Read Online Reflex by Steven Gould - Free Book Online
Authors: Steven Gould
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, adventure, High Tech, Brainwashing, Married People, Teleportation, Kidnapping Victims
Ads: Link
go to school.
And it wasn't just being in one room. Davy lived outdoors more than most people. Weather didn't constrain him the way it did others. If it was raining or snowing or too cold in one place, he simply jumped elsewhere, usually staying in the same hemisphere but not always. Early morning in the States was always a good time for a walk down the esplanade in Brighton, Sussex or tramping in the high meadows on the Cambrian Way in the mountains of Wales. Late afternoon in Oklahoma was a great time to snorkel at Hamoa Beach on the east side of Maui or to hike up to the Puako Petroglyphs on the Big Island.
Staying in one place, indoors, was getting to him. Davy had definitely progressed into the "getting well enough to be really cranky" phase of his recovery. Coming out of surgery was bad enough when you weren't chained to the wall. When you were—well, cranky didn't really cover it.
They'd removed the catheter and brought in a bedside portable toilet, then, apparently working on the far side of the wall behind his bed, they let out enough chain so he could reach the toilet, the sink, and even as far as the foot of the bed.
He took to pacing, moving from the wall to the foot of his bed, stopping just short of the chain's reach before turning back again. The management of his chains became second nature, their rattling and slithering across the floor, background noise.
Just call me Jacob Marley.
He didn't care that the hospital gown was all he was wearing and every time he turned, he mooned the watchers behind the mirror. He suspected the pacing was beginning to bother his keepers. The computerized voice said, "Would you like to watch some videos?"
He laughed a short unfunny bark. "Yes, I'd like Stalag 17, Chicken Run, Alcatraz, and The Great Escape." And when there wasn't any response, he added, "And a baseball and a baseball glove."
They didn't say anything after that but when lunch was served, there was a paperback novel on the tray: The Count of Monte Cristo.
Well, someone has a sense of humor. He opened the book. On the 24th of February, 1810, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde signalled the three-master, the Pharaon from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples.
He'd read it before, a couple of times, but as there wasn't anything else to do, he started it again, the first three chapters, then threw it across the room, to bounce off the mirrored observation window.
It had been some time since he'd read it and, while he remembered The Count of Monte Cristo was a book about a prison breakout and revenge, he'd forgotten how much, first of all, to justify the later revenge, it was a book about betrayal. And Davy was feeling very much betrayed.
Somebody knew about that meeting. Or at least they knew enough to follow Brian. And it wasn't Brian. Brian had cleared himself from suspicion very thoroughly.
He glared at the book where it lay. He'd meant to hurl it out of reach but its rebound had carried it back to the foot of the bed. He put out his hand and jumped.
The chains writhed like snakes, a crack-the-whip movement that moved to the wall and then back down toward him, smacking his wrists and ankles painfully, but he was standing at the end of the bed, his hand on the book.
He could still jump within range of the chains.
That is if he was willing to risk broken wrists or ankles.
Parts of the chain were being accelerated instantly, over a distance of mere feet, but the energy imparted to the rest of the chain was considerable. Plaster dust floated in the air near the wall where the chains vanished through rough holes.
He wondered if his observers had seen him do it or grasped any of the implications. He waited for a moment, but there was no reaction from the speaker. The door didn't open.
He picked up the book again. He'd gotten through the betrayal. Perhaps it was time to check out the escape.
They brought supper that night, as usual, two different men in surgical masks and scrubs.
He wasn't feeling very
And it wasn't just being in one room. Davy lived outdoors more than most people. Weather didn't constrain him the way it did others. If it was raining or snowing or too cold in one place, he simply jumped elsewhere, usually staying in the same hemisphere but not always. Early morning in the States was always a good time for a walk down the esplanade in Brighton, Sussex or tramping in the high meadows on the Cambrian Way in the mountains of Wales. Late afternoon in Oklahoma was a great time to snorkel at Hamoa Beach on the east side of Maui or to hike up to the Puako Petroglyphs on the Big Island.
Staying in one place, indoors, was getting to him. Davy had definitely progressed into the "getting well enough to be really cranky" phase of his recovery. Coming out of surgery was bad enough when you weren't chained to the wall. When you were—well, cranky didn't really cover it.
They'd removed the catheter and brought in a bedside portable toilet, then, apparently working on the far side of the wall behind his bed, they let out enough chain so he could reach the toilet, the sink, and even as far as the foot of the bed.
He took to pacing, moving from the wall to the foot of his bed, stopping just short of the chain's reach before turning back again. The management of his chains became second nature, their rattling and slithering across the floor, background noise.
Just call me Jacob Marley.
He didn't care that the hospital gown was all he was wearing and every time he turned, he mooned the watchers behind the mirror. He suspected the pacing was beginning to bother his keepers. The computerized voice said, "Would you like to watch some videos?"
He laughed a short unfunny bark. "Yes, I'd like Stalag 17, Chicken Run, Alcatraz, and The Great Escape." And when there wasn't any response, he added, "And a baseball and a baseball glove."
They didn't say anything after that but when lunch was served, there was a paperback novel on the tray: The Count of Monte Cristo.
Well, someone has a sense of humor. He opened the book. On the 24th of February, 1810, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde signalled the three-master, the Pharaon from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples.
He'd read it before, a couple of times, but as there wasn't anything else to do, he started it again, the first three chapters, then threw it across the room, to bounce off the mirrored observation window.
It had been some time since he'd read it and, while he remembered The Count of Monte Cristo was a book about a prison breakout and revenge, he'd forgotten how much, first of all, to justify the later revenge, it was a book about betrayal. And Davy was feeling very much betrayed.
Somebody knew about that meeting. Or at least they knew enough to follow Brian. And it wasn't Brian. Brian had cleared himself from suspicion very thoroughly.
He glared at the book where it lay. He'd meant to hurl it out of reach but its rebound had carried it back to the foot of the bed. He put out his hand and jumped.
The chains writhed like snakes, a crack-the-whip movement that moved to the wall and then back down toward him, smacking his wrists and ankles painfully, but he was standing at the end of the bed, his hand on the book.
He could still jump within range of the chains.
That is if he was willing to risk broken wrists or ankles.
Parts of the chain were being accelerated instantly, over a distance of mere feet, but the energy imparted to the rest of the chain was considerable. Plaster dust floated in the air near the wall where the chains vanished through rough holes.
He wondered if his observers had seen him do it or grasped any of the implications. He waited for a moment, but there was no reaction from the speaker. The door didn't open.
He picked up the book again. He'd gotten through the betrayal. Perhaps it was time to check out the escape.
They brought supper that night, as usual, two different men in surgical masks and scrubs.
He wasn't feeling very
Similar Books
