This is the first 2 pages of a science fiction story I'm writing. It is set in a world with alternative physics ad the lead character is a mad scientist called Penrose
Beside the Matter Dimensional Engine, Penrose Munro adjusted the controls, watching the needle twitch as he worked with the intense focus of a chess grandmaster. The sanctum felt as if it were trying to hold its breath as the pressure climbed the gauges. He shifted his stance, his eyes widening. He frantically tapped the glass of the pressure dial, feeling the subtle shudder of the atomic skin holding firm against the atmospheric displacement.
Through the reinforced glass of the intake bay, Detective Malfoy approached. His hat began to tip off his head as his stride brought him closer, but he caught it with his hand, pinning it to his head before the low-pressure lock snagged their next victim. The detective, his hand still firmly holding his hat to his head, peered through the glass at the mad scientist, his eyes fixed on the experiment Penrose seemed to have little control over. Penrose glanced over towards the detective and gestured frantically, as if to say, "Be with you in a moment." He missed the mark on the calm he intended as he wrestled with the increasing discomfort of the manifold. He cycled the pressure valves, bringing the dimensional engine back into its comfort zone before allowing the detective in. As the door opened, the hiss of equalising gases filled the room, sounding like a greedy animal exhaling in the dark.
"The readings you sent over are impossible, Malfoy," Penrose said, clearing a space for the compass on the lead-lined workbench. Malfoy did not respond immediately, instead he focused on the way the stray particulates in the air began to settle in the new equilibrium. “It always amazes me how the forces of your machine’s…” Penrose interrupts. “Forces Malfoy! Getting a little technical for you” Malfoy smile as he continues “leave the technical stuff to me. A vortex signature this clean shouldn't exist inside the city limits unless someone is running a bootleg engine without a scrubber."
"It's not a bootleg, Munro," Malfoy replied as he reached into his coat and pulled out a data-slate. "It’s a signal. And the frequency is an 80 percent match for the last log entry on your father’s prototype."
PAGE 2
“The readings were pulled from the Old Canal sector,” Malfoy said, pacing the room as Penrose began to locked the compass onto the signal. “Right on the edge of the industrial drain.”
Penrose stared at the coordinate grid, his hand freezing on the brass slider of the compass. "The Old Canal? That doesn't make sense, Malfoy. The prototype is locked deep in the shipyard sub-levels—it's been sitting cold for three years, since the day he disappeared. If you're picking up its frequency from the drain, it can't be the engine itself."
He tapped the glass casing of his display, watching the needle struggle to find its heading. "It has to be an echo. A feedback loop."
If the signal truly carried his father’s specific displacement signature, it meant the friction tax hadn’t claimed the old man yet—it meant the atomic skin of the original prototype was still holding a pocket somewhere in the crush. Penrose dragged the substrate compass back across the scarred surface of the lead-lined workbench, the metal skittering slightly as his fingers traced the familiar grooves of the brass housing. He ignored the detective cautiously snooping around the sanctum, focusing instead on the compass’s dial. To trust Malfoy’s slate was one thing, but to settle a vector required the raw, unscrubbed feedback only a Munro-built needle could provide.
“Feel free to make yourself a coffee,” Penrose suggested. “I take mine black with no sugar! This may take a while,” he said with a wry grin, glancing at the detective as he waited for the compass needle to settle.
“Where’s the coffee machine?” Malfoy muttered, his eyes searching the room.
“What coffee machine?” Penrose said, his smile widening. “Starbucks is just down the street.” He let out a chuckle.
Malfoy's shoulders dropped in a moment of realisation. “Same old tricks, Penrose,” he said, shaking his head as he made his way towards the door, leaving Penrose alone with his thoughts.
Three years, Penrose thought to himself, still waiting for the needle to settle. Could it be him? Surely not after all these years. No one could survive. Before his thoughts could drag him deeper into the fantasy of his father's return, the compass vibrated twice against the desk, indicating the needle had finally locked.
