Mindwarp Read online

  Table of Contents

  MINDWARP: Prelude to Earthsearch

  FOREWORD.

  PART 1. Selection

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  PART 2. Training.

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  PART 3. War!

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  PART 4. Mindwarp.

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  PART 5. Discovery.

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  PART 6. Fugitives.

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  PART 7. Escape.

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  PART 8. Outdoors.

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  PART 9. Flight.

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  PART 10. Prelude.

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  MINDWARP: Prelude to Earthsearch

  by

  James Follett

  Jacqui Lyons Marjacq Scripts Ltd.

  161 Bickenhall Mansions Bickenhall Street LONDON

  W1H 3DF

  Tel: 071 935 9499

  FAX 071 935 9115

  * * *

  For George Markstein.

  Mentor and friend.

  Sadly missed.

  Outdoors! Outdoors!

  Full of fire and fear,

  Outdoors! Outdoors!

  Where sinners disappear!

  Outdoors! Outdoors!

  Hell fires burn within,

  Outdoors! Outdoors!

  Throw the wicked in!

  Outdoors! Outdoors!

  Where flies and birds do dwell,

  Outdoors! Outdoors!

  Another name for hell!

  -Children’s skipping rhyme.

  -Origin unknown.

  FOREWORD.

  Excuses. Excuses.

  Or, wriggling convincingly off the hook.

  It doesn’t matter if you haven’t read the other books in the Earthsearch series because this book is a self-contained novel. Also it’s the Earthsearch curtain-raiser although it was not written first.

  Its appearance is a touch embarrassing, so if you find the spectacle of a writer casting about frantically for excuses is unedifying, you can skip this intro and plunge straight into the story.

  One of the pleasurable perks of being an author are the invitations to give lectures (I prefer to call them talks - it’s less pretentious) around the country to arts festivals, library groups, writers’ circles, and science-fiction conventions etc. During the question and answer session I’m usually asked by loyal fans of both BBC series if I have plans to write anymore Earthsearth books, to which I have usually answered: no. To my shame, the reasons I’ve trotted out are usually along lines about how I need to move on to develop new ideas. There’s some truth in this pretentious twaddle, but the real reason is that I thought I’d played all the aces in both books. I was convinced that there was little left to provide fresh twists and turns in the plot and, above all, surprises. Like everyone else, I was thinking in terms of a continuation of the story from the end of the last book, not realising that a story I’ve had simmering since 1975 is, in fact, the beginning of the Earthsearch story: a failure of that most precious tool of the writer - lateral thinking.

  Let me explain about 1975. This was the year when I forsook an index-linked pension to become a writer, and had the good fortune to meet the late George Markstein, a partner in the literary agency, Marjacq Scripts. The other partner was Jacqui Lyons, who still represents me. George was the genius behind The Prisoner television series which he co-conceived and script edited besides writing some of the scripts. He was a great storyteller, and a master of indirection which he later demonstrated in his novels. He could also be a terrifying ogre, especially if he suspected a writer was not giving an audience or readership their best.

  Mindwarp was one of my very early ideas and George loved it. I still have his enthusiastic notes and suggestions on the shape the story should take, and I referred to them when writing this book. George said that Mindwarp had all the makings of a first class yarn of which the most important ingredient was its bizarre quest: the search for the mythical outdoors. The basic premise of the story was strong enough for Jacqui Lyons to persuade Thames TV to commission a pilot TV script, but there was something missing. Something important: Mindwarp did not have a convincing ending. Neither of us could come up with good one so the story had to be set aside. “Don’t worry,” was George’s advice. “All authors have a file containing great ideas that lack a vital piece of the jigsaw. Sooner or later the missing piece will turn up. When it does, it’ll be so glaringly obvious, that you’ll wonder why you never thought of it earlier.”

  He was right on all counts. The missing piece materialised in 1992 just as I was starting a four-week holiday having spent several months writing Savant.

  Mindwarp is the prelude to Earthsearch!

  The idea came as I was lazing in the Spanish sun, watching a beautiful girl emerging from the sea. I was so excited (by the idea, not the girl. Yeah… Okay then, the girl was pretty exciting too, and she’s in this book) that I got straight down to work and wrote Mindwarp in a couple of months, tapping an unsuspected well of energy. For continuity I’ve included the prologue of the first Earthsearth book at the end of this book. Any suggestion that it’s there as a commercial - to whet your appetite and so persuade you to buy the Earthsearch books (to be reissued soon and available from all good bookshops, so place your orders) - is, of course, a monstrous calumny.

  A final twist in this odd tale is that this book contains the seeds of the continuation of the Earthsearch story, offering those essential twists and turns that had eluded me 10-years ago. Which means that a fourth book is now a distinct possibility. Thinking about a fourth book has given me an idea for a fifth, and even a sixth! And maybe a seventh! They’ve even got titles which means they’re as good as written. All this from someone who was saying no more after the second book!

  Wriggling over. Even if you were unimpressed by my explanations, I do hope you enjoy the book. Now read on as they say.

  James Follett Godalming, Surrey England February 1993.

  PART 1. Selection

&nb
sp; 1.

  An image of a blonde appeared on the wall screen that dominated the huge reception hall where over 300 milling, whooping, boisterous children were gathered with their parents. She was wearing the high neck, pink uniform of a government information officer. The mothers and fathers quickly hushed their charges and looked expectantly up at the screen. It was the mid-morning war report.

  “Good morning, fellow citizens of Arama!” The blonde was smiling blandly. There was a collective easing of the sudden tension; a smile meant good news. “The Department of Defence has announced the result of yesterday’s war. Our glorious army of Arama has suffered this number of dead…”

  A row of logo-like graphic representations of soldiers appeared along the foot of the screen. Each figure was clutching a plasma discharge weapon. They shone out on a background of shimmering gold.

  “And the profane forces of Diablo sustained these huge losses…”

  Several rows of sinister black figures appeared below the first set so that it was possible to visualise the imbalance without an understanding of the numbers. For most people of Arama, counting beyond ten was difficult because they had to visualise the entire quantity as a string of units.

  “We have now won the war on six consecutive days,” trumpeted the blonde. “A record, fellow citizens! A glorious achievement which his excellency, the First Secretary has decided to commemorate with an extra decra for every five decras earned today. And now some important messages.”

  The blonde’s face was replaced by a friendly cartoon character telling the audience that plastic was fantastic, but fibron was right on. The commercials ended and the stern still picture of the Emperor of Arama appeared on the screen. It was the same picture that was displayed in all public places throughout Arama.

  Kally released Tarlan, who had squirmed in her arms during the announcement. For the five-year-old to keep still for even 30-seconds was a misery. The boy immediately made a lunge for Ewen. The brothers rolled on the floor, kicking and punching. Ewen put up a spirited defence. He was two years older than Tarlan, and much stronger despite his skinny frame, and could have beaten him easily had Kally not dragged them apart. Her consolation was that the behaviour of many of the restless children in the reception hall was not much better.

  “You promised me that you’d both be on your best behaviour!” she scolded them equally.

  “He started it!” Ewen yelled defensively, rubbing his calf where Tarlan had kicked him.

  Kally thrust her youngest offspring into a moulded chair and threatened that she’d send for the technicians if he didn’t behave. It was a threat she hated using. Not only because of its seriousness, but because of its echoes of a miserable childhood with a brutish, overbearing father.

  “You do as I say, my girl or I’ll send for the technicians to throw you to the outdoors where the Diablons will get you and eat you!”

  Well she never went that far. She had never frightened her children with talk of the eternal damnation of the outdoors and the Diablons.

  “Hardly any technicians in our sector. Takes ages for anything broke to get mended,” said Tarlan belligerently. But the look of anger in his mother’s dark eyes stilled further aggression. He scowled sulkily at Ewen. It was always Ewen who got all the attention. Ewen this, Ewen that. Ewen had been given a toy hot air balloon for his birthday that he wouldn’t let anyone else play with. They were even here because of Ewen. He hated his older brother and wanted to kill him.

  A voice boomed around the hall. “Blue badges! All blue badges, forward please!”

  It was an announcement that struck a sudden chord with Kally; she remembered it from her selection day in this very hall.

  Some fifty children, all about Ewen’s age, left their parents and surged towards the uniformed ushers who sorted them into groups and led them through light polarizing doors.

  Kally glanced anxiously at the round badge that an usher had attached to Ewen when they had first arrived. Its colour had changed from bright red to dull pink.

  “My turn in about five minutes,” Ewen commented.

  Kally looked sharply at her eldest. “How do you know?”

  “They number the groups.” Ewen pointed to a display panel that hung down from the hall’s vaulted roof. “A three and a five.”

  Kally looked up at the display that consisted of two glowing boxes. There were three dots in the first box and five dots in the second box. She understood the individual numbers that the dots represented but not their collective value. Like everyone in Arama, the highest number she could visualise was nine which she accomplished by picturing three rows of three dots. Over that number was a struggle. Not because of any lack of mental ability, but because her culture only dealt in numbers whereby each unit could be focussed on. Few people can concentrate on more than ten. Larger numbers were simply expressed as a row of dots or bars. For the people of Arama, the passing of the weeks was marked by every tenth day, a day that was set aside as a day of rest and worship.

  “It’s a counter,” said Ewen, following his mother’s gaze up at the display. “It means three groups of ten and five added together. The badges turn blue every ten. I reckon my badge will turn blue when the boxes read four and nothing.” He grinned at his mother’s bewildered expression and wondered why it wasn’t as oblivious to her as it was to him.

  “You mean that a four and a nothing is more numbers than a three and a five?”

  “Yes.” He suddenly felt guilty about his mother’s worried expression. She was so tall and lovely. He loved everything about her; her long, dark hair that fell about her shoulders; the smart clothes she always wore - today it was a figure-hugging one-piece suit in black that she had designed and made in her shop specially for this visit. Crimson and yellow hologram flames danced from her midriff, seeming to curl and twist around her breasts whenever she moved. She was so clever with materials that it seemed wrong that he should understand these things and not her. The 35 he could picture in his mind was less than 40. It was so obvious.

  “Stupid! Stupid! He’s mad! They’ll lock him away!” Tarlan yelled, beating the arm of his chair. He resented the attention Ewen was getting. He wanted to be back at home running war games on his play screen, zapping the hologram hordes of 3-D Diablon troops with his plasma discharge gun as they poured into his room.

  Kally’s dark eyes clouded with worry. She drew Ewen close to her so that he could feel the gentle pressure of her breasts against his cheek through the sparkling flame holograms. The contact and the scent of her closeness stirred something in him, and his love for his kind, gentle mother overwhelmed him. “You mustn’t tell them about the numbers you can see, Ewen,” she said.

  “But-”

  “You mustn’t tell them! Promise me you won’t say anything! Please, darling.”

  “All right.”

  “You promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She gave a little shudder of relief and tightened her grip. When she released Ewen, his badge was turning blue.

  High above, the display was showing four dots in the first box, and none in the second.

  2.

  Most youngsters taking their seat before Technician-Father Gilith were immediately transfixed by the dancing ball that was suspended as if by magic above his desk. It gave him time to read the information that appeared on the data screen set into his desk top. But this boy had given the coloured sphere no more than a cursory glance as he sat down. Father Gilith was uncomfortably aware of the boy’s intense blue eyes staring at his bald pate as he read:

  EWEN SOLANT. 7 YEARS OLD.

  MOTHER: KALLY SOLANT - WIDOW.

  ADDRESS: 1909, GALTHAN.

  MOTHER’S OCCUPATION: CLOTHES DESIGNER AND RETAILER.

  ADOPTIVE FATHER: WAS UNEMPLOYED. KIA (SEE REPORT 876a/GALTHAN CONTROL).

  REAL FATHER: ANONYMOUS ARTIFICIAL INSEMINATION DONOR.

  SIBLING: TARLAN…

  There was more information but Father Gilith skipped it because he di
dn’t like the way the boy was gazing at him. An additional note at the foot of the display caught his eye.

  MOTHER EXCEPTIONALLY GIFTED. SELECTED AT AGE OF 7 (SEE TEST RESULTS). DESELECTED SAME DAY ON ORDERS OF THE FIRST SECRETARY’S OFFICE.

  Out of curiosity, Father Gilith called up the page on Kally Solant’s selection results. The score was the highest that the technician-father had ever seen. So why had the First Secretary deselected her? Very strange. Well, the woman’s son was sitting before him. What were the chances that he had inherited his mother’s remarkable talent?

  He looked up. A warm, expansive smile wreathed his florid face. A neat, well-scrubbed boy confronted him. A pinched, drawn face. Gaunt, almost craggy features that reminded him of someone although he couldn’t think who. Light brown hair, and those remarkable blue eyes with a hint of incipient mischief that didn’t seem to belong. A smart blue one-piece suit that fitted well. But then his mother was a clothes designer.

  “Good morning… Er, Ewen, isn’t it?” He had an idea that his smile, calculated to put children at their ease, was not required in this instance. Far from looking suitably intimated at being in the presence of a technician, Ewen had shifted his attention to Father Gilith’s Guardian of Destiny medallion. The iridescent bent arrow in a circle logo sparkled with myriads of varying colours as he moved.

  “My full name is Ewen Solant. Should I call you “sir” like at school?”

  Father Gilith’s pulse quickened. Normally he hated the yearly selection days. He had interviewed over thirty kids that morning, and just about all of them had wet themselves with fear. Why, in the outdoors, weren’t nine-year-olds selected for GoD training? What difference would a couple of years make? But something told him that this boy was different. Just how different Ewen was, the amiable Father Gilith was about to find out.