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Chapter 1: Tonsil Time Warp (Part C)

By Jan Conradie · Oct 6, 2019 ·
See my notes on Chapter 3 placed first. This is Chapter 1 of the book now being renamed The Time-Lords. The reason why wanted to introduce myself with Chapter 3 instead of Chapter 1 should be evident. Warning; Graphic Violence. This is not my main theme, it just happens to be Chapter 1.
  1. And that is how Torm has ended up here, at the entrance of the holiest of holy places, with the glimmering royal blue CTA in the room in front of him. This machine has been built around what could best be described as the Icarissa’s tonsil, an apparently useless and enigmatic organ in the throat of the Icarissa.

    The dark magenta tonsil is swaying restlessly back and forth in its transparent casket under the CTA. The infection should reach it any moment now; in fact Torm sees a dark speckle on it that could just as well be the beginning of that decay. The slight smell of tonsillitis and bad breath hangs thick in the air.

    Krog is standing guard at the door, and there is not a lot of time. However, Torm has been trained meticulously for this task, and he knows that peacefulness is a crucial element of the ceremony.

    It was identified very early on that Torm had the special gene which gave him the ideal ability for activating the tonsil. He was one in a million and therefore had undergone training in a special unit at the Academy.

    Torm consciously focuses on pleasant childhood memories. He remembers playing with his cousins amongst the apple trees at their house on Home World. That was such a wonderful time of unbridled imagination.

    Torm slowly approaches the CTA and reaches out towards it with his left hand. This hand is carefully tended to every morning by the over-eager temple elves. It has been shaved, manicured and oiled to perfection for this eventuality. The elves fuss around his hand for half an hour every morning as if that is the essence of their existence. Now he is right next to the CTA and he reads the inscription on a copper plate on it:

    “pergamemnon maneo chalcedonum directus”

    The antiquated language of the old colonialists. The obstinacy of the priesthood who insist on using this outdated language for the instructions used to irritate him and hampered his progress.

    However, Torm has learnt to rise above politics and other petty issues, to ignore this irritation and to proceed with slow, deep breaths and a constant heart-rate. He thinks of his dad and how he has told them about the anomaly of evolution on another planet, an insect species that has learned to use their hosts rather than feeding on them, and their ambition to rule the universe. His father, Ian, wanted his great invention to not be used as a weapon of war but only as a last resort.

    So Torm allows the CTA computer to search for an appropriate destination, a time and place where they would be safer and where the Insect anomaly could not occur. There is no time to be too picky though.

    “Do not try to understand the CTA, as that could take forever,” is how his dad has warned him. He merely allows his consciousness to be filled with images of a better reality, images given to him by the CTA computer. Then, finally, he pushes his left hand right into the opening in the CTA, right down to the tonsil, while he holds onto his precious chalcedony necklace with the other hand.

    “This one’s for you, dad,” is what he thinks while he pictures green grass and cool blue water in his mind.

    He sees movement from the corner of his eye and he hears how Krog screams. He smells the Insect gas, a sulphurous odour, and he sees the flash of a laser-gun. He also momentarily sees an Insect with a striking host, a humanoid girl with long black hair and rebellious eyes. Hateful Insect eyes and a weapon are aimed in his direction. However, his hand has already gone inside and the tonsil has already taken over. He sees a rainbow of colours rising from it.


    Something is not quite right, yet the colours manage to form an endless vortex, an endless and unstoppable energy which sucks him and the room and everything around them into a core of blinding light. An all-encompassing colour, smell and sound immediately becomes an overpowering emotion which splashes throughout the entire universe and dissolves and adjusts time, space and life ultimately and incomprehensibly in a beautiful cosmic storm like never before…


    Storm awakes from a terrifying dream: There were demons staring through eyes red with hate, and they had surrounded the hut of mud and sticks that housed him and his family. They were screaming and circling it under the leadership of a mugu clothed in wild dog skin. The mugu carried a bloody skull in his hands. Storm wanted to help his little brother and sister, but he was somehow paralysed by the mantra that the mugu had been mumbling while staring at him with empty eyes. Storm wanted to move his legs and arms but he could not. Even after waking up he has still been trembling with rage over this powerlessness. He stares at the sweat forming on his naked and heaving chest, from where it drips onto the sheets. He takes water from the glass next to his bed, but struggles to swallow with his parched throat. He is tired, so hopelessly tired, as he drags himself up and into the shower to get ready for school.


    And it was dark and then the light returned, the light of a brand new day.

    © J.M. Conradie

    About Author

    Jan Conradie
    I say nothing about myself except what is suggested by what I write. Internet personas are unverifiable and dangerous to put any faith in whatsoever. Here I am"Jan Conradie"for lack of a better name, or Godspeller Jan for purposes of introducing a protagonist I am busy with today. For being kind to a stranger, you deserve to get some insight into my psyche, so I decided to give something instead of nothing. What little I have in life, is not on the web but in a little house somewhere in reality.


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