 13 2005	Views/Reads: 3452/2142	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A homage to H.G. Wells. Doctor Gary McQueen cracks the secret of invisibility with disasterous results.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

though the sweet had risen an inch into the air only to be ripped apart 
by some unknown force.  But McQueen knew better.  Inside the cage was 
Maximillian, latest in a long line of lab rats to have the dubious 
honour of testing his solution. 

He watched as the chocolate drop was swallowed; peristalsis squeezing,
pulling the food down into the rodent's belly.  From long observation, 
he knew that the food would remain visible for the next half-hour until 
the body had assimilated it. Only then would it be absorbed and, like 
the rat, become completely invisible to the naked eye. 

"Did you enjoy that, fella?" he asked, opening the lid of the cage.  He
could see the contents of its stomach, hovering in the air like a blur. 
 He reached in and stroked the rat, wondering at the novelty of the 
sensation.  The feel of fur under his hand.  It was bizarre, his hand 
tracing air and yet feeling the warmth of the rodent's body. 

He cupped his hand and lifted Maximillian up and out of the cage. 	Claws
scratched his palm and he could feel the hairless tail snake over his 
wrist. 

"I'm sorry little fella, but I just can't allow them to see you like
this."  McQueen squeezed, using all his strength to crush the 
creature's neck.  There was a sickening crunch and then a pain in the 
webbing between his thumb and index finger.  Little bastard had bit 
him!  There were two small crescents appearing on his skin, filling 
with blood. 

But at least the job was done, Maximillian had died almost instantly, he
could feel the animal limp in his hand. He took the body to the 
incinerator and threw it down the chute.  Then, ran his hand under cold 
water, before applying a squirt of antiseptic ointment.  Thank God his 
tetanus was up to date. 

* 

Ten minutes later, he had locked the lab and was heading down the
hallway, past the doors leading to other parts of the project.  He 
seldom saw any of the other scientists.  It was Institute policy to 
discourage fraternisation.  As Professor Proctor put it: "It was work, 
not a social club".  But even if it had been permitted, McQueen 
wouldn't have associated with them.  They were a dry, academic bunch, 
each one of them profoundly strange in their own peculiar way.  It was 
almost as though the years of research and study had sucked the life 
from them, leaving them desiccated and soulless.  It was the Institute 
that was responsible, he thought.  Ground them down with their rules 
and regulations.  The endless, pointless restrictions on their work and 
time.  To McQueen, science was akin to art - a creative process that 
demanded freedom to fuel it.  Of course there was research to do, and 
experimentation and all the other mundane minutiae that constituted 
science.  But that initial idea - the intuitive leap that led to 
discovery - that was as inspired and inexplicable as any artistic work. 
 Why else had the Institute hired him?  At thirty he was by far the 
youngest scientist on the project. They had recognised something in 
him.  Some.spark, or force, that they knew could lead them in 
directions that no one had thought of before.  And now, they were 
choking the life from him.  Burying him under the weight of convention 
and bureaucracy.  Turning him into just another lifeless zombie. 

He wouldn't allow that to happen.  Come tomorrow night, he would be
gone.  Walking out of the gate as though he hadn't a care in the world. 
 Past the armed guards and razor wire and on to a new, unfettered life. 


At the end of the hall, just before the exit, an armed Royal Marine sat
behind a Perspex screen.  Even though McQueen routinely worked strange 
hours, seldom leaving until early morning, the Marine would always 
stare at him. Probing, as though McQueen had something to hide - some 
guilty secret.  Usually the guard's scrutiny would be a minor annoyance 
to McQueen.  But now, now that he really did have something to hide, he 
found it alarming, as though those grey eyes could peer into his soul. 

McQueen put his head down and coughed.  He unclipped the pass from his
lapel and handed it to the Marine through the hole in the Perspex.  The 
man continued to stare. 

"Is e-everything alright?" asked McQueen, he could feel a drop of sweat
run languidly down his back. 

The Marine leaned forward in his booth, resting his elbows on the table
in front of him.  "You've got something on your face, Doc.  Just there, 
on your cheek.  It looks like blood." 

McQueen forced a laugh and scrubbed at his cheek with his sleeve.  "I
cut myself," he held up his injured hand, a fresh plaster covering the 
wound.  "Nothing to worry about." 

The Marine nodded, "Well, you have a good day Doc." 

"I will, thank you," he hurried past the cubicle and through the swing
doors. 

He made his way through the foyer, breathing a sigh of relief as he
went.  The first thing he would do on getting back to his apartment, he 
promised, was pour a large whisky.  Thank God he didn't do this sort of 
thing regularly, his nerves just couldn't take it. 

He was about to exit the building when Professor Proctor stepped through
the door. 

He had never liked the Professor, and no doubt, thought McQueen, Proctor
felt the same way about him - although you never could tell - the old 
man was as inscrutable and stoney faced as the sphinx.  He sported an 
ambitious comb-over that tried in vain to hide his large, freckled 
cranium, and wore pebble spectacles.  He had an annoying habit of 
angling his head in such a way that the lenses would reflect the light, 
dazzling you, making it impossible to read the expression in his eyes.  
He was so stuffy, so stiffly formal, that McQueen, during his more 
bizarre flights of fantasy, wondered if perhaps he had been put 
together by the Institute's robotics department and let loose to see 
how well he performed in the human world.  If that was the case, then 
it was certainly a failed experiment.  The Professor was a man 
seemingly incapable of forging human links.  A mediocre scientist and a 
pedantic supervisor, who set himself apart from the other researchers, 
content to sit in his office and pen memo after memo of vapid 
instructions to his staff. 

As much as he did not like the Professor, McQueen feared the man and
what he represented.  The government, the Ministry's clandestine wing 
and the Institute for Extraordinary Science. 

"Professor!" said McQueen.  "I don't usually see you so early in the day
- there's nothing wrong is there?"  He cursed himself for blurting out 
the words.  If he could just keep calm then he could be on his way 
without any bother.  But, why the hell was Proctor here?  He never 
showed his face until after nine in the morning.  Suddenly, McQueen was 
sure that the Professor knew everything.  Of McQueen's breakthrough and 
of his plans to defect with the formula.  It was the only explanation 
for the Professor's presence.  McQueen was going to swing for this! 

The Professor stepped closer and put a hand on McQueen's shoulder.  It
was a gesture so out of place, so inappropriate to Proctor's usual 
standoffishness, that McQueen actually shuddered with revulsion. 

"I'm afraid I have some bad news," said Proctor.  "Gary.your father died
at ten o'clock last night.passed away in his sleep.  I'm really sorry, 
the care home had trouble tracking you down.  I thought I'd bring you 
the news myself." 

Sure, thought McQueen, must be the grim reaper's day-off.  I bet you've
got your name down for the job after he retires. 

He was surprised at how well he was taking it.  He was fine.  Just fine.
No problem at all.  Yes. 

"Look, I'll - We'll understand if you need to take some time off.  Get
your bearings - " 

- "No!" McQueen interrupted, "No.  That won't be necessary Professor. 
My father and I were never what you would call close.  If I'm being 
honest, then, it's sort of a.a relief, almost." 

Proctor removed his hand and looked uncomfortably at his feet.  "Very
well, then.  I shall let you return to your quarters.  But please 
remember, if you need someone to talk to.then I can arrange a 
counsellor." 

"Of course, Professor, thank you," he would buy his own counsellor - a
dozen of the useless bastards after he had defected, he thought 
angrily. 

* 

Seven year old Gary McQueen was snug in bed.  Outside, behind the
curtains with the dancing cartoon characters, he could hear the wind 
rattle the trees, driving rain against his window with a sound like 
gravel against glass. 

He was not afraid.  He was a brave child, his mother said so, and
besides what was there to be afraid of?  There were no monsters, no 
bogeymen.  The mysterious creeks and groans he sometimes heard in the 
night were simply the sound of the house settling.  Sounds you did not 
hear during the day, because people were busy and noisy and took no 
time to listen.  Everything had a rational explanation, his mother had 
said it was so. 

Downstairs, he heard a door slam, and knew that daddy was home. 
Sometimes daddy would come home late and he would act silly and fall 
down, then he would fall asleep on the couch.  Sometimes when things 
happened like this, his daddy would be sick the next morning and 
wouldn't be able to eat his breakfast.  Gary didn't mind it when his 
daddy was like this.  He thought it was funny and he would laugh, and 
daddy would laugh back and make faces. 

But other nights, nights like tonight, daddy would slam the door and
Gary would know that daddy had had what he called: "a real pisser of a 
day."  And Gary wouldn't like it when this happened because daddy was 
mean and sullen and he would shout at mummy, and sometimes he would hit 
her and he would hear mummy crying in the next room.  And a few times 
his daddy had come into his room and he smelled funny and he would 
stand at the door and watch.  Then he would sit on the bed and would 
say that Gary was: "his special boy", and, "it's our little secret", 
and, "promise not to tell", and then. 

Gary got out of his bed and went to the closet, opening the door and
shifting the clothes on their hangers.  He got inside and closed the 
door.  He  heard the slow thudding footfalls of daddy coming up the 
stairs. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled up his legs, shivering, trying to
make himself real small. 

As the bedroom door opened Gary thought: why can't I just disappear. 
Why can't I go where he can`t find me.why can't I be invisible. 

* 

Doctor McQueen woke up in the closet, a sickening tattoo drumming his
head.  His mouth was dry and sour, tasted of whisky.  There was a 
painful crick in his neck where he had fallen asleep in the narrow 
corner of the closet. 

He kicked out suddenly, sending hangers and shoes spinning into the
room, and crawled on his hands and knees out and onto the bedroom 
floor. 

There was an empty bottle of whisky lying in the corner and a smashed
tumbler littering the floor of the room.  Dried whisky stained the wall 
above it.  He groaned aloud.  What the hell was he doing to himself?  
One day away from freedom and he was letting his father fuck-it up.  
Hadn't he done enough damage when he was alive?  Drove his wife to an 
early grave.  Gave his son nightmares. Was he going to let himself be 
ruled by that.that monster for the rest of his life? 

The answer was a resounding no.  He grabbed the back of a nearby chair
and hauled himself to his feet.  He staggered to the bathroom on 
matchstick legs. 

* 

An hour and a half later, after a shower, some fresh clothes and a
meagre meal of coffee, cereal and toast, he felt almost human again.  
He was ashamed and alarmed by his actions the morning before.  He 
thought that he had closed the chapter on that part of his life long 
ago, winning his scholarship to Cambridge, getting his doctorate - 
never looking back.  But it just went to show that you never knew what 
gremlins were lurking in the works, ready to wreak havoc. 

He looked at the wall clock.  It was three o'clock in the afternoon, the
light slanting decorously through the venetian blinds.  Outside he 
could hear the usual bustle of the naval base; trucks rattling by with 
loose loads; sea gulls and oystercatchers screeching as they pinwheeled 
through the air; and far off, the forlorn call of a ship as it came 
into dock.  He wouldn't miss this place at all.  He had been a prisoner 
of military mentality too-long, he thought. 

He went to his computer and opened his e-mail account.  He had three
messages: one from Professor Proctor, reminding him that he hadn't 
submitted a progress report this month; one from a University asking 
him if he would like to make a presentation to a group of chemistry 
students (as if the Institute would ever let him off the leash to do 
that!); and the message he was looking for. 

To the security team who monitored him it looked like just another junk
e-mail.  The subject line read: "Upsize Your Manhood".  But, McQueen 
knew better.  This was the message he had been waiting for.  He opened 
the mail and read the innocuous sales pitch.  There, third line down, 
were the code words: "bigger, faster, stronger". 

It was on.  They would be ready to meet him at the rendezvous tonight
and spirit him out of the country! 

McQueen grinned.  Everything was going exactly to plan. 

* 

He was alone in the lab again.  How many nights had he spent like this,
hunched over the workbench, analysing compounds, cataloguing his work?  
Too many, he thought, far too many. 

He had arrived over three hours ago and spent the time pacing the room,
trying to appear busy, while all the time his mind had been racing, 
longing for the moment to come.  He tried to concentrate on the formula 
and began to go through the sequence, probing his work at every stage, 
looking for flaws, something he had missed.  But he found that he was 
unable to focus his mind.  The spectre of his father would emerge at 
odd intervals, breaking his chain of thoughts.  But no matter, the work 
was done long ago and he was sure that everything would be okay. 

Finally the moment was here.  It was two a.m. and except for the Royal
Marine guarding the hallway, the Institute was empty. 

McQueen opened the safe and removed the beaker of solution.  He took a
fresh hypodermic needle out of its packet and laid it on the workbench. 
 Then, he removed every stitch of clothing he was wearing, including 
his shoes and dumped them in the incinerator.  The floor was cold and 
he grimaced as he made his way back to the workbench. 

He filled the needle with 20cc of PS-4439 and then emptied the rest down
the sink.  Making sure it was all washed away and the beaker rinsed.  
Then, taking a length of thin hose, he made a noose, through which he 
put his left arm.  He put the end of the hose between his teeth and 
pulled it tight, searching for a vein. 

This was it.  In another fifteen seconds there would be no going back. 
His hand shook as he lifted the needle.  The foolishness of the 
situation was suddenly apparent and he snorted a laugh.  Thank god it 
was summer, he was going to walk out of here naked, like someone who 
had gone soft in the head. 

A vein appeared, pale blue and throbbing.  He lined up the needle and
pierced his skin.  It was no time for doubts.  No time to wonder at the 
consequences of his actions, of their foolhardy nature.  The time was 
now - he was going to make history! 

He squeezed the needle and watched as the solution slowly disappeared
into his bloodstream. 

Almost immediately he was aware of a numbing sensation.  It spread out
from his arm and gradually climbed, creeping through his body, freezing 
his nerves.  He began to become alarmed, thought he was having a 
stroke.  But the sensation subsided and he regained enough presence of 
mind to dump the needle and hose down the incinerator's chute.  No 
sooner had he done so than he began to tremble.  Sweat stood out on his 
forehead and palms with a tingling sensation, like being pierced by a 
thousand tiny needles. 

He held up his left hand and saw that it was working, really working! 
The tips of his fingers were the first to go, the pigmentation 
altering, from pink to grey, to a silvery, watery hue.  Then, they 
actually disappeared.  He could see through them to the workbench. 

The process continued, working its way slowly from his extremities
inwards.  McQueen's heart was thumping.  This was the apex of his 
career.  The vindication of all his efforts.  Proof of his genius! 

But all at once he knew that something was wrong.  The room began to
grow gradually dim.  The light receded and shadows creeped inexorably 
inwards from the corners of his vision.  He willed himself not to 
panic.  Perhaps it was a powercut, he thought.  But he could still hear 
the gentle hum of the air conditioning in the background and knew that 
wasn't the answer. 

He was in complete darkness now.  He took a couple of steps forward and
felt for the workbench.  When he had found it he pulled himself up and 
sat on the edge, letting his feet dangle.  Why couldn't he see?  
Dammit, there must have been something he missed!  Something 
elementary. 

He sat listening to his laboured breathing for a moment, before the
answer came to him.  His eyes!  His eyes, like the rest of his body 
were completely transparent.  Unable to trap the light, his retinas 
could not capture an image!  He was completely blind! 

McQueen began to laugh, a whooping, strangled sound that filled the room
and filled his head.  "Blind!" he said, "Blind!" and laughed again.  He 
jumped down from the workbench and stumbled recklessly through the lab, 
overturning instruments, sending test tubes smashing to the ground.  
"Blind!" he sobbed - and began the long descent into madness. 

* 

Professor Proctor stamped the snow from his boots and entered the
Institute.  It had been a cold winter and his joints ached.  Soon be 
time to retire, he thought.  The prospect held no comfort for him.  He 
was a man that loved his work.  The Institute for Extraordinary Science 
was his child and he wanted to leave it in safe hands.   This made him 
think of Doctor McQueen and he sighed morosely, wondering if he was 
happy wherever he was. 

The worst part of it was that McQueen never knew how he had felt about
him, thought Proctor.  He greatly admired the Doctor and was planning 
to appoint him director when he retired, confident that he was the man 
for the job.  But the Doctor's disappearance had shaken him to the 
core.  The subsequent investigation; the discovery that McQueen had 
been in contact with a foreign power and was planning to sell the 
Institute's secrets.  Well, that had been the last straw.  Proctor had 
handed in his notice.  McQueen had made him question his own judgement 
and in another fortnight Proctor would be gone. 

The Perfect Stealth Project had been shut down and the labs were dark
and empty.  He pulled the switch in the foyer and the florescent lights 
stuttered into life.  It was cold, and he could see his breath as he 
made his way down the hall to McQueen's old lab. 

Inside, nothing had been disturbed.  Glass and smashed instruments still
littered the floor, cobwebs hung idly from the corners of the room. 

The Professor looked around and shivered.  There were rumours that the
lab was haunted.  Strange sounds.  Objects moving by themselves.  
Ghostly laughter - and sometimes, in the dead of the night - the sound 
of a man sobbing.  But, the Professor was a rational man.  There were 
no such things as ghosts. 

He took a last look and shut the door behind him.  He really would have
to do something about the lab.  It was beginning to smell. 

THE END. 


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