Scales [Paperback]

The future of humanity rests in his hands - but is he still human? A mysterious accident leaves Matt Johnson with massive burns. When he recovers months later, he is no longer entirely human. His search to discover what happened to him and his struggle to survive in a hostile world, lead to discoveries which threaten the existence of human civilisation. He has a chance to avert disaster, but time is running out.. By the author of 'The Foresight War.'

Anthony G Williams is a military technology historian. He is the
author of 'Rapid Fire: The Development of Automatic Cannon, Heavy Machine
Guns and their Ammunition for Armies, Navies and Air Forces', and the
co-author of 'Assault Rifle: the Development of the Modern Military Rifle
and its Ammunition' (with Maxim Popenker) and the three-volume series
'Flying Guns: Development of Aircraft Guns, Ammunition and Installations'
(with Emmanuel Gustin).

'The Foresight War', set in an alternate Second World War, was his first
novel, published in 2004. His second novel, 'Scales', was published in
2007.

He lives in England, and maintains a website at quarry.nildram.co.uk

A story has to start somewhere. When the story is
autobiographical, the logical place to start is with birth. Except that to
understand the context, the reader may need to learn about parents, even
grandparents; was the subject born into wealth or poverty, privilege or
obscurity? My case is rather different in that this story starts, in
explosion and fire, when I was already past my forty-fifth birthday.

Picture the scene: a flat, fenland landscape typical of East Anglia. The
endless farmland stretching to the horizon, dissected by the ruler-straight
dykes and smaller drainage ditches planned by the Dutch when this part of
England was reclaimed from marshland centuries before.
The fields beginning to turn green with the first leaves of the vegetable
crops; later, they would be full of potatoes and sugar beet, carrots and
cabbage. Overhead, a vast open sky just dimming into dusk, a few wispy
clouds high above still glowing in the sun. A straggle of red-brick houses
along each side of a straight, narrow road running well above a land sunken
by drainage. A white-painted pub, red Bateman's sign swaying slightly in
the breeze. At one end of the small village, a house a little detached from
the rest, three stories tall but shallow from front to back, set in a
square plot bordered by tall poplars to screen the cold north wind, a few
remaining daffodils nodding over the lawn. A late spring scene of rural
tranquillity, disturbed only by birdsong.

Inside the house a man is sitting in his study. He is approaching a
sedentary middle age and casually dressed, the study furnished in a
comfortably old-fashioned style, with several packed wooden bookcases and
worn chairs. In complete contrast is the latest style of portable computer
which the man is using to finish an article.

"The arguments in favour of Intelligent Design have therefore been
systematically countered by scientists such
as Dr. Miller. More fundamentally, the principles underlying it have been
attacked as unscientific. The
scientific method is an objective process which depends
upon observation and analysis. The proposition that life was designed by
some superior intelligence, intervening
in an undetectable way, is the very antithesis of science.
It explains nothing, and cannot even explain itself. Despite this, and the
devastating verdict of the judge at
the Dover school board trial, the religious basis for ID
means that its true believers will not be shaken. They
continue to press for it to be taught as an 'alternative theory' in schools
both in the USA and the UK. Those
who care about the integrity of science need to remain on
their guard."

He reviewed the final paragraph, saved it, and made a back-up copy. He
removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He would email the article
to a journal in the morning; not one of the science ones, of course - their
subscribers would already be familiar with the issues - but one aimed at a
more general readership.

In the meantime, he deserved his usual small celebration after completing a
project. He contemplated a glass of wine before deciding in favour of the
grain rather than the grape, as he planned to walk to the pub for his
evening meal and a jar or two of ale with the regulars. He
went to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of Straffe Hendrik from the
fridge. The strong Bruges beer poured pale yellow and frothy into its
wide-mouthed glass. The man walked into the lounge, selected his favourite
Dave Brubeck LP, and settled in his old leather armchair to
enjoy the combined pleasures of mellow jazz and fine ale.

He was just beginning to relax when he became aware of a rising tension in
the room, like a strong electrical field. Puzzled, he turned to look around
the room. At that instant, his world came to an end.

The explosion sent tiles flying from the roof and bricks spilling outwards.
The blaze followed immediately, flames roaring through the wreckage. Sounds
of alarm, of dogs barking; doors opening and villagers rushing to the
scene, only to be held back by the ferocity of the fire. A blackened,
charred, figure, crawling from the ruins. The man heard gasps of horror and
cries of concern from the villagers: 'For God's sake, call an ambulance!'
Then silence, darkness and oblivion.