A penchant for forethought, part 1

I’ll start this post by telling you what it is exactly that I’m going to do. I have, over the last week or so, been working on a story and I’m going to post what I’ve written so far. Rather embarrassingly, the story originated not from an idea for the plot, but rather a name.

The name was Tyrell Vecter. I can’t explain why, but something about it just appealed to me. It seemed like the name for someone incredibly intelligent, and even more manipulative. From there, I just sort of thought of things that a character like that would get up to, and decided to put it to paper.

Now, it’s not perfect yet because I’m thinking I want to make it a little darker and obviously continue the story, but here it is so far. If you do have any feedback, I’d love to hear it. And so, without further ado:

“Do you know why I do what I do, Mr. Vecter?”, the scientist asked. He still hadn’t turned away from the window.

“Please, call me Tyrell” replied his companion. He too gazed out of the window with the manner of someone who is performing calculations of an impenetrable nature.

Silence reigned supreme in the chamber for some time, punctuated only by the occasional hiss of a flame or beeping of a computer. The two men stood, one slightly behind the other, united only by their stance and the intensity through which they regarded the skyline in front of them.

Finally, the scientist spoke, “In my youth, my family lived in extreme poverty. No electricity, very little water and next to no food. My home was lit at night by the light of a single candle. The candle stood on the mantelpiece, which was close enough to the bed to provide adequate visibility, yet far enough to avoid it becoming a hazard for us. This was, unfortunately, also the only area in the room onto which the wind blew. As a result, I was for years unable to light this candle. Every time I held the match near it and it caught on fire, the wind blew it out again.”

He fell silent again, lost in his recollections. Tyrell shifted uncomfortably, disoriented by the sudden pause in the story. He unbuttoned his suit jacker to reveal the vest below, a softer shade of grey than the jacket. He put a hand in his pocket and fiddled with the pen he kept there, rotating it between his fingers until the scientist started to speak again.

“One day, as I struggled to light the candle, my mother came up to and showed me. She showed me that to keep the flame alive, I needed to shield it from the breeze by cupping my hand around it. Only then, only by nurturing the flame, would it grow to produce heat and light. It was only by my intervention that the flame succeeded in doing what it was intended to do.”

He paused for emphasis “Mr. Vecter, science is now my flame. It’s my job to nurture it, to help it grow.”

What was obviously intended to be a dramatic silence was interrupted by the furious beeping of one of the machines. Frowning, the scientist made no attempt to walk towards it, but instead closed his eyes and arranged his features into an expression of absolute concentration as though the beeps were part of an arcane language only he could understand.

“Knowing him, they probably are,”, reflected Tyrell in a rare moment of humour. Rather than wait for the scientist to complete his obscure interpretations, he started walking towards the machine, intending to see for himself what the issue was. He arrived at the panel, a medley of flashing lights and displays, and scanned it.:

PROTOTYPE 3654 STATUS:

complete with negligible psych. error

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s ready?”

The scientist, who stood behind him, nodded his head in the affirmative.

All of a sudden, the full magnitude of the situation, the complete and utter enormity of the plan he had put into place struck Tyrell. Twenty years of planning had culminated in this evening in the chamber with the vaulted ceilings. When he next spoke, it was barely more than a whisper: “You’re telling me that right now, this machine is capable of telling me a person’s last thought before their death?”

The scientist nodded slowly in the manner of one who detests explaining that which is obvious. Tyrell closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the sweet sensation of success before continuing, “Congratulations, Dr. Tempest. You’ve earned your place in the league.”. He drew a paper out from his inside pocket and placed it on the desk. “You’ll receive further instructions shortly”.

The scientist nodded once again, but this time with a little more enthusiasm. “Thank you”, and then, much more quietly, “Lord Vecter”.

But Tyrell was already striding away, his mind casting back to a day many years ago.

Tyrell Vecter had grown up playing chess. The intricacies of the game, the multi-faceted patterns that formed as a result of the infinite permutations of the game had captivated him like no human ever had. On the first day he had ever played, he had moved his queen to capture a pawn, revelling in the disadvantage he had caused his father. Thereafter, he watched helplessly as his father, with motions as precise and stiff as the clock, moved his knight to capture the queen. Tyrell had lost the game shortly after. He maintained, though, that it was the most important game he had ever played.

It had thought him to think ahead.