Dawn of the Mutants

by Lionel Roberts, Lionel Fanthorpe, Patricia Fanthorpe

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera; Fantasy; Dark Fantasy; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

Dan Bellamy was down and out. It seemed that he had reached the end of the road... and then he met the stranger. Who was the mystery man? Why were his amber eyes so powerful? Above all why did he call himself Melchizdek?
The stranger took him to a house, and then the mystery deepened. What was going on in the hidden laboratory? Why were M.I.5 so interested? These men were different. They possessed uncanny mental powers. They had a weird control over matter that was outside any known physical laws. Then Bellamy asked himself the $64,000 question. Was he one of them? And if he was, what were they?
Mutation is well-known, though still only partially understood, biological phenomena. Atomic radiations cause strange changes in the genes and chromosomes of plants and animals. They might also change men.... To find out just how strange these changes would be, you must read "Dawn of the Mutants". A superb science fiction story - that might be fact.

Release date: December 19, 2013

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

DAN BELLAMY rounded the corner into the grimy tree-lined square. Four roads met in this microscopic open space, and in the centre of their meeting, the grass rectangle was bordered by a dirty iron railing. Along the four sides of that rectangle were four rows of benches. An icy March wind rushed and whistled through the streets, and finding its freedom from the harnessing blocking of the brickwork, it tore with savage fury across that dusty, smoke smeared, open space. The trees tried gallantly to put forth their spring buds; and seemed to be hunching their branches against that wintry blast that defied the calendar’s heralding of spring.

Dan Bellamy turned his sad eyes to the open space. It was about the most miserable and God-forsaken hole anywhere in England, he reflected. He also reflected that it was just about what he deserved, anyway—so what the hell did it matter. He pulled his threadbare coat tightly round him, and made his way across the intersection. The little iron gate squeaked protestingly as he pushed against it and forced his way towards one of the benches. The wind seemed to be converging from all directions at once. There was no leeward, here. Yet, where else could he go? thought Dan. The huge pantechnicon rumbled past, and in the wake of it there was a second’s respite from the teeth of the young gale. The warmth, short as it was, and perfumed as it was, by the reek of diesel fumes, was some small mercy in a cold, grey world. Bellamy wondered whether, perhaps, it would have been better to stand still in the path of that pantechnicon. Perhaps the seconds of blinding agony would be worth the dreary prospect that faced him … and yet, he knew, deep down within himself, that he was too much of a coward to open the door to freedom. He hadn’t got the guts, he decided. That had been his trouble all along. He wondered whether it had all been his fault? Or whether the world had dealt him a series of devastating body blows. It would be so easy to bemoan his fate, and wallow in self pity … What the devil was the use? Whether he accepted it or kicked against it, life was just the same. It steam-rollered past a man. If he wasn’t astute enough to get out of the way, he was crushed by its juggernaut progress. He reached the bench and sat down. Idly, his finger traced a path through the layer of grime that covered the seat. There had been a time, he recalled, when he would have worried about the old, threadbare coat. That was the only compensation of being right at the bottom—there was no further to fall. Being a dreg among the dregs had some slight compensation. Despair, black as it was, had at least cast all worry aside … If a man worried, it meant there was still hope. If he stopped worrying, it meant either that the hope had been fulfilled, or as in Bellamy’s case, completely and utterly crushed.

It was only just beginning to grow dusk, as he looked up the long grimy road; on the opposite of Scrapyard Park, he saw the street lights flashing on, like huge, synchronised fairy-lights. He shook his head wearily.

“Fairylights,” he muttered to himself. Deep down within him, a chord of by-gone days stirred … like a spark that rises from a dying ember. He saw happy memories, of a life that once was his, a life that he felt sure he would never know again. Just as that endless industrial thoroughfare stretched out its uninviting concrete and tarmac length, it reminded him of a pointer, ‘This way to hell’. He thrust his hands deeper into the pockets of the threadbare coat. The wind seemed to be going right through him, completely unchecked … he had no money, not so much as a single, solitary ha’penny. He also had very little chance of getting any. He looked up at a smoke-stained wall clock, high up on the wall of one of the factory buildings. It would be two hours before he could get his evening meal from the soup kitchen. He shrugged, so what? … two hours … two days, he was past getting hungry now. His stomach was almost as resigned as his soul. The despair gave way to a terrible feeling of chagrin and pathos, as his mind tried to go darting back over the might-have-been. His sub-conscious caught it, held it in check, brought it back to the present. His attitude was becoming almost oriental in its resignation.

“You’re a failure, Dan Bellamy,” he told himself. “Just about the biggest goddam failure of all time—so what? Maybe its your fault. Maybe it isn’t. Accept it. Sit here and rot. Don’t worry about the rotting process, it won’t make it any easier to bear. Try not to worry. Try not to think. Just sleep, and eat, and drift, and take what comes your way. Things can’t get any tougher. So why struggle? Why fight? You’ve lost the fight. O.K. Lay down your arms. Decay, here in Scrapyard Park, with the other deadbeats … they’ll be slobbering in, in a minute. Drunks. The men who throw their lives away with drugs. The have-nots, the care-nots, the will-nots. They’ll all be here. This is the end of the world. It is life on a park bench, it is the doss house, and the soup kitchen. This is man, slightly below the level of the animal. Accept it. Live with it. And when you start thinking, just tell yourself what the hell? Stop worrying.” … Dust and crumpled newspapers blew along on the icy arms of the wind. Dan realised it was several days since he had read a newspaper. There had been a time not more than a few weeks back, when he had combed every advert, in the “situations vacant”. Then he had realised that the battle was lost—so what did it matter? He stopped reading the “situations vacant”. Stopped reading anything. So far as he was concerned, as far as he himself was concerned, he was almost dead. The dead don’t care. His soul was dead, he told himself. It was only a matter of time. The logical progress was that his body would follow it. Then there’d be no more sitting in icy winds. Everything would be calm, and at peace. He could forget. The thought of lying still, without any cares, feelings, or sensations, was heaven by comparison. “Must be turning into a dam’ Buddhist,” he muttered to himself. “Longing for Nirvana—not that they’d have me, anyway.”

One of the blowing newspapers laid itself in his lap. He had neither the strength nor the inclination to throw it off again. Another spark flickered in the dying ember of his mind. Perhaps even yesterday’s newspaper would be worth reading. It would take his mind off himself. He wondered if there was a cartoon in the fragment that had landed in his hand. Ironically he thought, it would have to be unbelievably funny to bring a smile to his tight, bitter lips. With a weary sigh, he clutched the fragment of crumpled paper, and moved round so that the light of the street lamp could play upon it … Then he saw that it was only a column of advertisements; he almost threw it down again. Beggars can’t be choosers, he told himself, let’s have a look at it.

“Cars. This year’s model, 3,000 miles since new, a snip at £850.” He laughed. “I’ll have six,” he whispered to himself—“one for every day of the week. And I’ll have a darned great limousine for Sundays, and drive to St. Paul’s Cathedral in it. Up to Westminster Abbey; they’ll all bow when I come in, because I put £100 in the plate: Oh, yes, we’ll have six of those …” His eye travelled slowly down the list: over the “situations vacant”, “Only skilled men need apply”, “Only qualified applicants will be considered”, “Previous experience essential”, “Applicants should possess a science degree of a recognised University or Technical Institute”, “Applicants must have had at least seven years in the industry”, etc. etc. etc., he snarled bitterly. “Oh what’s the use, what’s the use.” Despair was being pushed aside by bitterness … and then it subsided again, and gave way to dull, apathetic resignation. He looked up to the personal column: “Fred. Must see you. Usual place 9.30. Mabel.” He laughed bitterly, there was no humour in the sound. Who the blazes was Mabel? he wondered. Come to that, who was Fred? Why should they want to meet? Where was the “usual place?” Intriguing. He wondered what their story was … whether it was just a publicity stunt of some sort. He shrugged his shoulders again. The air seemed even colder when he stood up in the light of the lamp. The very brightness seemed to add a sharp, frosty quality to the breeze. He continued looking down the personal column. “Old gold and silver discreetly purchased”. “Top prices paid for sovereigns, guineas, medals, etc. etc. Plate a speciality”. “Wonder why I don’t sell some of mine,” he said to himself, “I think we could spare the second-best golden set, rubies crusted round the edge.” He spat disgustedly in the dust … Should bring in a paltry fifty or sixty thousand. Oh, who wants money? What’s the use of it? Its only an item of convenient exchange. “Convenient exchange,” he repeated. It’s the key that unlocks the door of life. It brings you food. Brings you security. Brings you a house. Brings you a roof over your head, and a bed to sleep in. Brings you warmth and comfort, and friends of a certain calibre. Oh, what’s the use of money. “I’m Burlington Berty, I rise at ten-thirty.” He had this secret. “Only yesterday at tea, the Chancellor said to me, I wonder what it feels like to be poor.” I remember how the music hall comedians got a laugh out of it. Still, you either laugh, or just throw yourself on the floor and scream with hysteria. It’s better to laugh. Let’s see what else there is in here. His eyes continued to scan the column. “George come home, all well, Lucy.” Oh, how nice. How very touching,” he whispered to the crumpled sheet, I’m so glad George can go home … I only wish I was George …”

It was the very last advertisement in the column that really snapped him out of the despairist, defeatist mood, which was rotting his very existence. The snap-out when it came was only of a very temporary nature, but it was something. It was a step in the right direction. “What colour is Saturday. Call Southbank 1496.” Another sudden gust of wind tore the paper out of his hand. It was lost with a thousand others at the . . .