Perfect Stealth

It was a well-read book, its cover creased and veined, the pages brown and dog-eared. On the front, there was a photograph of a man, wreathed in smoke - wearing a trench coat, his face and hands wrapped in white bandages. Above this, in bold script was: "The Invisible Man, by H.G. Wells".

Doctor Gary McQueen looked at the cover for a moment. A buzzing sensation electrified his body, making his nerves jangle. It might be the amphetamines - fuel for another twenty-hour workday - but he strongly suspected it was just old-fashioned excitement.

He placed the paperback back on the shelf. It looked conspicuous and vagrant, perched between the rows of leather tomes. But this ratty book, slowly disintegrating with time and use, had been more profound, more of an influence on his work, than any of the scientific texts that bracketed it. If he was honest with himself - during those moments he had time to think - then, he had to admit that if it wasn't for Wells he would never have became a scientist and would never have had the opportunity he had now.

He looked at his watch. It was half past five in the morning. Outside, the sun would be up, warming the morning air, the birds busy with their dawn chorus. Suddenly, more than anything he wanted a breath of that air, to feel the sun on his face. Here, in the laboratory, there were no windows, only cruel florescence and sterile, conditioned air. First man kills God and now he wants to replace nature, he thought. His head felt fuzzy and blurred, and he could feel his excitement ebbing away.

He had been working nineteen hours solid, the time swallowed, made insignificant as his work progressed. The closer he had come to a breakthrough the more urgent it had become. The demands on his powers of concentration were immense, the pressure enormous. He could feel a breakdown looming in the periphery like an actor waiting to come on stage. But, just as he thought he could take no more; when the force of his hopes and expectations had built to such a level that he believed he would snap he discovered that he had done it. He had found the solution to invisibility. Perfect stealth.
He went to the workbench and lifted the beaker of solution, holding it up to the light. It was watery and unimpressive, like a bottle of urine perhaps. A by-product, not the result of such exhausting work.

"PS-4439", he said aloud to the empty room. He immediately bit his lip. He would have to watch, the laboratory was almost certainly bugged, and Professor Proctor would no doubt personally go through the tapes. Still, he allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. By the time Proctor had figured out what had happened, he would be gone, living in luxury somewhere, working for people who knew how to reward effort.

He pushed a rubber stopper into the neck of the beaker and took it to the wall safe. He punched the eight-digit combination and the door eased open with a hiss. McQueen was reluctant to leave the solution, but there was no way he could get past security with it. He would just have to trust that the safe was good enough. He had personally changed the combination two-nights ago, conveniently forgetting to notify Proctor.

He shut the safe door and turned to survey the room. He had already cleaned and cleared his equipment, making sure that no trace of PS-4439 remained. Now the only loose end was Maximillian.

To one side of the workbench, set on top of a steel trolley, was a cage. And within, resting on a bed of shavings was a wheel. An empty wheel, and yet steadily turning.

McQueen went to the cage, making kissy noises as he went. The wheel stopped abruptly, the shavings shifting and flattening at a particular spot below the lid. There was a scrabbling sound and then the squeak of a rodent.

"You hungry Maxy?" McQueen reached into the pocket of his lab-coat and took out a chocolate drop. "I've a treat for you, little fella." He dropped the chocolate through the wire on top of the shavings and watched in fascination. To the uninitiated observer, it looked as 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 ****-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.