Reflections in the Mind's Eye

by Stuart Young

  ‘A spaceship. You could build a spaceship.’

  ‘We’re already standing on the most perfect spaceship in the universe. It whips through space at 108,000 kilometres per hour and it comes complete with sunlight, gravity, a breathable atmosphere and, barring the odd hole in the ozone layer, a fully functioning ecosphere.’

  ‘If it’s so perfect then why do you want to destroy it?’

  ‘I don’t. I just want to blow up part of it. You’re a military man, surely you can empathise.’

  ‘You’re insane!’

  ‘Your medical team cut out my brain before it could die along with the rest of my body and stuck me in a jar. Going insane was pretty much inevitable.’

  Hopely’s jar trundled forward on its caterpillar tracks, aiming to roll over the remote.

  Franklin thumbed back the pistol’s hammer. ‘I can’t let you press that button.’

  Huge explosions echoed around the laboratory as the bullets ripped through the sound barrier on their way to their target. The jar rocked under the impact, chunks of brain and shards of plastic spraying out the back, nutrient fluid gushing from the gaping exit wounds. A web of cracks surrounded the smaller entry wounds on the front of the jar; wrinkles around a set of blank, dead eyes.

  Hopely struggled to utter his final words. ‘You do realise you could’ve just taken the batteries out of the remote?’

  Franklin didn’t answer. He lowered his pistol and his head. Shoulders sagged, knees wilted; his skeleton too weary to support the flesh and bone that hung from it.

  Then he jerked upright as a bullet burst through his chest.

  A second bullet took him in the stomach as he stumbled backwards and two more thudded into his hip, shattering his pelvis. He crashed to the floor, dead.

  Hopely came out from his hiding place, one of the robotic arms on his jar clutching a smoking pistol. He looked over at the decoy jar that Franklin had shot. Hopely should have been insulted that Franklin mistook a pig’s brain for his own glorious mental organ but he didn’t have time for vanity. He had a world to save.

  Trundling forward he pressed the button.

  The world screamed.

  The explosion at the Earth’s core sent shockwaves through layers of rock, ripping through the mantle, fissures spreading across the globe, lengthening, deepening, turning to bottomless chasms. Tectonic plates ground together, flattening mountains, severing continents. Buildings toppled, enraged volcanoes spat lava. Entire oceans turned to tidal waves, engulfing towns and cities as they attempted to cleanse the wounds in the world’s hide. But there was to be no release from the destruction.

  The world split in two.

  One half spun out of orbit, then the other, the two of them circling each other warily as they drifted across the solar system seeking a new course away from the asteroid.

  Hopely could hear the survivors outside the laboratory, screaming as they stumbled about the research complex. The piercing yells stabbed deep into his auditory cortex, chilling him.

  They reminded him of the screams that haunted him when he awoke in the jar after the car crash. The monitors had not yet been installed so the jar served as a sensory deprivation tank, sealing him off from the outside world. Neurones fired and synapses twitched, digging through his memories, dusting off forgotten thoughts and sensations in a futile attempt to fill his empty existence. These reminiscences swiftly mutated into visual and auditory hallucinations, nostalgia mingling with imagination to spawn demons of the mind.

  Screams. Of loved ones. Of hated ones. Of those he had never even met. The screams gained shapes and colours, textures and smells – synthetic synaethesia. The screams became a razor-edged sculpture of bones and steel, glinting with black and purple blood, stinking of faeces and rotting flesh.

  Even after the sensors were installed, saving him from this hell, it took six weeks of therapy before he stopped crying.

  The screams from the corridors outside sounded too familiar, jarring his concentration. He needed to focus, to confirm that his plan had worked, that he hadn’t merely swapped one form of annihilation for another.

  He switched off his audio sensors.

  The screams didn’t stop.

  The calculations Hopely had needed to perform before putting his plan into action had been fiendishly difficult but not as difficult as deciding in whom to confide.

  He may have been a brilliant polymath, excelling in over a half dozen different fields, but even he needed assistance with such a complicated scheme.

  He had been teamed with the world’s greatest scientists to work on his bogus black hole project and he quickly set about determining who could be trusted to aid him in his real plan. The others he left squabbling over the specifics of event horizons and Hawking radiation.

  Meanwhile Hopely and his co-conspirators laid their plans. It was not enough to merely knock the Earth out of its orbit, without the moon the Earth’s tides would be out of control. And detonating the explosion on the Earth’s surface or even in the upper reaches of the Earth’s atmosphere would cause unacceptable fatalities. Detonating the device at the Earth’s core solved multiple problems: the population would be shielded from the blast; the thermobaric bomb would be kept away from adverse weather conditions which might otherwise render the effects of the explosion unpredictable; and, once split, the two halves of the Earth would circle each other, each acting as the other’s moon, one controlling the tides of the Atlantic, the other controlling those of the Pacific.

  It was vital that both halves of the Earth possessed oceans in order to keep their respective ecospheres as stable as possible. Hopely may have been part of the world famous terraforming experiment that caused a wealth of green finery to miraculously sprout from a fire bucket, spawning the newspaper headline “Where There’s Life There’s Hope”, but he remembered all too well that the vegetation had consisted entirely of weeds, brambles and stinging nettles – it took weeks for him to get rid of that rash from the poison ivy. Even with the nanites working overtime the terraforming equipment needed strong raw materials to work with. The less damage it had to repair the better.

  Hopely worked tirelessly with his team of specialists checking equations, refining theories, spending every waking hour with authorities on botany, zoology, astrophysics and a multitude of other disciplines.

  He didn’t just need their expertise, he needed their judgement. Although he said nothing to his therapists he was still traumatised by the loss of his body. Plagued by bad dreams, unsure of his own sanity; doubt hacked away at his usual supreme self-confidence.

  Could he be trusted?

  But now his plan had succeeded. He had saved humanity.

  All that remained was to inform the survivors. He wished them to share in his joy.

  After the third attempt on his life Hopely began to realise that he had misjudged people’s reaction to his plan. Naturally he had anticipated some resentment but nothing on this scale.

  Hopely couldn’t understand why people hated him so much. He accepted that people blamed him for all the deaths caused by the Earth being torn in two but he thought the fact that he saved millions of lives would redress the balance. It didn’t.

  People thought him a murderer. A deranged terrorist out to conquer what was left of the Earth. Bad enough that he had lied about using a black hole to save the planet, spreading false hope, but to be the one who actually blew the planet up marked him as the most dangerous lunatic history had ever produced.

  His appearance didn’t help. When he broadcast his message to the two halves of the Earth he had filled the screen with a stock photo of himself, taken before the car crash, hoping his celebrity status would help calm the survivors. But shortly afterwards a photograph of Hopely floating in his jar was beamed across the two segments of the Earth.

  The picture shocked the world. Revealing Hopely as not just a lunatic but a monster.

  Perhaps if some of his team had survived they could have presented a more acceptable face – o
r any face at all. But, unable to bring their families to the safe haven of the research complex without raising eyebrows, they had chosen to brave the earthquakes with their loved ones.

  Only one of the team survived, Kelly Saunders. And even she was tainted by association due to the work she had performed with Hopely experimenting with organic nanites.

  Hopely remained hated.

  So now a death squad crept along the corridors towards him, following their stolen blueprints of the research complex, disguised as soldiers, wielding their pistols and submachine-guns, led by a tall man with a scar across his face and hatred in his eyes.

  The man kicked open the door to Hopely’s laboratory and the assassins rushed inside, aiming their firearms. Spotting Hopely they froze, stunned.

  ‘I-I didn’t think it was true …’

  ‘Jesus …’

  ‘He looks like a cauliflower in a pickle jar …’

  Only the squad’s leader remained unawed. Scowling, he levelled his Heckler & Koch MP5. ‘This is for my children.’

  Hopely stared into the gaping maw of the submachine-gun’s barrel. As if from far away he heard a halting electronic voice come from the jar’s speakers. ‘I’m sorry.’

  The words hung in the air, an attempt to make peace, perhaps not with God or even the scar-faced man but with something.

  Then the door at the far end of the laboratory burst open and a squad of soldiers leapt into the room, bullets spraying from their assault rifles. Hopely watched in amazement as the soldiers covered almost the entire length of the laboratory in a single leap. Ever since the Earth had lost half its previous mass gravity had decreased drastically but lacking a body with which to exploit the new conditions Hopely was always astounded whenever he witnessed someone perform what would once have been considered a superhuman feat.

  The soldiers landed, ducking behind desks, chairs, filing cabinets; flimsy objects offering little protection against the bullets. But the element of surprise was on the soldiers’ side, not to mention years of training and battlefield experience. They had already dispatched two of the assassins as they began their leap and now they decimated the survivors with short, controlled bursts of automatic fire. The death squad countered with wild eruptions of bullets, the rounds hosing the walls and ceiling, splinters of plaster spinning across the laboratory, computers exploding into showers of glass and plastic and shredded circuitry.

  Above the angry chatter of the guns and the barked orders of the soldiers came another sound; scared, plaintive. The wounded assassins calling to their leader. ‘Bates! What do we do, Bates?’

  Bates was a little too preoccupied to answer, concentrating as he was on backing towards the door, firing as he went. Then he was out in the corridor, the soldiers haring after him.

  Three soldiers remained to guard Hopely. ‘Dunno how those boys got past security, Prof. But lucky for you they weren’t carrying standard issue ordnance. Dead giveaway when we spotted ’em outside your lab.’

  Hopely didn’t answer. He just stared at the bodies scattered across the floor, blood leaking from their wounds.

  The webcam picture flickered beneath a hailstorm of static. Since The Split telecommunications were crude, ineffective.

  Saunders squinted at Hopely through the bad connection. ‘So this Bates got away?’

  ‘Yes. Resourceful fellow. Each subsequent attempt he makes on my life is more ingenious than the last. I hope there’s no one like him on your half of the world.’

  ‘Not so far. We’re just dealing with earthquakes, floods, a total collapse of government and 75% of the surviving population being suicidal. Little things like that.’

  ‘We knew the risks when we started this.’

  ‘There’s a huge difference between theory and … ’

  ‘Execution? Figures are sketchy at this point but I calculate that our fatalities still fall within the percentages we deemed acceptable.’

  Saunders lowered her eyes, took a deep breath. Her black frizzy hair was a mess, eyes sunk into their sockets, cheekbones jutting sharply. The strain of being the premier scientific authority on her half of the world was tremendous. But Hopely wouldn’t have chosen her if he didn’t think she was up to the job.

  ‘I think you should be fairly safe from attacks. I’m the only one who has been publicly identified as implementing our plan.’

  ‘How many people actually know about you? The media isn’t exactly working at peak efficiency at the moment.’

  ‘The viewing figures of my initial broadcast are unclear. Obviously Bates and his ilk have seen it. As have Greenpeace since they have revoked my membership. Apparently tearing the planet in half doesn’t fit in with their concept of environmentalism.’

  A laugh scraped itself free from Saunders’s throat. ‘They obviously didn’t see your broadcast regarding our terraforming equipment replenishing 37% of the vegetation destroyed by The Split.’

  ‘I think they were more concerned with the ongoing deterioration of the planet’s structural integrity.’

  ‘Everybody’s a critic.’ Saunders hesitated, became serious. ‘So, how much danger are you in from this Bates?’

  ‘While the army protects me I’m safe from civilian attacks. But there’s dissent amongst the ranks; desertion, possibly insurrection. It’s a fairly safe assumption that it was one of them who broadcast the photo of me in my present condition. They don’t believe General Franklin died during The Split. They suspect I had something to do with his death.’

  ‘How long before they mutiny?’

  ‘Well, they’re still protecting me.’ Hopely trundled to one side of the webcam, allowing Saunders a clear view of the laboratory. Bullet holes riddled the walls, overturned chairs and tables lay scattered across the room and, worst of all, the corpses of Bates’ cohorts still sprawled everywhere, their blood dried and caking, their limbs stiffened into rigor mortis. ‘However the army’s housekeeping skills leave something to be desired.’

  ‘My god, they’ve just left you surrounded by all this? It’s inhuman.’

  ‘I suspect that’s how they would describe my own actions.’

  ‘You need to get out of there.’

  ‘Where would I go? Anyone who hasn’t seen my broadcasts will think I’m a Martian. While those who have seen the broadcasts will quite happily douse me in petrol and set me alight. After all, I can hardly claim mistaken identity – “No, I’m not Hopely. I’m a completely different talking brain in a jar.”’

  Saunders scratched her head. ‘If the army are already reacting this badly perhaps you should explain to them about the second stage of the plan.’

  ‘I doubt if they would listen to me. I’ve lost all credibility.’ Hopely attempted a shrug with his robotic arms. It didn’t quite work. ‘Anyway, they’ll find out soon enough.’

  Waking was an unnerving experience. Hopely wanted to stretch stiff limbs, rub sleep from his eyes and stretch his mouth in a mighty yawn. But he no longer possessed any of these extremities.

  He just thought he did.

  His brain lied to him, taunting him with echoes of physicality; an itch in a non-existent ear, a twinge in an imaginary shoulder, a cramp in a long-lost calf muscle. Amputees suffered from phantom limbs, he suffered from a phantom body.

  On some mornings the illusion was so convincing he forgot what he had lost, thinking himself whole and healthy. Then he would hear the tiny whir as his robot arms moved and he wept imaginary tears.

  Today was one of the better days. He adjusted the focus on his visual monitors. He shuffled backwards and forwards to test his caterpillar tracks. He didn’t scream or claw at the jar with his metallic fingers.

  If only he had been paying more attention to his driving instead of worrying about how to save humanity.

  Turning round, he rolled over to the corner of the laboratory and the tank containing the nutrient fluid that needed to be replaced in his jar each day. At first the process had required a team of three doctors and five nurses; Hopely had r
efined it so that he could carry out the entire procedure himself. All he needed was for someone to refill the tank before he started.

  The tank was empty.

  Hopely wheeled himself over to the intercom. ‘Corporal Bennett? My nutrient tank needs to be refilled.’

  No answer.

  ‘Hello?’

  A crackle of static.

  Hopely opened the door and trundled out into the corridor.

  There was no one to be seen.

  He edged along, scanning for any sign of life. He found none.

  No soldiers. No officers. No NCOs.

  Wild theorems formulated in his mind. Bates had recruited a new death squad, stormed the complex, killed all the soldiers and had left Hopely to die. Bates had somehow deduced that Hopely needed fresh nutrient fluid to survive and had drained the tank, leaving Hopely to die a slow, lingering death.

  Hopely could no longer perspire but a drop of moisture trickled down the side of the jar, mimicking a bead of nervous sweat.

  He processed more information. No corpses, no signs of battle.

  Bates had not been here. The answer was simpler than that. The army had finally deserted. He surmised that they were attempting to reach the auxiliary complex; that building would not be under constant attack from Bates.

  Hopely sat in the middle of the complex, silent, unmoving. Then he turned and headed back to his laboratory.

  Switching on the webcam he watched the flickering pixels struggle to form a picture. They failed, the transmission reduced to barely coherent, crumbling audio. Saunders was already trying to reach him.

  ‘… Hopely, are you there?’

  ‘I’m here. I have bad news, I’m –’

  ‘We’re dying, Hopely. Some religious lunatics found the launch codes to a nuclear missile base and decided to start WWIII. Now every country with a functioning nuclear arsenal is retaliating.’

  ‘The radiation shielding in your complex should –’