Infinity Lost
Authors: S. Harrison
Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #Survival Stories, #Science Fiction, #Dystopian
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 S. Harrison
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Skyscape, New York
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Skyscape are trademarks of
Amazon.com
, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781503945074
ISBN-10: 1503945073
Cover design by M. S. Corley
For Lucy
SUNNY DAYS UNDER A BLACKSTONE SKY?
BY PRESTON HARROW, POSTED THREE DAYS AGO
Today the World Financial Authority officially recognized Blackstone Technologies as the most influential company in human history. The megacorporation has been estimated to be worth more than the next four largest companies combined, and it’s easy to see why. From that Jett 10 holographic phone in your pocket to the custom-made sports heart beating in your chest, Blackstone Technologies’ amazing advancements have, in less than two decades, drastically and fundamentally changed almost every facet of human society.
Even the most fervent anti-Blackstone campaigners are powerless to escape its influence. Despite their passionate complaining, this sunny weekend that we voted for is shining down on the protesters, too, all thanks to Blackstone Technologies’ Global Weather Management Array.
Blackstone is everywhere. It’s an integral part of our lives. And yet what do we actually know about its founder, Dr. Richard Blackstone? His face is certainly a familiar one; he’s the wealthiest and most famous man on the planet, but Dr. Blackstone has never been photographed or televised outside the highly secured walls of his luxurious office at Blackstone Technologies. He’s known to be kind and affable, he’s widely respected, and his generosity is unparalleled, but his private life is shrouded in mystery. Call it a reporter’s intuition, but my gut tells me that some of the stories I’ve read concerning his past are far too carefully crafted to be genuine. Is he hiding something? If so, what?
A recent Blackstone press release explained that Dr. Blackstone is a deeply shy man with a few harmless eccentricities, but a weak excuse like that won’t stop skeptics from diving headfirst into the realms of conspiracy. Some even claim that he’s nothing more than a computer-generated figurehead, a modern-day Wizard of Oz conjured out of thin air with the best smoke and mirrors that money can buy.
Conjecture aside, Blackstone Technologies has become the technological cornerstone of the modern world, so it comes as no surprise that many suggest the company has grown too big and powerful. Some equate it to a drug, and assert that we the consumers have become mindless technology junkies, glassy-eyed and salivating at the mere thought of the latest Blackstone innovation. Has the company that we’ve trusted for so many years become one that we’re all far too dependent on?
Blackstone feeds, clothes, employs us, and entertains us, it’s true, but perhaps the juggernaut is so completely entwined with our lives that many are reluctant to question the possibility of deeper—perhaps darker—motives. If the conspiracy nuts’ suspicions were justified and we asked the right questions, would we get any answers?
If Dr. Blackstone were forced to tell the truth, my question to him would be this: Is Blackstone Technologies really a cure for the woes of the world, or are we being gently brought to our knees by an iron hand wrapped soft in poisonous promises of a glorious future?
As I upload this blog and take in the balmy climate-controlled morning outside my window, part of me can’t help but think: Would a lifetime of man-made sunny days at the feet of Dr. Blackstone really be that bad? Another part of me worries: Do we have any other choice?
-Level-Ten Classified Net Surveillance File-
Subversive blog detected.
Blogger identified as influential award-winning journalist Mr. Preston Harrow.
Mr. Harrow’s public opinion level graded as: HIGH. Potential future threat level: EXTREMELY HIGH.
Threat Management Protocol 4 initiated.
Blog intercepted and altered to reflect a sympathetic and complimentary opinion.
Mr. Harrow’s Navi-Car computer successfully re-programmed.
Mr. Harrow delivered to the nearest Blackstone facility for behavior modification. Modification was successful. Threat neutralized.
Have a nice day. :)
CHAPTER ONE
Absolute silence.
So quiet I can feel it in my bones.
There’s no air, no gravity, no hot or cold, nothing but this oily darkness spanning out in every direction, coiled around my body like an invisible snake, pressed tight against my naked skin.
Even though there isn’t a speck of light, I can see my limbs as clearly as if they were lit by the midday sun, suspended like a marionette in an ocean of shadows that exists only for me. I slowly carve my hand through the blackness and a jittering fan of kaleidoscope colors trails behind my long pale fingers. It shimmers, fleetingly frozen in place, before gently merging back into the void.
I know I’m not really here. This place doesn’t exist. It’s all in my mind; I realize that.
I know that I’m actually fast asleep in my dorm room at school right now, but knowing that doesn’t help to explain why every time I fall asleep, I wind up right back here again, vacuum-packed in this limbo of darkness, nervously waiting for another unwanted dream to crawl out from the corners of my mind and invade my every thought. The first time it happened was on the night of my seventeenth birthday, only four short weeks ago. Before then, I’d never had a dream before. Not one dream in my entire life. But since then, everything has changed. Four weeks ago, the floodgates of my subconscious were smashed wide open.
I was always curious about dreams, maybe even a little envious that everyone except me had them, but I never imagined that they would be anything like this. I thought they were supposed to be random creations of the imagination, fanciful visions of a sleeping mind, but if that’s true, why are mine so . . . different? While other people dream of flying through the clouds, or walking into math class naked, or having a tea party with talking monkeys in the Grand Canyon, all I ever dream about are days that I’ve
already lived.
Every night, the dreams pour down and engulf me. An hour, or a day, or even a whole week from my past spills out from the dark, wrapping up my mind in a cocoon of old sensations I thought I’d left behind. Like there’s a time machine in my head, I’ll be catapulted backward, uncomfortably squeezed into my younger skins like shoes that I’ve outgrown. The person that I am slowly becomes the girl I used to be, until eventually I surrender, saturated in my days gone by, feeling every moment for the first time . . . all over again. I’ve told myself that there’s nothing to be afraid of, that they’re only memories, but I know now that I’ve been lying to myself. They’re more than just dreams of days that I remember. They feel tainted and strange somehow, almost as if when I’m there, watching my life, my life is watching me back.
My skin crawls as a cold shiver prickles up and down my spine. They’re coming. I can feel them, moving quickly, storming toward me in a rolling wave, crashing and boiling through the valleys of my mind, so fast that there’s only an instant between feeling them and hearing them. A writhing avalanche of tangled voices barrels though the void, getting closer and closer and louder and louder with every passing second until—in a heartbeat between breaths—they’re here.
They’ve found me.
I screw my eyes shut, bury my face in my hands, and pull my knees to my chest as the voices rear up into a wall of sound high above me, a frothing apex of garbled whispers. Peeking out between my fingers, I see it: an undulating mass, distorting the darkness. It curls over, slowly leaning, lingering as if it has thoughts of its own.
Suddenly the thing topples too far and it drops. Pounding heavily onto my head like a breaking wave, it rushes fast around me, blowing my hair straight back, rippling my skin. Flashes of color spark behind my eyes, and flickering faces pulse in and out like strobing specters; echoing whirlpools of familiar voices swirl in my ears as ribbons of nostalgic aromas spiral up through my nose and down into my mouth, dancing across my tongue like a thousand scented raindrops. I can feel myself shrinking down as the years are stripped from my body, peeling away in chunks, shucking off and falling into the darkness like layers of caked earth. I slowly spin, drifting in the current as the river of old flows through me. It slows, waning quickly; then, as suddenly as it came, the torrent is gone. The voices in my head become whispers that fade into nowhere. The colors and flavors pale and dissolve as an overwhelmingly peaceful feeling of sleepy contentment bubbles up from my toes. It spreads up my legs, through my stomach, chest, arms, and face, filling me completely as I drift down through the dark, gently coming to rest on a thick, downy blanket, soft and safe and warm.
I rub my weary eyes and peer down at my chubby little fingers, poking out from the baggy sleeves of my pink bunny-print pajamas. Beyond the towering bay windows in the corner, I can see bundles of stars twinkling in the night sky. My bed seems huge. In fact, everything in my bedroom is gigantic. I yawn wide and long as I snuggle down deeper in my bed, comfy and happy. The lamp on my bedside table casts a cozy glow across the walls and down over the thick meadow of gray carpet, gently bathing the mountain of plush toys beside my dollhouse with a comforting orange light. Prince Horsey the unicorn sits at the peak, drowsily guarding the slumbering stuffed animals below. I was told he used to be my father’s favorite when he was a boy, and now he’s mine. The king of the toys and the ruler of Toyland.
I’m three years old again.
I listen to the creaks of this big old house as the bricks and boards settle in the cool of the night. Sometimes I like to close my eyes and hitch my imagination to those comforting sounds, riding along with them out my bedroom door and down the narrow hall, passing by the many rooms on the entire floor that I’ve claimed as my personal playground. Down the tall main stairs my drowsy thoughts drift, weaving through the speckled marble pillars at the bottom and on through the huge, high-ceilinged sitting rooms, studies, dining rooms, ballrooms, and kitchens.
I once heard one of our servants describe this house as a “sprawling mansion.” And that is undoubtedly what it is. My home. Blackstone Manor.
During the day when I’m not being tutored by my teacher Raychel, one of my favorite games is “count the rooms.” I always come up with a different number. Sometimes it’s eighty, sometimes ninety. I know I must miscount sometimes, but there seem to be magical rooms that disappear and reappear depending on whether or not they feel like being discovered that day.
It’s getting late, and all the servants have either gone home or retired to their quarters. The shadow goblins rule the house at night. I know now that they were just figments of an eager imagination, but I’m three years old again and, at the thought of them lurking, I pull the covers closer to my nose, my eyes wide as I stare into the darkness beyond the door, dreading the possibility of a goblin’s head leering around the edge of the frame at any moment. Just when I think one will, the floorboards in the hall creak beneath the weight of heavy footsteps. They stop just outside my door and I know that for at least one more night, I’m safe from the little monsters in the dark. I’m safe because I know who those heavy footsteps that are trying their best to be quiet belong to: our head of security and my protector. Everyone in the house calls him Major Brogan.
I call him Jonah.
Even the biggest, meanest shadow goblin in the whole house would cower in fear at the feet of the mighty Jonah. I look to the spot in the doorway where I know his kind round face will appear and, suddenly, there it is. Right at the top in the corner, his big brown eyes and his caterpillar eyebrows, the crown of his large bald head hidden by the top of the frame.
“Are you awake, Finn?”
My given name is Infinity—Infinity Blackstone—but Jonah calls me Finn. Jonah always asks exactly the same question at bedtime, and tonight is no exception. Surely he knows by now that I fight off the sleepiness until he has read me a story. I like to hear one chapter of a different book every night, and for almost a year now, Jonah has tasked himself with the job. In my little world where everything seems so big, Jonah is truly a giant. He smiles at me and ducks under the top of the doorway.
Forever dressed in his trademark black suit, crisp white shirt, and cornflower-blue tie, Jonah lumbers over, takes the rickety green wooden chair painted with flowers from by the wall, and places it at my bedside. It creaks a noisy complaint as he sits, his knees sticking up awkwardly. A chair made for mere mortals is obviously far too small for a hulking man-mountain like Jonah. He reaches a huge arm across my bed, picks up a small stack of books from the shelf, and begins sorting through them.
“Which one would you like to hear tonight?”
“You haven’t finished the story of the stone-face boy yet, Jonah,” I say with a knowing smile.
“
The Crystal Castle
?” he asks, shuffling through the stack.
I nod happily as he finds the book and flicks through the pages.
“OK, then. Now, where were we?”
“They’re hiding in the Forest of Forever.”
Jonah thumbs back and forth through the book. He stops and looks a little confused.
“Are you sure, Finn?”
I nod again.
“Finn. Do you see the fold I made? This is the page that I marked. This fold is near the middle, but the forest is at the end.”
I’m nodding.
“Did Theresa read this book to you?”
Theresa is my nanny. She’s old and mean and smells like she slops on her perfume every morning with a mop and bucket. I shake my head.
“Was it Arthur?”
Arthur is our chauffeur. He’s short and fat. He swears when he can’t find his driving gloves and is always out of breath. I giggle and shake my head. Arthur’s so dim, I doubt that he can read at all.
Jonah is looking at me curiously. “Finn. Did you read this? All by yourself?”
I’m nodding again.
“Well, I must say, that Raychel is doing a very impressive job.”
I shake my head and smile. “No. She’s too slow at teaching stuff. I worked out the words on my own,” I say proudly.
Jonah’s eyebrow caterpillars are arched so high they look like they’re trying to climb to the top of his head and plant a flag on the summit. “You’re three years old and you taught yourself to read?”
“I’m three and a half!” I bark, crossing my arms on my chest.
Jonah’s mouth is smiling, but somehow his eyes are smiling even more.
“Well. Aren’t you clever,” he says, flicking to the end of the book.
“Yes. I suppose I am,” I proudly retort. Jonah grins.
I never saw my tutor Raychel again.
From that day on, for five hours every day, Jonah was my teacher. He didn’t teach me just math and history and spelling, though. He taught me all kinds of cool stuff.
The bright moonlight of a warm summer night filters through the leaves above my head, making dappled patterns on the grass around the thick roots of the old oak tree. Crickets softly chirp out in the still dark beyond.
“Are you ready?”
I’m five years old now, standing beside Jonah in the gazebo behind the main house.
“I’m scared, Jonah.”
“Don’t be scared. You’re the one in control.”
Five years old, dressed in pajamas and fluffy slippers in the middle of the night, with a loaded 9mm semiautomatic pistol gripped tightly in my little hands.
“Take that fear and turn it into power, Finn. You saw me do this. You know how it’s done. You can do it, too. All you have to do is believe it. Just point it toward the tree and pull the trigger.”
I can barely lift the gun, let alone point it at that tree, and even if I could, what did that poor oak do to me? I look up at Jonah with my frowning face and he mirrors it right back. “Concentrate.”
I look down at the gun. Then at the tree. I really don’t want to disappoint Jonah. I lift the gun and raise it to my eye level.
It’s so heavy.
My little muscles strain and twitch. The gun wavers in my hands, swaying back and forth. The tree moves from side to side in my field of vision and my arms begin to shake. My doubt takes a firm hold and my nerve gives way. I drop the gun back down.
“I can’t, Jonah. I wanna go back inside.”
Jonah kneels down beside me and looks me in the eyes. “Tell me; out of everything I teach you, what’s your favorite subject?”
I don’t even need a second to think about it. “Science.”
“That’s right, and science tells us that your body, your mind, the world, and everything in it, are all made up of pretty much the same stuff. What happens up here,” Jonah says, tapping my forehead with his finger, “can affect what happens all around you.”
“I’m too little for a gun, Jonah,” I murmur, only half-convinced.
“Nonsense. I was only a year older than you when my father taught me to shoot, and I was smaller than you are now!”
“You were smaller than me?” I say with a crinkled nose of suspicion.
“Yes, I was. But don’t you dare tell anyone,” Jonah says, standing tall and jutting out his chin. He smiles down at me warmly. “Firing a bullet into a tree is just as real and a whole lot easier than riding a bike, and if you can learn to do this, then I promise I’ll teach you how to do that, too.” He points a long arm at the oak’s trunk. “Alright, now try again, but this time imagine your arms are strong like metal, and the gun is a part of your hand, merely an extension of your—”
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
The echoes fade into the night and a wisp of smoke gently spirals up from the muzzle of the gun. The crickets have fallen silent, and five little round holes have appeared in the bark at the center of the old oak tree.
“WHAT ON EARTH DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?!” screeches a voice from behind us.
I glance over my shoulder to see musty old Nanny Theresa striding through the night toward the gazebo.
She’s wearing her usual stark-white blouse, dreary green cardigan, and long black dress. Her hair is tied up in its standard big gray bun, and there’s an all-too-familiar angry glower on her wrinkled, leathery face. She marches between us and snatches the gun from my hand.
“This?!” she squawks, waving it in Jonah’s face. “This is what you’re teaching”—her piercing, silvery-gray eyes glare down at me like she’s trying to find the right word—“her?!”
