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Aiken Drum

Dedicated to Julian May


Daniel Thomas Andrew Daly

Copyright 6178 SC

Aiken Drum

'Who's the kid?' asked Serge.
'His name is Aiken. He's a trouble maker,' said Mack.
'Aren't we all,' replied Serge.
'There's something weird about him. I get vibes. When I'm talking to him, it's like I feel my mind being read, or my thoughts being extracted. It's fucking nuts.'
'Schizo cunt, is he?' asked Serge, the leader of the brat pack. 'Schizophrenia – sign of the next stage in evolution, some people say. Will come into your family, and you'll be one of those psycho wizards of the new order.'
'Your the pscyho wizard,' said Mack, chuckling.
'I'll psycho your butt if your not careful buddy,' replied Serge, and glared at Aiken, sitting in the cafeteria of the delinquent's home, by himself, eating his lunch.
'I think I'll talk to the faggot,' said Serge.
'He'll zonk you,' said Mack.
'We'll see,' replied the tough guy.

'Hey, faggot? Do you take it up the arse, or what?'
Aiken turned to the hostile head kid of the juvie jail. He did not look friendly. Tall, big muscles, and a nasty look on his face most of the time. A perfect one to mes around with.
'What you doing in a place like this?' asked Serge. 'You didn't enjoy fucking your grandma enough that you had to do a cow or something, and get seen?'
'Only the ones you do first,' replied the cheeky Aiken, and his mind started connecting to Serge. He looked through, and found what he needed.
Serge sat down.
'I run the show, punk' said Serge to Aiken.
'How's your uncle?' Aiken asked Serge. Serge, suddenly, looked guilty.
'What uncle, dildo?' he asked him.
'Uh, Michael wasn't it. The one you had that run in with.'
'Who the fuck told you about that?' asked Serge, ready to reach over and punch Aiken.
'I read it. In your aura,' said Aiken. He was lying. He read Serge's thoughts. It was a – power – within him. He didn't talk about it, and it was latent most of the time, but he could sense thought, ideas in peoples head, especially guilty secrets. He saw them in his mind. He was a wizard, he knew it. Or worse – a psychic or something.
'Did you enjoy sucking his cock?' asked Aiken.
Serge reached over and grabbed Aiken by the arms. 'If you EVER tell anyone what me and my uncle did, I will fucking kill you.'
'Sure buddy,' said Aiken, Grinning madly.
Serge stood, and glared at Aiken. 'You are fucking weird, kid. Fucking weird.' And he walked off, leaving a happy Aiken Drum, member of Lockwood County Juvenile home, and current troublemaker of the community for far too many as far as society was concerned.

The End

Aiken Drum II

Aiken was free. Released from Juvie, 15 years old, a life to lead. Lockwood county, on this planet he lived, was his home for a while now, and he intended to make it his home no longer. He was thinking big – intuitively – psychically. He wanted a piece of the pie, so was heading for 'Dragonsturm City', the capital of the country he lived in. In Dragonsturm he knew a guy who was connected to the people you needed to be connected to. This of the underground world, real bastards, who killed for a living, and excited themselves with sex, drug and rock and roll. Aiken's kind of people.

He looked in his wallet – it still had the remains of his last dole cheque before he had gone into Juvie. So, with the wind in his sails, he shouldered his backpack, stuck out his thumb, and continue walking down the highway headed for Dragonsturm.


The prostitute wasn't much to look at, and Aiken's virginity was gone, but he kissed her and felt her mind. She'd been with countless lovers, the old hag, and Aiken was just another joe on just another nights work. Hag? Well, she was actually reasonably attractive for a lady in her mid 30s, but it wasn't exactly what Aiken wanted. But what was he going to do? Complain? The other broad in the brothel looked practically 50, and she had all sorts of acne scars. No thanks mate.

He looked in his wallet as he walked back onto the nightstrip street. Not much cash. Where did his friend live again? What was that address?

He found a phonebooth with a miraculous telephone book still in it, and found a map inside. And then it clicked over in his mind – his gift – and instantly he found where he was meant to be going, and his mind knew how to take him there. Almost by instinct.

A few hours later he knocked on a door, and Jack Smith opened it, looked at his old buddy, and grabbed him by the hand and shook it.
'Peace, bro,' said the black skinned adolescent of about 19. 'You here to party?'
'I'm here to party,' nodded Aiken.
'Then come in, mon. Come in. And don't mind the reggae. I'll be playing it now, just for you, you hear. Just for you, mon.'
Aiken went inside, and he found his new home – at least for the next 2 years anyway.

It was partying, drug dealing, boozing, broading and reggae. Bob Marley owned the home by the looks of it. And Jack was whack, and got whacked every night, in the central living room which had no windows, were the smoke was thick at night, and Jack's girlfriend, Veronica, in her eternal miniskirt and bikini, always gave Aiken that funny look, as if she were up for it. And one afternoon, when Jack was out dealing, she was. Aiken found he liked brown sugar, and wrote her name in his heart for a while.

His mind, though, was alive. With sensory data. Drugs only seemed to highlight it, and he was instinctively cutting out newspaper articles of the milieu on psychic awareness. He felt, somewhere inside this nonborn kid, there was a power, but it was latent. Somehow that was true. But he had the seersmanship of the ancient crafts in him anyway, but still he longed for something more. A greater connection to that mystery which ran through creation.

He noticed a torc, one afternoon, at the 'Celtic Glory' souvenir shop down the road. And he touched his neck, and reacted as if somehow it was important, but did not understand why. Could not understand why. And he drew pictures of them, and fancied himself a warrior, and thought in his heart he had this great, big and fantastic destiny.

And then he got back to his dealing, and his drug use, and rock and roll. And Veronica. He got back to Veronica.

But still there was something deeper. Still there was something which nagged at him. Some plan or some life or some destiny. Something. Something which knew his potential and knew exactly what and who he was.

And knew exactly where he would be soon enough.

The End

Aiken Drum III

The dark metal bludgeoned on the speakers – Poisonblack, Aiken's favourite. He looked at Veronica, naked in front of him, and as he went down and 'Nothing Else Remains' blasted away, he felt the darkness, and an absence of light, and as he tasted her dark fire, he knew he should fear.

'Bitch? You been unfaithful?' asked Jack, looking at the condom on the floor, as they smoked weed.
Veronica looked guilty. 'It's just been me and Aiken all day.'
Jack looked at Aiken, who sort of gave a shrug. 'Look, man. She was asking me for it all the time. You know, I had to.'
'You cunt,' swore Jack. And suddenly, in a moment of madness, he took out his blade and lunged at Aiken.
It happened instantly – immediately – and it must have been the fire which remained also. As if in protection of his person, a power locked onto Jack's mind, coerced him, and made him turn the blade on himself, and plunge it into his own stomach.
As he lay there, bleeding away, his eyes looked heavenwards.
'Fuck, hey. So short a fucking life,' said Jack, as Veronica was in tears, and Aiken just looked down upon his dying mate.
'Such is life,' said Jack. And was gone.

The police were suspicious. They weren't buying the suicide claim and, not for the first time, Aiken Drum's name was recorded, linked with suspicious activity, and society was starting to question just how much it needed this particular citizen hanging around.

'I'm moving on,' he told Veronica. 'This city – is dead. I need a new start.'
She reached out and touched his shoulder. 'Wait. I bought you something.' She rushed inside, and soon returned, with that torc from the souvenir shop.
'You might need this,' she said, smiling.
He looked at it, and for a moment he was going to take it, but thought better of it.
'Keep it. You could probably use it. I have a feeling, whatever it is about that thing, I'll know soon enough. Soon enough.'
'Seeya dickhead,' she said smiling.
'Seeya bitch,' he replied, reached out and touched her cheek, and was gone. Off with the wind, again searching, again looking for where Aiken Drum fitted in the world.

The End

Aiken Drum IV

At 14, when he had returned from his attempted flight to Caledonia, Aiken Drum had stood before his surrogate parents. He was a nonborn, and they said to him, 'Dalriada needs real people, Aiken. You have freedom, now, for 4 years. Come home when you are 18. When you have sown your wild oats. Maybe that will get this knavish way out of you.'
And so Aiken wandered the towns of Dalriada, his homeworld, and met Jack Smith, and did time in Juvie at 15, and then hooked up with Jack for a while in his place in the Capital Drangsturm.

But he was 18 now, and they knew who he was, and a counsellor had found him in a back street alley, were he was smoking weed, and said to him 'Go home Aiken Drum. We'll see if we can make a man of you yet.'
And so Aiken went home.

Jonathon Angus Drum was proud of his son Aiken. But he was also ashamed. When the lad walked in door and said 'How the fuck are you then?' he was not greatly surprised – more saddened than anything.
Jonathon spoke with Jessica.
'He hasn't changed. The freedom we have given him has only confirmed that inner voice of rebellion he listens to.'
Jessica, Aiken's surrogate mother, sadly agreed.

Engineering school didn't change much, although he was naturally talented, and had all the potential in the world, so his lecturers told Mr and Mrs Drum.
'But he is such a damn nuisance. A penchant for practical jokes like I've never seen. It is like there is this high class of intelligent savage within him which mocks us all for our mere 'human' ways, and grants no respect to the lessers he must associate with. He's a misfit. As simple as that.'

He got to 21, and Dalriada, a proud member of the Galactic Milieu, had had enough.

'You have 3 options,' the Milieu elitist said to Aiken.
'Dalriada correctional institution can house you permanently. Alternatively, you can have a docilization unit implanted psychosurgically.'
'Charming,' responded Aiken. 'What's the third option?'
'You can always choose Euthanasia,' said the Milieu official, a sarcastic grin on his face. Aiken was not impressed.

Aiken spat on the ground next to him and looked at the official. 'On Earth. The time gate. Back to the ancient world. Exile. Is that an option?'
The milieu looked at the person of Aiken Drum, and considered the eternal potential ramifications to the heart of the timestream which such a decision might make. And then he looked at the character assessment report in front of him and the trouble he had caused Dalriada.
'We'll book you on the next flight,' said the official.
'Wonderful,' replied Aiken. 'Bloody wonderful.'

The End