Synaptic Overload
by Brandy Dewinter and Tigger
(Copyright 1999)
Chapter 2 - Scaredy Cat
When Thorson entered his apartment, he called out to his roommate,
"Hey, Dinger, are you still alive?"
His roommate raised his head from where it rested on the couch and
gave a growl that was easy to translate, "Mrrowrruhh!" [You better have
a damn good reason for interrupting my nap, human.]
"Yeah, Mousebait, I'm happy to see you, too," Thorson grinned. He
skritched the ears on the smoke-gray tomcat on his way to change into
more comfortable clothes.
Dinger was the inventor and leading proponent of the twelve-step
recovery program from napping (those other cats who claimed the same
procedure were vicious liars, as Dinger had been forced to demonstrate
on several nocturnal excursions). The first step, like all good twelve-
step recovery programs, was admitting that there was a problem. Dinger
considered this with dignity appropriate to the gravity of the decision,
and allowed as how there was probably merit in rising. Step two was ear
exercises, and the program proceeded from there to dislocation and re-
integration of the entire spine in a stretch that surely doubled his
overall length.
"I don't know how you do that," Thorson said as he returned from his
bedroom.
"Rrowrsfft," Dinger replied. [Of course not, you're only a human.]
Despite his seeming languor, Dinger managed to be the first one to
the little kitchenette. His tone became even more preemptory, "RowwwRRaou!" [Why am I not hearing the can opener going? Get with it!]
"Yes, Boss," Thorson replied, dipping in a sardonic bow as he
attended to the cat's meal before his own. "At least you're not picky
about your food."
The arrant flip of Dinger's tail provided an answer with an economy
the wordy humans seldom exercised. [I have to keep up my strength, you
know.]
Thorson's own meal took little longer to prepare. He pulled pre-
shredded lettuce and carrot mix from a plastic bag, added a bit of
cheese and a hard-boiled egg, then just a bit of low-fat dressing. A
Diet Coke completed his evening meal. He was thin, but it was probably
due as much to his dietary habits, formed by a weight-conscious mother,
as to inherent metabolism.
The day's mail was handled while he ate, and when both were
completed his thoughts returned to his failed experiment in Stansfield's
office.
"I know I can do that," he said, officially speaking to Dinger, but
actually just thinking out loud.
Dinger took it as an invitation, though, or perhaps he didn't need
an invitation. In any event, the tomcat levitated into Thorson's lap and
pushed his nose in the man's face. "Mrroowww," he crooned. [I'm ready
for you to pet me now.]
Thorson stroked the cat's shimmery fur, idly letting his hands do
one task while his mind was far away. Abruptly, he stood and set Dinger
on the floor, walking quickly to his own experimental apparatus even as
he ignored the cat's disgruntled complaint.
On a shelf along the wall he had a beaker with thermometers, similar
to the one that had been in Stansfield's office. Both thermometers read
69 degrees, just a bit cooler than the room temperature due to
evaporative cooling in the dry apartment. Screwing his face into the
same display of intense concentration he had shown earlier, he envisioned
the warmer molecules in the water moving toward one thermometer, and the
cooler ones moving the other way. It was as though he could see in his
imagination individual molecules, some color-coded red, and others blue.
He drew on the knowledge that his mind could cause impulses to flow along
nerve pathways, though there was no known linkage between a thought and
specific neural configurations. That same inexplicable transition
*could* influence matter outside his body. He *knew* it could. He knew
it *would*!
When he opened his eyes, the thermometer on the left was reading
just over 71 degrees, while the one the right was a bit under 68.
"Yes!" he said. "I knew it would work."
He recorded this result in a notebook with his other attempts,
noting the continued trend toward greater reliability. It worked almost
half the time, now. As he noted the temperatures, he realized that once
again there had been a slight gain in the sum of the two readings.
"Hmmm," he mused, to Dinger of course. "There seems to be a bit of
extra energy being added from somewhere. I really need the more
controlled environment of a proper lab."
[Would that mean we could eat more?] Dinger asked as he rubbed
around and between Thorson's ankles.
Thorson didn't even notice the question, too lost in his own
thoughts to pay attention. *Extra energy. From moving molecules around.
I wonder just how much.*
He closed his eyes in concentration again, this time imagining all
the free hydrogen radicals in the water simultaneously converging on a
single, geometrically-pure point. He knew that this free hydrogen was
essentially just loose protons swimming along, trying to maintain a
randomly chaotic distance from each other in response to the repulsion of
their own similar electrical charge. Yet, if entropy could be overcome,
then the randomness of their motion could become ordered instead,
convergent. And though there would be a mutual repulsion, whatever mind-
directed force was overcoming the randomness could balance that repulsion
with yet more molecules from further away, themselves trying mindlessly
to reach the point of convergence. What would take incredible heat and
pressure to achieve on a macro scale might just happen at a smaller scale
with a relaxation of the drive toward disorder called entropy.
Thorson was so caught up in his internal vision of protons racing
toward an infinitesimal cataclysm, that he missed the first signs of
success. Tiny bubbles were forming within the beaker as the energy of
converted mass boiled the water surrounding the convergence point. By
the time he opened his eyes, there was a regular stream of pin-head sized
spheres marching to the surface of the water.
"It worked!" he yelled, surprised despite himself. The stream cut
off immediately, but the thermometers registered yet another rise in
temperature, this time by several degrees.
Thorson scooped Dinger up in his arms and practically stuck the
cat's nose in the water near the thermometer. "I didn't think it would
work," Thorson babbled. "Or actually, I *did* think it would work, or
else it wouldn't have worked, but I just got so caught up in the mental
visualization that the impossibility of it all sort of became
irrelevant."
"Pzzssftttt!" Dinger said. [Yeah, right, geek. Next you'll be
telling me that mice are our friends, if only we'd understand them. Now,
let me down!]
The cat didn't need to reinforce that order with claws because
Thorson had already dropped him to record this new observation in
the notebook. Scribbling furiously, he tried to remember every detail
of the observation, noting estimated times and damning himself for not
having a stopwatch going.
"Neutrinos!" he shouted. "I need to know if there are neutrinos
produced in the reaction."
Dinger interrupted his meticulous attempt to restore the order of
his fur to ask, "rrowrff?" [Are neutrinos good to eat?]
"I have got to get this into the lab. There's no way I can detect
neutrinos here," Thorson said, pacing the room.
[Guess not,] Dinger decided, returning to his grooming.
Another idea leaped into Thorson's head and he sat down at his
computer to compose his new research proposal. He'd do this through
the backdoor. There was some work on detecting neutrinos through
disruption on spin configuration on outer electron orbitals that had
been reported in the literature. He'd propose building on that work
to produce a compact neutrino detector. Stansfield would love it, since
except as proof of certain nuclear reactions, neutrinos were pretty
worthless. It would be sure to get a government grant, too. Then, once
he had his laboratory going, he'd use the detectors to confirm that he
had actually created a room-temperature fusion reaction in a beaker of
water. Cold fusion was only the tip of the iceberg of results possible
with conscious control of entropy, but it would be enough to sink that
blowhard Stansfield.
*************
Thorson was so caught up in his discovery and in his subsequent
research that he quite forgot his decision to gain fame as a
superheroine. He gained reliability and strength in his control, now
able to generate enough cold fusion to bring a liter of water to a
rolling boil. I really was fusion, too, as his neutrino detector
confirmed. He could also accelerate entropy, or age things. He could
rust a nail to dust in a few minutes, or cause other materials to
oxidize to whatever form was less ordered for them.
Still, none of his results were dramatic enough to overcome the
skepticism of his peers, or of Stansfield. The neutrino detector didn't
care what the source of the neutrinos was, so he could demonstrate the
effectiveness in conventional ways and get authorization to continue
his research. His own use to confirm that he had achieve cold fusion
was unreportable until he could show *how* he achieved fusion in a beaker
of water.
There was one significant problem along the way to developing his
powers. He could never seem to concentrate on power generation effects,
primarily cold fusion, while simultaneously creating power application
effects, like rusting a nail. He could set up his beaker teakettle and
it would continue with little attention from his conscious mind, but just
as soon as he started concentrating on something else, the fusion would
stop.
On the other hand, he found that he could make what amounted to a
heat laser by inhibiting the dispersion of heat from any nearby source.
In effect, he made the heated radiation stay well-ordered and focused
despite being of varying and incoherent wavelengths. Simple heat was
enough, and while he found that it helped his visualization if he
imagined the beam coming from his hand, there was no need for any
apparatus, nor even high order power like electricity.
The trick of visualizing the heat beam projecting from his hand led
to an analogous visualization of the accelerated entropy effect. His
"rust ball" as he called it, could be thrown at something and cause
immediate oxidation.
The time came when he needed to conduct some outdoor experiments,
accepting the gracious offer of Dinger to assist.
"Hold still, Mousebait!" Thorson ordered.
He was attempting with limited success to get a sort of jacket
around his cat. Thorson had woven threads of samarium/cobalt through
the material of the vest to create a significant magnetic field around
the wearer, in this case Dinger.
If Dinger had really wanted to get away, Thorson wouldn't have had
a chance. But the human had applied to the cat's baser instincts and
allowed Dinger to eat his fill an hour before. It was well into nap
time for the languid tomcat, and though the delay in getting to sleep
made him testy, it also made him too lazy to really fight.
"There," Thorson said. "Now, that's not so bad, is it?"
"Raorrfst," Dinger disagreed, but lay down to take his delayed nap
despite the indignity of his attire.
If he would have stayed awake, he might have noticed Thorson bend
low and concentrate. Thorson started talking to Dinger in quiet tones,
using his voice to both calm the cat and focus his own thoughts.
"Okay, Dinger, we came out here in the middle of nowhere to get
away from any artificial magnetic coils like those in motors or
electronics. I want to focus the Earth's own magnetic field to provide a
levitation effect. It works on inanimate things just fine, but I can't
see the University approving a request for lab rats, so you're elected.
It shouldn't be any problem."
He had been stroking the cat, who had settled down to motorboat
imitation; an untuned motorboat with an irregular purr hooked directly
to Dinger's slowing breaths.
Thorson imagined in his mind the lines of the Earth's magnetic field
bunching together, increasing the local intensity by an order of
magnitude, then by a second, then by a third. When the concentration was
about 2000 times normal, Dinger lifted off the grass, still snoozing in
happy oblivion. Earnshaw's theorem showed that magnetic levitation was
unstable, yet that instability was itself an aspect of entropy, where
the precise alignment of magnetic poles required to counteract gravity
would collapse into chaos with the slightest deviation. However, Thorson
had control of entropy and could maintain the required orderly arrangement.
He had brought a hydrogen/oxygen fuel cell with him to provide a
source of power and after lowering Dinger down to a distance which would
not be dangerous if he fell, Thorson activated the fuel cell and used the
resulting heat as a source for a beam that sliced easily through a nearby
plant. A rustball followed, completing the decay of the decapitated weed.
Through it all, Dinger floated quietly.
"Hey, Ding, wake up," Thorson called.
"RroworRR?
"RRRaoorWWrraaaooo!!" [What in Hell is going on here!]
"Take it easy, Dinger. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"Fssszzttzzztttt!!" [Get me down, right now!]
Thorson prudently stood back as he lowered Dinger to the grass. As
soon as the cat's churning legs found purchase, he was off like a shot
into the underbrush.
"Oh, lighten up. You're not hurt," Thorson said as he shut down his
fuel cell and put it into his backpack. His car was parked a half a mile
away so that there wouldn't be any interference with the car's magnetic
fields.
"Come on out of there and I'll take that vest off of you," Thorson
promised.
A shadow flicked back and forth from within the deeper gloom of
the brush. Thorson thought it might have been Dinger's tail, but that
was based as much on the rhythm of it as on anything he could clearly
see.
"Come on out of there and I'll give you this greasy bit of hamburger," Thorson said, upping the stakes.
The brush stirred and Dinger stalked over to Thorson. The sharp,
regular, snapping of his tail needing no translation.
Thorson stuck the greasy bit in a baggie until he had the vest off
of his cat, then made good on his promise by letting Dinger take it with
solemn dignity.
"Eat up and I'll let you ride," Thorson said, trying to get back on
his cat's good side. Well, at least as close to a good side as Dinger
had. Dinger did not deign to reply, but when Thorson held out his hands,
the cat lay down in them, pointedly looking the other way with his back
to the man.
"Right, Mousebait, I knew you could be bribed," he laughed.
Settling in comfortably, Dinger looked back over his shoulder with
a clear message. [I'm not the one who's walking, human.]
**************************
The following Monday found Thorson back in Stansfield's office,
though the tone of this meeting was quite different than the previous
occasion.
"Well, Dr. Thorson, I must say, I'm pleased with your research.
Your grant has been renewed." Stansfield was beaming in a particularly
patronizing way.
"Yes, sir," Thorson replied quietly.
Stansfield smiled as he walked with Thorson to the door. "I'm sure
you see now how much better things are now that you've given up that
silliness about Mind Over Matter. That's the stuff of comic books, not
*real* science."
*A lot of what we now think of as *real* science first showed up in
comic books, you pompous old fool,* thought Thorson, but he didn't say
anything.
That comment from the department head did remind Thorson of his
earlier plan to gain acceptance through public demonstration of his
abilities. What had been an impulse born in desperation had died when
he had found an alternate way to support his research. Now, though the
neutrino detector grant had been renewed, there was little real science
left in it. He could make his equipment portable, perhaps find a more
efficient detector material, but to Thorson that was engineering, not
science. The idea of gaining credit for his true discovery, the one that
would add his name to the list of those considered geniuses within the
annals of science; that idea seemed as far away as ever. He was now
28. A year had been spent making his abilities reliable. A year had been
lost to the clock that ran out when he reached his thirtieth birthday.
He was still determined to get his name in the history books before then.
Or . . . "her" name? The reminder of his previous, half-formed plan
re-established the logic that his size, actually the lack of it, would
mean that he could not really create a *male* superhero identity. Thorson
wasn't particularly concerned about masquerading as a woman. After all,
it was just a disguise, no different than putting on a false beard or
something. It wasn't like he was going to have to *do* anything as a
woman. Just look like one.
*No time like the present,* he thought turning his steps from the
faculty lounge toward the parking lot. From there, he headed to a
costume shop that did a lot of business with frat parties and other
college stress-relievers. Once there, he checked out the standard
superhero costumes, looking for something that would be original for
his new character.
"Can I help you?" the shop attendant asked. She was obviously a
college student herself, sporting a nicely-snug sweater with the
school colors.
"Um, yeah, I guess. I'm looking for a superhero costume," he
said. (Like, DUH, why do you think I'm standing here by this rack?)
Her glance might have been considered harassing if a guy looked
slowly from feet to head at a woman that way. And if it hadn't
transitioned so quickly to disdain.
"Well, we do have some costumes for some of the, um, younger
partners in superhero teams," she offered, clearly thinking he was
too short for an *adult* superhero.
"No, I need something original."
"That might be a problem," she said. "All of our original
designs are for, well, taller men. I'm sorry."
*Not as sorry as I am,* he thought, but that problem was neither
new nor particularly relevant.
"I expected that. I had already accepted the idea that I would
need a woman's costume."
"Oh," she said. Then, "Oh!" She blushed, then gave him another
head-to-toe glance as a smile quirked her lips.
"Anything in particular," she asked, now openly grinning.
"Well, I'll need a wig, I guess. And something with a cape."
"A cape?"
He nodded, "so that it's not too obvious what I look like when I'm
standing still."
"Yes," the girl said, stifling a giggle, "that would probably be a
good idea."
"Look," Thorson said with a building irritation. "This is just a
costume. It doesn't mean anything."
"Oh, no, of course not," she said, but her eyes told a truer story
of what she was thinking.
"Just show me the costumes," he snapped.
She pointed to the correct rack and stood back. He started jerking
the costumes along the rack, looking for something that wasn't all sequins
and pastel colors. No ballerina outfits, thank you very much. No harem
girls, no . . .
"I need something for a superhero, not a child," he said.
"You're in the smaller sizes. What size are you?" she asked
reasonably, though the laughter still danced in her eyes.
"In women's sizes? How would I know?" he answered.
"Well, you're the one who's asking for a woman's costume," she said,
then gave in to an open bout of giggles.
Thorson lost whatever patience he might still have retained and left
the prepared costume rack to search for accessories instead. He quickly
found a high-collared cape, a long black wig, and the most concealing mask
he could find that was really a mask and not a representation of a whole
head. Then he moved to the checkout. There was another girl there, one
who had been too busy to notice the interchange he had already endured.
She looked up with mild surprise but not much concern one way or the other
as he bought his accessories and left. Behind him, he noticed the first
girl moving the counter for a whispered, giggling conversation, but he was
already well beyond earshot, and soon beyond caring.
He avoided malls on general principle and was trying to decide where
else he might find what he needed when he noticed a female superhero
costume on a mannequin in a store window. The store was really a source
for dance clothing, but some creative worker had set up the display to try
and capture a share of the college crowd. Thorson swerved to the curb and
went in.
"Can I help you?" another attendant asked, this one perhaps in her
early forties, but with a still-trim form that showed she knew more about
dance than just costuming.
"Perhaps. I was trying to find a superhero costume."
"For yourself?" she asked.
Thorson looked sharply at her, but her expression showed no ridicule.
"Yes, actually," he said.
"Very well. Do you have any specific colors in mind?" she asked
next, normal questions in a normal tone of voice as though men asked
to dress up in tights all the time.
"No," he answered. "Not really. I have a black mask and wig that I
got from the costume shop."
"Black?" she asked, for the first time showing a bit of judgment in
her expression.
"Yes. Is that a problem?"
"Well, you are so blond that a black wig would just not look right
with your natural coloring," she explained. "Unless you're going for some
sort of gothic look."
"I'm afraid I don't even know what that is," he admitted.
"Oh, well, of course you can do whatever you want," she said,
retreating back into polite acceptance.
Thorson tried to get back on track. This was a lot more bother than
he had expected. "Do you have made up costumes like the one in the
window?"
"No, not really. We have the tights and leotards, with contrasting
exercise pants as shown. But the gold belt and boots and things are just
accessories. You'd have to get them elsewhere."
Thorson sighed, thinking about yet another stop. The shop had a one-
piece outfit the proprietor called a "unitard" that seemed to demand less
of a decision than picking out several items that were color-coordinated.
He got a large sized based on the woman's recommendation, which actually
took care of the color choice since the only one she had in that size with
long sleeves was a simple dark blue.
Finally, he reached the sanctuary of his home to find Dinger pacing in
the kitchenette, demanding an immediate supper.
"Sorry, bud, but this took way longer than I expected."
"Hhrrowmff." [Do I look like I care about your excuses? Feed me.
Now!]
Thorson tossed his packages on the counter and opened a can of food
for Dinger. He grabbed the makings for a quick sandwich for himself,
along with the inevitable Diet Coke, and studiously immersed himself in
the normal evening ritual of handling his mail.
By the time Dinger jumped up in his lap, though, Thorson's curiosity
was getting the better of him. He granted his roommate a few perfunctory
ear rubs, but was soon headed toward his bedroom, packages in hand.
Dinger had observed his human changing clothes often enough that he knew
the man could handle it on his own, and a nap seemed much more
interesting. He might have reconsidered, if he knew just what sort of
change was coming.
"Whaddya think, Ding?" Thorson asked.
Dinger opened his eyes. One look, and he screeched with an intensity
normally reserved for mortal challenges. He backed away, swelled up to
twice his normal size with ever hair standing stiffly from his body
including his tail. Even the hair on his ears was erect, for all that the
ears themselves were laid back flat along his skull. His slitted eyes
were watching closely, while his mouth hissed and spit at the apparition
before him.
Thorson laughed, then looked in the tall mirror by his entryway.
That pretty well eliminated an humor in his expression. What he saw
there was, well, disappointing didn't begin to convey the impression.
He had searched through the Net enough to find the trick of putting
water in balloons as a way to fake a feminine bosom. That, plus the long
hair of the wig were all that he had really done to appear more like a
woman. Neither had worked. He had definitely overdone the amount of
water in the balloons, made even worse as he recognized that one was
significantly larger - and lower - than the other. The black hair hung
string-straight and lifeless, merging with the overly ornate domino mask
that covered most of his face. The part that showed, though, mostly his
thin lips, didn't look feminine at all. The plain blue of the unitard,
unbroken by any ornamentation of belt or insignia, clearly showed the
muscle definition that was a source of pride when he worked out at his
martial arts dojo. It also clearly showed that despite the oversized
and asymmetric mammaries, the person inside the outfit was decidedly
male. Even the black athletic shoes he had scrounged from his closet
were definitely too heavy and masculine for any sort of convincing female
impersonation. About the only part of the disguise that worked was the
cape. Of course, all it had to do was hang there, hiding whatever it
could. It didn't hide enough. Even the cape didn't look good, just
effective at disguising his true shape. The high costume collar distorted
the fall of hair from the thin wig, making him look hunchbacked.
"Well, Dinger, I was about to call you a scaredy cat, for reacting
so strongly to my disguise. I see that I should have had more faith in
your judgment. This truly is frightening."
Dinger wasn't about to trust that strange thing in their apartment,
based only on hearing a familiar voice coming from it. He stayed
crouched in the corner, back arched, teeth showing. Even as Thorson
removed the wig and pulled the balloons out of his top, Dinger watched
warily.
As he took off the cape, Thorson said, "At least this unitard
thing is fairly comfortable, though a bit revealing. Still, I can
get some use from it when I work out. The rest is pretty hopeless."
On that Dinger could agree, or perhaps it was just that there was
enough of Thorson showing that he could absorb the unfamiliar clothing.
In any event, his ears came up and his back relaxed.
"What am I gonna do?" Thorson asked. Dinger had no answer.
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