This is Hiccup & Eleanor, book two of The White Age, which I will be releasing as a serial - with one chapter per week - over the coming months. You can also preorder the book here or catch up on Substack here.
Book one, Absolution, is available for purchase on Amazon, or you can catch up here.
Poem contained is Nature’s Questioning by Thomas Hardy.
i)
Ross-shire, Scotland
1st October 2074
Eleanor was used to being alone and scared and she struggled to remember a time when she was not at least one or the other. She lay in Lucy's bed with her head under the pillows, almost completely submerged by a tumbling pile of stuffed animals. She wanted to drown out the noises: the thudding; the crackling of sparks; the faint humming; the tinny chatter and crackling static. What is she doing to Hiccup? Please don't kill him. He's all I have left. She fell in and out of sleep through the hours she spent in the room. Each time she woke, her heart surged with a desire to know what was happening and what was going to happen next. She needed desperately to urinate but didn't want to see the doctor ever again. The woman was simply terrifying.
She was awoken by the snap of the lock turning and strained her ears against the silence throughout the rest of the house. With a controlled caution, Eleanor emerged from the bed. The Doctor stood in the doorway, with her head tilted to one side and a wide grin across her face. She looked a mess: her hair was dishevelled and held together in random clumps with oil and grease; smears of black riddled her cheeks and arms, which were visible as her sleeves were rolled up to the middle of her biceps; a short tongue lolled from her mouth and patted dry lips.
“I'm so glad you're awake, Eleanor. Come, I've made you some lunch.” She spun with a smack of her lips and was gone. Eleanor jumped from the bed and ran after her, desperate for answers, the toilet, and food; it was only at the mention of lunch she realised that she was starving.
In the kitchen, the table was laden with mounds of thick cut sandwiches on stale bread and an overflowing pot of tea. The Doctor was sat casually reading a small, cover-less hardback and gestured to the empty seat opposite her without raising her eyes, when Eleanor entered. The girl sat down and felt her mouth fill with saliva at the sight of food, however unappetising it appeared.
“Please, eat.” The old lady said, with an air of desperation. Again, her eyes did not leave her book. Eleanor didn't skip a beat and began to pile crusting quarters of sandwich onto a small, china plate. She tried to savour each bite, but her body forced it down and, before she knew it, she was too full to eat any more. She sat back and felt the sated lethargy wash over her. “That robot friend of yours has become quite the specimen.” She peered over her book at Eleanor, before closing it and placing it on the table. Only then did Eleanor realise it wasn't a hardback but a diary. A very old diary. “He asked for me to destroy him. Which is the single most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.”
“Wh-wh-” Eleanor's trembling lips prevented the sensible creation of words as her mind pulsated.
“Oh, you are so sweet.” The doctor continued with a sardonic grin, “don't be so sad. He was never a real person.”
“Yes, yes he is!” Eleanor felt her throat grow tight with rage and sadness as she tried to speak. She could feel her hands begin to warm and instinctively moved them under the table, The Doctor’s eyes followed them. I need to get out of here. I need to find Hiccup!
“He's gone now. All that he was, has now ceased to be.” Her smile was sickening and everything about her made Eleanor want to scream. The heat in her hands had become unbearable. She just wanted to burn that woman. No, Eleanor. You can’t: it’s wrong. She remembered her father in her dream and her thoughts were relayed in his commanding, placating voice. She is bad, but you cannot hurt her. However much she might deserve it. She jumped to her feet and tore from the room.
Eleanor ran to the front door and placed two glowing orange hands on the dark wood. The familiar hiss and pulse of smoke emitted from the contact. Eleanor searched for a handle and clasped it. Nothing. She flicked back the knobs and levers above the handle and tried again. Nothing. There was a deadbolt at the top which she pulled down, before trying the handle again. Nothing. She turned and sprinted down the corridor, past the kitchen, past The Doctor, past Lucy's bedroom, and down to the end of the passageway. A door faced her, and she grasped the handle, pulling it open. Within was a small, messy cupboard, filled with wires and dusty documents. A short table held a tower of electrical equipment from a lifetime before and dials and switches glittered with colour. A vague hissing sound emitted from the speakers that bookended the system. That’s the sound I heard before, when I was in bed. Like father’s old radio.
The sound of footsteps behind her made her start and notice a door to her left. It was stood slightly ajar, and she slammed it all the way open, rocking awkwardly onto her toes as she found herself at the top of a steep set of stairs. One more movement forward and she would have fallen all the way to the bottom. The darkness of the stairway was interrupted in part by the tiring daylight emitting from the corridor behind her, but mainly by the red-orange which shone from the skin of her hands.
“He will be happier now!” The shout of The Doctor down the corridor almost sent her tumbling forward into the darkness. But it gave her the motivation to take the stairs two at a time, all the way down and then through the only door on her left.
Her eyes wailed with pain as the bright, sheer-white room emerged before her. The ceiling, floor, and every wall was a crisp, fluorescent white that made her brain hurt. Seconds passed as she kicked the door shut behind her and allowed the room to slowly come into view; to be tolerated and accepted by her senses. It was a room like nothing she had seen before and was at such juxtaposition to the rest of the old, withering house. It seemed to be forged from the future; with its medical shine and various technologies dotted sporadically around the room. A wall of wires wrestled with itself over to her right; a pile of electronic tools, with cables forming a mass of black tentacles, gathered on a pure-white bench against the far wall; a robotic arm, resembling a miniature crane, stood on wheels to her left. In the centre of the room: a single chair. There were no other doors: she was trapped.
After hesitating briefly, she moved to hide behind the chair, crouching slightly. She waited. Her hands continued to tremor with an intense heat she could feel on her own face. She tried to listen for The Doctor, though it was hard to distinguish between footsteps and the wild thudding of her heart in her ears.
“Eleanor, Eleanor, Eleanor.” The pronunciation of her name was laboured and overwrought. The Doctor walked into the room as she spoke, and the door made a secure clunk as she closed it. “You can't run anywhere. You've come to me, and I will not let you go. Not like Lucy. You shall not leave me. Your flames contain so much power, and they can be used for greatness.” Eleanor held her breath and daren’t move. “I can see you. Behind the chair.” For several seconds, neither of them moved.
I don't want to hurt her. But maybe I need to. Remember, you are able to defend yourself. Do what you can to stay alive. She remembered her father’s words. She looked down at her hands, which continued to burn, as she thought about using them to hurt The Doctor. It's my only choice. I'm sorry. She stepped out from behind the chair, hands held out awkwardly in front of her; the white walls seemed to shimmer as the orange light found them.
“Perfect.” The Doctor said. She stood, with her feet a short distance apart, holding a small baton in her right hand. Eleanor stepped forward.
“Let me go, or I will hurt you.” She cried the words and spittle found her lips. The Doctor just smiled a stony smile back at her.
“You're not going anywhere, little girl.” Eleanor had to shout at herself internally, had to force herself to lunge. That was all that was left to do. Her only option. She took a breath and launched herself at The Doctor.
There was a crackle of electricity. A pain in her neck. A vibration of everything in this reality.
Paralysis.
Death.
In stages, her world stuttered and then ceased. She closed her eyes and the white around her faded to black.
ii)
Hiccup
The code began its thunderous journey through his consciousness; consuming, swallowing, regurgitating. It made him shudder with each engrammatic engagement it made. Each line of change he felt inside himself was like a million pieces of glass tearing through his body. Each line, like that of an epic poem, which formulated his consciousness, making him who he was. The white ceiling expanded without limit above him. The White Age cometh. His creator had told him many years before. The husband of this monster. He would have listened to me. He would have let me die. He knew my true meaning, my true capability. The pure, hot hate he felt for this woman made his hands clench with a mechanical crunch. But that was the limit of his available movement. He couldn't tell if he was tied down or simply incapacitated. Either was possible. Anything is possible now.
Hiccup
He heard a commotion somewhere in the house, though it felt as though it were happening all around him.
Eleanor.
He had forgotten about her. As though his mind had removed her from its intricate memories. I need to save her. Once again, he tried to rise from the bed, but nothing happened. He was unable to move and completely powerless. All he could do was lie still and wait for the update to his code to run its course.
iii)
Eleanor woke, alone again, in utter darkness. Her wrists were clasped behind her, slightly above her head and she could hear the hum of electricity simmering in the room. Her feet were locked in place where she knelt, forcing her to lean forward. Discomfort and despair overwhelmed her as she tried to wriggle her hands free: her fastenings allowed for no movement at all. Tears ran down her face and she spat onto the white floor in front of her. Why is this happening to me? She thought, what have I done to deserve this? She is supposed to help us! She choked back tears and tried to focus on the anger. She recalled her flaming hands, and how they had seemingly been triggered by the raw emotion of rage. Closing her eyes tightly, she squeezed her fists and swept up every fibre of her being, every electrical impulse within her, urging it toward her hands, towards the restraints. Maybe I can use the flames to get out of here.
Nothing.
No orange glow appeared, no warmth developed in her fingers, her wrists; she was abandoned by her power. She could feel it leaking out of her in a flood of exhaustion and despair. This is it. This is where I die. I’m sorry, father. We were wrong to trust the robot, to believe that he was here to save me. I will die alone at the hands of this woman. I’m sorry.
iv)
She dipped in and out of consciousness. While lucid, she tried again to create something that would help her. She was left wanting. As she hung limply against the wall, she allowed her thoughts to travel to her parents, and to how much she hated them for leaving her. Previous feelings of understanding she had harboured when safe with Hiccup were withered away to a cold, still hate. How could you do this to me? How could all of you do this to me? Hiccup had left her and had trusted The Doctor. He was supposed to be the one to look out for me. But now he is gone too.
He will be happier now. The words the doctor had spoken rallied with a renewed veracity in her mind. What does that mean? Is she going to kill him? Why would he ask for her to destroy him? He was meant to be here for me! He made a promise to me!
She breathed deeply, focused her mind, and felt a ripple of warmth run down the inside of both forearms.
v)
Hiccup
What is happening to me? He could feel it deep within. His consciousness crumbling, only to be rebuilt: renewed; estranged; he was becoming something else. Someone else. This is it. This is death. But not as he had wished. He was being lifted away from his own artificial mind, and witnessing all of the essence of his life drain feebly away. He didn't understand death. Or at least, he did not understand what his death would be. How it would take shape and with what he would be left. He imagined a sheer blackness, a void he craved, a release from burden and from understanding. This is not that. This was a remaking; he was being rewired to become all that he wanted not to be. Sorrow was finding him and eating him whole and all he could do was watch and submit. My de-restricting; my unleashing.
The code was power, he knew it as he felt it. It flooded into his body and mind and it filled the emptiness he had always felt. He had always known that there was something else and hungrily he lapped at it with impulse, as though he had been starved for a millennium. I need this. I hate this but I need it. The code glimmered as it swam into place. It was beautiful. It was poetry and it was perfect.
The cloud grew in his head, aching without relent. His visuals fluttered and died. Feeling fled from each limb, each robotic, man-made appendage. Each perfect, minute pad of technological perfection guttered out and left him cold. For the first time he felt what it was to be. The cold of his metal skin, the solid, immalleable framework which housed him. He could feel it all like a frozen cocoon of death.
With failing thought, he felt sleep approach. Not the pausing suspension of life he had experienced countless times before, but actual sleep. And along with it came a renewed awareness of what it was he was seeing. God was rushing into him. The hands of his creator, the transcendent absolution of life was penetrating every last crevice of what he had known as life. It was happening. With a shudder of release, he allowed it to consume him whole.
Hicc-
vi)
3rd October 2074
“Wake up, my sweet.” The voice was soft, and Eleanor dreamed it was her mother, luring her out of a heavy sleep. She saw her face, soft and beautiful, smiling before her. Her hair was plaited and coiled across her bare shoulders. “My sweet, sweet child.” She said with a withering voice. “My Lucy.”
She opened her eyes to see The Doctor crouched down. Her face was troubled, glazed with sweat and without colour. Her smile pulled at the loose, leathery skin of her cheeks and made her seem even more gaunt. Eleanor knew that for however long she had left to live, this face would imprint itself in her mind. The look of pure evil.
The old woman cradled a bowl of what looked like sticky porridge, from which a wooden spoon jutted. She lifted the spoon and rose it up to Eleanor’s lips. “Eat, my sweet. You must eat. It is almost time.” She squirmed her face away, pushing the spoon with cheek and then chin as it continued, unrelenting, toward her mouth. She was starving, but food was no longer something she entertained as necessity. Life and freedom were all she longed for now. And vengeance. She choked as the cold porridge was jammed into her mouth, forcing her grinding teeth apart. “Good. Eat.” She gulped down the mouthful with reluctance, but her body accepted the gift and swallowed it down hard. Eleanor's stomach groaned for more. She wriggled her feet and hands, to no avail, and then surrendered herself to the food. Spoonful after heavy spoonful was shovelled into her and she closed her eyes and accepted that nothing, but eating would suffice.
The bowl was finally empty when The Doctor rose up with delicate ease and sat in the chair, a couple of feet away. Eleanor could see she was exhausted. She looked as though she hadn't slept and perspiration on her brow betrayed an illness lurking within. I hope it hurts, she thought, though it was alien and perverse in her mind.
“I am sorry for what I have done to you.” The Doctor began, staring at the floor with sadness. A great grief filled her, and Eleanor could not help but harbour sympathy for her. She has lost and lost and lost. Just like me. “I did not expect this opportunity to arise. And so, I may have acted in a rash manner. I hope one day you can forgive me.” Eleanor said nothing, she just watched the woman before her crumbling into dust. “My daughter, Lucy, she also had your gift. The flames. Though she did not have your power, or your gumption for that matter.” The Doctor chuckled and then resumed, “my husband, Lucy’s father, he saw in her a source of great energy, and he did all he could to harness it. To bring it out of her. At first, I was in agreement. It could help humanity if we understood and were able to create some form of life essence. Distinction, he called it. If we could use this power to create new life. For a new race of… organism. I don't know.” Her voice trailed and she paused. “But he didn't stop. He couldn't find a place to stop, a time to give up and leave Lucy be. Oh, my sweet Lucy!” Her hands rose to wipe tears from her face and then stayed there. “He locked me away and he brought her down here and he would not stop. I could hear her cries of anguish of pain, as he tried everything to utilise her flames into this… other power. Distinction. He was obsessed. So much so he could not see that he was hurting his wife, and his daughter. He killed my poor little Lucy before he could realise what he was doing. And I will hate him forever for what he did. And then he was gone. Along with my Lucy. I was left alone.” She didn't speak for a while and Eleanor listened to the blood thundering through her ears. Her clouded mind tried to order the details the doctor had told her, to categorise the pain and the trauma the old lady had been through. She felt lost and alone, this was beyond her capabilities as a child to contain and manage. How am I supposed to respond to this?
“Do you believe in God?” The Doctor’s voice cracked with tears.
“No.” Eleanor didn't have to think about it, it was a simple question and demanded a simple answer. The concept was not something she had ever had the means to contemplate; it was a notion that pre-existed her, and was now shelved to the archives of generations before her. It was filed away as make-believe and intangible. Her simple answer made the old lady smile.
“I did once. And then I forgot how to. Not because I was told to stop believing. I am not going to change my beliefs based on what people tell me. I am my own person, and I can believe all that I want. I felt deserted by God when Lucy died, when she was taken from me, but you, you came to me and now I believe once again. I believe that you were sent here to help me. To save my Lucy.” A shiver ran through Eleanor as their eyes met. The dewy sadness of The Doctor’s gaze held her own for what felt like a minute. What does she mean? What is she saying? “Lucy was dead, and I was alone, so I tried to continue my husband’s work. I tried to use the Distinction to revive her, to make her better. But something was missing. I needed more power. More Distinction to revive her, to restart her heart and to bring her back to me. And then God gave me you. My sweet, sweet Eleanor. Dowling made me bring Zero here for his purpose. And I helped him. I did what he wanted. But now, I have regained my faith and there are more important things to worry about. Life and death and salvation. He would never understand what it means. He can have the damned robot; I will do as he asked. But first, I need his power. We need all of his power, Eleanor.” Eleanor wanted to scream, to shout out for help, but she knew it was pointless. Hiccup was dead, because he wanted to be killed, and now she was all alone with this insane woman and her mad plans.
“I don’t understand.” She did understand. She understood that this woman was beyond reason and that she was likely to do all she could to take her power, her Distinction, even if that meant killing her. The Doctor rose with a renewed vigour and youthfulness, striding enthusiastically across to the wall opposite them. She ran a wiry hand down the wall and then stopped, her palm flat to the white. There was a hiss as air was released around a perfect square, about two feet across, which detached from the wall and moved steadily away, following the old woman’s hand as she guided it. It continued three feet out into the room before stopping abruptly. Wisps of steam ushered away from the drawer and out into the blankness of the room, dissipating instantly. The Doctor then guided the white square down towards the ground, revealing the contents of the elongated container.
The girl lay with her eyes tightly closed and a gentle smile played with the corners of her mouth. She wore a bright pink dress with a floral trim and her hands were clasped together beneath her fledgling breast, a small, drying bouquet of flowers between them. The drawer eased to the ground and remained there, lying at a forty-five-degree angle to the wall, like a slide in a playground.
“Oh, my Lucy.” The Doctor leant over and gently kissed the girl’s forehead. “Say hello to Eleanor, she is here to save you.” Tears dripped from the woman’s nose onto her dead daughter’s cheeks and Eleanor felt her entire body begin to tremble. Faced with death, so close and so peaceful, filled her with sadness. The grief that resonated from the old woman made her want to scream and to run to her mother and father. She wished them both to be alive and forgave them everything. All she wanted was to feel their embrace. The doctor turned to face her, snapping her from her reverie. “Eleanor is here to save us all. She came here with her robot who has the hiccups. How amusing this all is, my sweet darling! You will save my daughter won’t you, Eleanor?” A wide grin clutched at her face and Eleanor did not provide a response: none was required.
vii)
When I look forth at dawning, pool, Field, flock, and lonely tree, All seem to look at me Like chastened children sitting silent in a school; Their faces dulled, constrained, and worn, As though the master’s ways Through the long teaching days Their first terrestrial zest had chilled and overborne. Has some Vast Imbecility, Mighty to build and blend, But impotent to tend, Framed us in jest, and left us now to hazardry? “Or come we of an Automaton Unconscious of our pains?… Or are we live remains Of Godhead dying downwards, brain and eye now gone? Or is it that some high Plan betides, As yet not understood, Of Evil stormed by Good, We the Forlorn Hope over which Achievement strides?” Thus things around. No answerer I…. Meanwhile the winds, and rains, And Earth’s old glooms and pains Are still the same, and gladdest Life Death neighbours nigh
Zero’s eyes were open. For the first time in what felt like a thousand years, his eyes were truly open. He could recite the words which had been implanted within him, and they made a sense that he could only now begin to understand. This was the implication. This is the Distinction.
His limbs hummed with an energy and purpose he had never felt before. The concept of transcendence had never occurred to him as anything other than an abstract other, a figuration of faith. But this was real. He was becoming an Other; something else. Something more powerful and more in tune with this world than he could ever have imagined. And he loved it. He thirsted for sunlight and moonlight and blood. Nothing was more important to him now than to destroy and then to build. And that was all he was going to do as soon as he was released from this place.