The Catalyst Chronicles
Episode 2 - Home
Some days suck more than others and today was turning out to be a sucky day. After a difficult installation and Jerry going all gangster on me, after all that, the dashboard of my Honda started squeaking. It wasn't a cute, timid little squeak, no sirree. It was an irritating, chalk on the blackboard noise that was shredding my last nerve. I turned up the radio hoping to mask the noise. No joy there. Every bump in the road produced a squawk that cut through the thump and wail from my favorite rock station. The squeaking got louder and more insistent as I drove through Saline and on into the countryside.
The dashboard generated an entirely new family of noises when I turned onto the graveled drive of the old gas station. The squeaking finally stopped when I pulled up under the canopy and killed the engine. Thank you God! loud rock and roll music gave way to the shrill sound of Spring Peepers. Natalia loves this eerie amphibian mating chorus, but the sound creeps me out. It's the sort of thing they put on horror movie soundtracks.
I leaned over and removed a wrench from the glove box. With all the repairs the old Honda needed over the years, the little wrench was starting to look like a shiny piece of abstract art. I gripped the the cool metal and drew a modest amount of energy from it. The energy flow warmed my hand and I directed the warmth across my chest and into the hand spread on the dashboard.
The energy enhanced my senses, allowing me to visualize the internal structure of the dashboard. Two of the mounting brackets had failed. Two decades of vibration and environmental extremes had fatigued the metal and the mounts were no longer supporting the load. The heavy dash was moving slightly, rubbing against the frame. I drew additional power from the wrench and directed the energy into the brackets, re-shaping them with my thoughts until everything was once again solid and supported. I stopped the flow and shivered as the added warmth dissipated from my arms and chest.
I unfolded myself from the driver's seat and grabbed my messenger bag with a grunt of pain. Hours of squatting during the book machine installation left me stiff and sore. As a physical Catalyst, I don't have any fixes for my fatigued parts. I had to rely on old-school remedies like rest and a tincture of time. I dragged my achy body toward the station and unlocked the door. It was good to be home.
Home. Yes, I live in a gas station, or more properly, a building that used to be a gas station. The boxy, two-bay structure was a decrepit, rodent-infested hulk when I bought it two years ago. Natalia told me I was crazy to purchase a neglected property in the middle of nowhere, but I loved the old building. I poured countless hours into restoring, remodeling, and re-purposing the structure. My Catalyst abilities allowed me to repair and strengthen the sagging structural elements at minimal cost. They also helped me to restore the enameled steel exterior to its original condition.
I closed the door with a sigh and locked my troubles outside. Wallet, phone, and keys found their proper places on the glass-topped entry table and I headed toward the kitchen.
The interior spaces would have been unrecognizable to the original designers. The sales area is now a living/dining room with an open kitchen at the back. The decor was “industrial chic” with a gridded open ceiling, polished concrete floors, area rugs, and shiny black granite counter tops. Cream-colored vertical blinds covered the large windows and Scandinavian cabinetry lined the common wall along the service bay. The living area consisted of a leather couch, recliner and a variety of tables facing a wall-sized flat-screen television. Natalia keeps giving me grief about my man cave.
I retrieved a piece of pie and a beer from the fridge and flopped into the over-sized recliner. The stress-induced fog lightened a bit as I took a sip of the brew and rolled the cold bottle against my forehead.
“I don’t approve of your dietary choices,” a soft Australian contralto complained. “Who’s going to provide for me after you meet an untimely end?”
“Hello Irma,” I said without opening my eyes. “What happened while I was away?”
Her emotion-laden “Hhuh,” told me that the conversation wasn’t over, merely postponed. Irma was my personal assistant, mother hen, and my artificial intelligence project. I’ve been adding features and modifying her unique programming for the past ten years.
“Your boss called and left four messages. He wants you to finish installing the book machine this weekend.”
“Yeah, he has a bug up his butt about this job. We’re a week ahead of schedule and he’s still pushing hard.”
“When is he ever satisfied?” Irma asked.
“Point taken. Anything else?”
There are four new room temperature superconductor papers in your review queue. The one from Stanford appears to be breaking new ground.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And two men were nosing around the station this afternoon.”
I froze with the bottle half-way to my lips. A sucky day just got suckier. “What were they doing?”
“One of them tried to open the doors of the Power Wagon and he was looking at the undercarriage. The other attempted to force the front door with a pry bar. When that didn’t work, he tried the back door.”
My stomach knotted with dread and uncertainty. Was this an attempted robbery or something much worse?
The dashboard generated an entirely new family of noises when I turned onto the graveled drive of the old gas station. The squeaking finally stopped when I pulled up under the canopy and killed the engine. Thank you God! loud rock and roll music gave way to the shrill sound of Spring Peepers. Natalia loves this eerie amphibian mating chorus, but the sound creeps me out. It's the sort of thing they put on horror movie soundtracks.
I leaned over and removed a wrench from the glove box. With all the repairs the old Honda needed over the years, the little wrench was starting to look like a shiny piece of abstract art. I gripped the the cool metal and drew a modest amount of energy from it. The energy flow warmed my hand and I directed the warmth across my chest and into the hand spread on the dashboard.
The energy enhanced my senses, allowing me to visualize the internal structure of the dashboard. Two of the mounting brackets had failed. Two decades of vibration and environmental extremes had fatigued the metal and the mounts were no longer supporting the load. The heavy dash was moving slightly, rubbing against the frame. I drew additional power from the wrench and directed the energy into the brackets, re-shaping them with my thoughts until everything was once again solid and supported. I stopped the flow and shivered as the added warmth dissipated from my arms and chest.
I unfolded myself from the driver's seat and grabbed my messenger bag with a grunt of pain. Hours of squatting during the book machine installation left me stiff and sore. As a physical Catalyst, I don't have any fixes for my fatigued parts. I had to rely on old-school remedies like rest and a tincture of time. I dragged my achy body toward the station and unlocked the door. It was good to be home.
Home. Yes, I live in a gas station, or more properly, a building that used to be a gas station. The boxy, two-bay structure was a decrepit, rodent-infested hulk when I bought it two years ago. Natalia told me I was crazy to purchase a neglected property in the middle of nowhere, but I loved the old building. I poured countless hours into restoring, remodeling, and re-purposing the structure. My Catalyst abilities allowed me to repair and strengthen the sagging structural elements at minimal cost. They also helped me to restore the enameled steel exterior to its original condition.
I closed the door with a sigh and locked my troubles outside. Wallet, phone, and keys found their proper places on the glass-topped entry table and I headed toward the kitchen.
The interior spaces would have been unrecognizable to the original designers. The sales area is now a living/dining room with an open kitchen at the back. The decor was “industrial chic” with a gridded open ceiling, polished concrete floors, area rugs, and shiny black granite counter tops. Cream-colored vertical blinds covered the large windows and Scandinavian cabinetry lined the common wall along the service bay. The living area consisted of a leather couch, recliner and a variety of tables facing a wall-sized flat-screen television. Natalia keeps giving me grief about my man cave.
I retrieved a piece of pie and a beer from the fridge and flopped into the over-sized recliner. The stress-induced fog lightened a bit as I took a sip of the brew and rolled the cold bottle against my forehead.
“I don’t approve of your dietary choices,” a soft Australian contralto complained. “Who’s going to provide for me after you meet an untimely end?”
“Hello Irma,” I said without opening my eyes. “What happened while I was away?”
Her emotion-laden “Hhuh,” told me that the conversation wasn’t over, merely postponed. Irma was my personal assistant, mother hen, and my artificial intelligence project. I’ve been adding features and modifying her unique programming for the past ten years.
“Your boss called and left four messages. He wants you to finish installing the book machine this weekend.”
“Yeah, he has a bug up his butt about this job. We’re a week ahead of schedule and he’s still pushing hard.”
“When is he ever satisfied?” Irma asked.
“Point taken. Anything else?”
There are four new room temperature superconductor papers in your review queue. The one from Stanford appears to be breaking new ground.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And two men were nosing around the station this afternoon.”
I froze with the bottle half-way to my lips. A sucky day just got suckier. “What were they doing?”
“One of them tried to open the doors of the Power Wagon and he was looking at the undercarriage. The other attempted to force the front door with a pry bar. When that didn’t work, he tried the back door.”
My stomach knotted with dread and uncertainty. Was this an attempted robbery or something much worse?
