Copyright© 2008 by Shakes Peer2B
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Many of us grow up thinking we're different than those around us. Nils Gustafson knew he was. This is the story of how he took advantage of those differences. (No, it's not a mind control story, and while there's sex, that's not the subject of this one.)
I've heard of people who grew up feeling that they were 'different' from those around them. In many ways, I suppose most of us do. We are, after all, individuals, isolated from those around us by our very individuality. Many spend their entire lives trying to 'fit in' and thus, erase those differences.
From an early age, I knew that I really was different, and from that point forward, 'fitting in' was never an option. I believe I was eight years old when I first began to realize that I was not the same as those around me. My mother was scolding me for something that I had done, and I continued playing my video game as she ranted.
Finally, she shouted, "Turn that damned thing off and listen to me!"
"I am listening," I said, continuing to shoot bad guys as fast as they popped up.
Frustrated, my mother ripped the controller from my hands and shouted, "No you're not! You can't listen and play video games at the same time!"
I can't? I thought, dumbfounded. But I remember every word!
I could, in fact, have refuted several of the points she had made, had it been safe to do so, but I had learned, even at that age, that when mom was in one of those moods, it was best to just let her wind down.
While she was winding, however, the part of my brain that wasn't required for listening, and now didn't have video games to occupy it, began to wonder if others could split their attention like that, or if what mom had said was true. Could people really not do something as simple as listening to someone else talk while engaged in other activities?
I filed it away, but soon, other evidence began to emerge. As I progressed through school, for instance, I never understood the claims my friends made about having to study. I mean, when I needed knowledge, it came to me. I soon discovered that it was better to pretend than to let others know that I didn't have study, and to occasionally get a question wrong on a test. I could have aced them all, but I didn't want the kind of attention that brought me. I didn't want to be a phenomenon, so I did my best to blend in. Not that my best got me much better than Head Nerd status, but I could live with that. Nerds were anonymous.
At least, we were until the #1 BMOC - the quarterback of the football team and heartthrob of every girl in school - decided to pick on me.
I was minding my own business, talking to some of the other nerds, when a hard shove from behind caused me to collide with the guy I was talking to.
"Why don't you watch where I'm going?!" I heard.
Now, mind you, the closest I've ever been to a martial arts class was while playing video games, so it came as a surprise to everyone around, including me, when I spun off of the guy I'd been shoved into and turned the spin into a roundhouse kick that decked the Big Man On Campus. One of the linemen from the team who always hung out with BMOC, stared dumbfounded for a moment, then decided that I shouldn't have done that.
"Why you little pipsqueak!" he said, lumbering toward me while making fists the size of my head.
I have heard other people talk about the fear and adrenalin of such moments, but all I felt was a surreal calm. I watched him come and from the way his body moved, I knew exactly how he was going to attack. I also knew exactly where to hit him to disable the arm he intended to hit me with first, then the other arm, and finally both legs. I don't know what others saw, but to me it was a surgical operation. Precise, and with no wasted motion, and it ended with me scanning the crowd for other threats, as if I had done this sort of thing all my life.
There were no other threats. The kids gathered around us gaped at me in a kind of horror, as if I were a monster from outer space, or something. I wondered idly what they would have thought if I had made some of the other choices that flitted through my mind - the ones that wound up with the guy lying dead at my feet. With the threat neutralized, time sped up again and I looked around. BMOC lay unconscious on the floor of the hallway, and the lineman lay twitching and groaning a couple of feet away. He would be able to move, soon, but he would have some rather painful charley horses for a while. As that thought occurred to me, I wondered how I knew that, and how I had been able to defeat these two so easily.
"He didn't say a word!" one girl was whispering to another. "It was like he was a trained killer, or something!"
How I heard that from ten feet away, I also didn't know, but that was the point at which I began to know that I was different. I, a ninth grade nerd, had just destroyed two of the toughest seniors in the school. What did I feel? Justified. No elation, no fear, no pride. I felt that I had reacted with appropriate force, nothing more.
A teacher soon appeared and asked what had happened. The explanations were, to say the least, somewhat biased. Most of the kids liked the other two. The only ones on my side were the other nerds, who were looking at me with something akin to awe.
When my parents arrived, it got worse.
"Mr. and Mrs. Gustafson, I don't know where you sent your son for martial arts training, but it has no place in this school!" the Principal told them.
"Martial arts?" my parents asked, looking confused, as well they might. "He hasn't had any martial arts training, Mr. Bekins."
"Then please explain to me how he was able to put two of our finest football players in the hospital!" I watched the spittle fly from Bekins' fat lips, calculating the various trajectories of the droplets as my mind did it's two-things-at-once number. "From what the other students tell me, it was an unprovoked attack."
"For the record," I said tiredly, knowing no one would be listening, "Nelson attacked me from behind, and his friend Stark came for me after I took Nelson out."
"That's not what the others are saying!"
Suddenly, there was a picture in my mind of the hallway at the moment of the attack. I could see, as if from above, the positions of every person there. "Only three people saw the beginning of the incident," I said. "Walter Meegan who was facing me, Sandra Campbell, who was talking to her friend across the hall, and Bebe Dumont, who was behind Nelson and Stark as they came down the hall."
"And how would you know that?" Bekins asked. "According to your story, you were facing away from Nelson and Stark when they attacked."
Oh shit! I thought, here we go again.
From there, it went downhill. Trying to explain would only make it worse, especially since I didn't know how I could know who was behind me. Instead, I just said, "Look, just talk to those three. Maybe I'll get lucky and they'll tell the truth."
Fortunately for me, they did, but it didn't keep me from being suspended. Bekins was a football fan and didn't like having two of his best players out of commission, even if it was for only one game.
Mom and Dad were confused, and I had nothing to offer for their comfort. "I don't know," I shrugged repeatedly, "it just came to me!"
Was I a mindreader? If so, I couldn't do it consciously - I know, I tried. Was I some kind of robot? Every physical I'd ever had seemed normal. I know I sound detached from my parents, but then I've never really felt attached to anyone. Mom and Dad were good enough parents, but they had no more tools for understanding what I was than anyone else. Hell, who would?
I stayed around the house for the two weeks of my suspension, playing video games and doing whatever chores Mom set for me. She and dad, at least, knew I was strange, and didn't bother me too much about the incident. They were inclined to believe me, about being attacked, I mean. What was hard for them, as it was for everyone else, was what I did about it.
"Leave him alone, Martha," I overheard Dad saying, one night. "Just be thankful they didn't put him in the hospital."
I suspect that dad was a nerd in school, too. I've seen his high school pictures.
That two weeks gave me plenty of time for introspection, and one of the things that occupied my consciousness was how I had been able to replay the entire scene in my head, including what was going on behind me. Eventually, the only logical possibility emerged, and with it, the realization that I could use it in real time. Somehow, one or more of those wierd things that was part of me included the ability to 'see' with my ears. To be more precise, I could tell from the way sound reflected off of things, what and or who was around me, kinda like that Daredevil character in the comic books, only I wasn't blind. It was another one of those things like the fighting that should have taken years of practice to be able to use, but like the fighting, it came to me.
Anyway, I finally went back to school, and resumed my classes. I didn't seem to have missed anything important, because I kept having to remember not to get all the answers right on the tests and quizzes. What was different was the way people treated me. The 'Nerd Knockers' (hey, nobody ever said they were smart) as they used to call themselves, gave me a wide berth, but the A list girls, the ones who didn't even know I existed before the fight, suddenly took an interest in me.
I tried to keep a low profile, but I had become something of a hero to the rest of the nerds and they kept trying to start stuff on my behalf. I finally had to ask them to stop, saying I'd never get into Harvard if I got suspended again. That was an argument they could relate to, though, truth be told, I had no idea what college, if any, I would attend.
It was nice to have dates for a change. It was also nice to discover, from those dates, that between my legs I was also different from other guys, in a good way. As with the fighting and the sonar stuff, the first time one of the girls came on to me, I knew just what to do. There was no fumbling around, trying to figure out what went where or how I should touch her, or any of that stuff that I've heard and read about kids having to deal with their first time with a girl. I was apparently pretty good at it, too.
I never talked about my dates, but word got around, and the clamoring of beautiful girls to go out with me almost caused my second fight. Fortunately, this time, I had time to think about it, and a little help from the girl in question.
There was a new BMOC since Nelson got his butt kicked, and it seems that this one, a basketball star named Gomez, didn't like me screwing his girlfriend. He accosted me in the cafeteria one day.
"You keep your hands off Felicia, Gustafson!" he said loudly, poking me in the chest with his finger.
I didn't want a repeat of the scene in the hallway, so I said, "Okay." and sat down to eat.
Felicia happened to be nearby. I kinda liked her - she put her heart and soul into every blowjob, and was the only one of them who could take me all the way down. She apparently liked the things I did to her, too.
"You just get out of his face, Mario!" she shouted. "If you were half the man he is, there wouldn't be a problem. All you think about is getting yourself off. You never think about me. Why the hell do you think every girl in this school wants Nils? It's because he knows how to please a girl! You jocks are all about getting what you want. You never think about what we want!"
Really? I had thought they wanted me for my big ... Well, now that I thought of it, I did spend a good deal of time on each of my dates making sure that they got what they wanted. Thing was, I seemed to know what each of them, individually, wanted, and how to give it to them.
Needless to say, high school was a mixed up, confusing time, but not for the reasons that it was for most kids. I didn't feel like I was all that smart, but when I needed to know something, I knew it - not just in my head, but in my whole body. Like the fighting. That kind of thing doesn't come to you unless your muscles know it as well as your brain. For most people, that takes years of practice.
Take baseball. For a while, I had to dodge the baseball coach, because one day at PE I forgot and hit the ball. I not only hit it, I hit it over the fence - against the team's all-conference pitcher's best curve ball.
"Lucky swing," I told them later. "I had my eyes closed."
I hadn't, of course. Just like in the fight, I could see the ball coming, and as if in slow motion, I watched it spin and knew it was going to curve down and away. I saw its trajectory in my mind, and timed my swing to snap through that spot, with the bat angled this way, so that if I was a little off on my timing, the ball would split the gap between first and second. It went straight down the path I had planned, but I caught the sweet spot on the bat and it sailed easily over the fence.
Oh shit! I thought, as I took my time getting around the bases. Here we go again.
With four bases to tag, you would think I could have come up with a better excuse than 'Lucky Swing', but that was one of the problems with my so-called 'gift': It didn't help me make up excuses. It only gave me reasons to need them.
Somehow, I survived high school and went on to college. No, I didn't go to Harvard. Even with all the care I took not to ace too many tests, my grades were good enough. Problem was, they didn't think I had enough extra-curricular activities. I read that as 'sports'. I guess they didn't consider Chess Club and such as the right kind of extracurricular activity. Stanford accepted me though, which was cool. By the time I moved to Palo Alto, I had learned some survival techniques. In college, pretty much everybody was a nerd except the sports teams, and they had to keep to themselves a lot. They also knew better than to pick on the nerds because we outnumbered them, and some of them needed our help to keep their GPAs at acceptable levels so they could keep playing.
Even among the nerds, however, I was a freak. I had gotten better at not showing it, but that didn't keep me from knowing it. Freshman and Sophomore years weren't too bad. Junior and Senior years, I had to bite my tongue a lot to keep from contradicting the professors. See, a lot of the stuff that they presented as factual, was pure bullshit.
How did I know? Well, whatever it was that kept feeding me knowledge, fed me stuff that made a lot more sense than some of the stuff they were teaching. So, like a good student, I learned the wrong stuff, regurgitated it for the tests, then promptly forgot it.
I majored in Business, and saved some of the money I kept begging Mom and Dad for. (With the money they sent me for a new computer, I bought a memory upgrade for my old one, and put the rest in my stash, that kind of thing.) I didn't buy a lot of clothes, or spend a lot on dates. Oh, I had a few girlfriends, but most of them were willing to pay for the dates because they loved what I did for them in bed. No, that's not my ego talking, It's just a statement of fact.
When I had a couple of thousand saved up, I started investing. E-trade was my friend and bosom companion. By the time I finished college, I had amassed a respectable portfolio, and if my parents had known how much I was worth, they would have fallen over dead.
So, I came out of college pretty well set up, financially, and paused to take stock of my life. It was pretty clear that I was different than those around me, and I had, by that time, amassed enough data about those differences to formulate a hypothesis. There were really only three ways that I could have come into existence: Mutation or, as I preferred to think of it, evolution. I could be a robot or android manufactured by some mad scientist or government program. Or, I could be the result of genetic engineering.
Well, okay, mutation or evolution might account for some of my abilities, but it couldn't account for the knowledge that kept popping up when I needed it. Manufacture was patently absurd. I defy you to figure out how anyone could build a robot or android that could grow like a normal child, and pass all of the physicals that human children undergo in their lifetimes (if their parents are well enough off to keep them in school). That left genetic engineering.
So, I was the product of genetic engineering, but my working hypothesis was that whoever created me was not human. Why? Because I knew things that my professors didn't know. More to the point, I knew the stuff that future generations would use to debunk the stuff these guys knew. Now it's possible that someone on Earth had that knowledge and somehow stored it in my DNA. I was pretty sure though, that not only did no human have the knowledge, but they didn't know how to put it in someone's DNA, either. So, I was created by aliens.
No, Mom wasn't abducted and impregnated, but my biological mother probably was. Oh, right! You thought the dark-haired, average-height kid was the biological offspring of two tall, blonde Scandinavians? Hah! I found the adoption papers in my father's locked file cabinet when I was twelve. I had been abandoned as a newborn. My mother was unknown. And I knew how to pick a lock.
Given what I figured had produced me, I couldn't blame my biological mom. She was probably in a mental institution somewhere, babbling incoherently about alien abduction and horrible experiments, and, oh yeah, giving birth to the aliens' baby.
Some of you might think that my next move would be to go find my dear old biological mother, but I couldn't see wasting my life in a pursuit that was bound to end in disappointment. No, I had money, and I had a plan.