“Good morning, Doctor,” I answered. Pleasantries weren’t my strong suit. I was the type that would rather get down to business. “I’m confused. Why do you have to measure my eyes again? I thought you’d just give me the lenses?” I asked, hoping to get the answer I was looking for. He pinched his lower lip between his thumb and index finger, lost in thought. I waited before the silence turned uncomfortable.
“I mean, it seems like a waste of time … re-measuring my eyes,” I stated matter of factly.
“Marshall called me personally—mentioned something about explaining it to you later,” he said before he tossed the folder on the counter and began rummaging around the drawer. This time I noticed there was nothing familiar in his motions. “You wouldn’t be here if he didn’t feel you were the right woman for the job,” he continued as his steel blue eyes gleamed.
He dropped his retinoscope into the pocket of his lab coat and spun my chair in a half circle. “Alright, I’m just about done with you.” His face vacant of any warmth, he winked his left eye. Sarcasm from him was something I would never take personally, even if there was a bit of truth to it. “Lauren, these lenses, they have capabilities that have never been seen before. They make the ones you used in Pakistan look like child’s play,” he bragged.
I straightened up just as my iPhone chimed with a text from Marshall:
Your next appointment is with Roger. 10am don’t be late!
Another awkward moment clung between us before Doctor Finway cleared his throat.
“Well then, let’s talk about ocular pressure. No diving or airplanes for at least two days after the lenses are installed. Really important you get this. I don’t want to explain to your family why you’ve lost your eyesight. Understand?”
Without waiting for a response, he snatched up my file from the counter and left the room. My nerves frayed, everything in my body screamed to leave. What was the purpose of this?
Suddenly, there were three short raps at the door before Doctor Finway came in carrying a small black steel box. It seemed strange that they come in a steel box.
“You concerned they’d burn up in a fire?” I teased, hoping to lighten his mood. He didn’t laugh; he didn’t even smile.
“No, Lauren, security is a priority. We don’t want them to get into the wrong hands,” he answered very businesslike, before he turned back and locked the door.
His thin fingers, almost feminine in structure, slid the steel cover off the box exposing a tiny keypad. I looked down, giving him the false security he needed out of courtesy. What exactly are we dealing with here—wrong hands? Who else knows about these lenses?
“Lauren, these lenses are different, very different. They link to your brain.” He grabbed latex gloves and pulled them on. “Well, not in a literal sense.” He reached up and tapped a bright circular light above my face. I watched as he lowered the lens into my eye. The chilling texture, a horrific shooting pain, an intense flash of light burned under my pinched lids. It felt as if the lens had fingers reaching beyond my eye. The pressure built fast, pushing and twisting, as if it was creating intricate webs connecting my mind to the lens. I tried to remember what Doctor Finway had told me, but I couldn’t—what the hell did I just agree to?
The sickening pain faded as I began to see cast shadows change to outlines of colored images. Muffled sounds of the room quietly resumed. I breathed deep, trying to erase what had just happened.
“Next eye,” Doctor Finway said as he pressed his fingertips to my shoulder. A look of concern draped his face. “I’m sorry, I know I should’ve told you what to expect. You ok? Do you need a minute?”
“No, I’m fine, let’s get this over with,” I lied.
Doctor Finway repeated the process with my left eye. I felt the same pluck at my brain. As fast as the pain came, it too disappeared. The contact lenses turned and clung to my corneas; suddenly small black words appeared imprinted on the face of Doctor Finway. It was strange; I wanted to blink a hundred times and clear my eyes, but nothing helped. The words were still burnt across my vision.
PROCESSING PLEASE WAIT
“You ok?” Roger startled me. I was standing in his small lobby, preoccupied with trying to move the wicked flashing line that sat in the bottom of my right eye. His thin pale face held deep fret lines as his eyebrows fused together.
“Well, how do you think I am?” I quipped.
“How bad was it? I told Finway to take it easy on you.”
“You’re a sadistic fuck, you know that, Roger? Maybe next time try doing it on yourself.”
“Well, come on Lauren, nobody does guinea pig better than you …” An impish smile spread across his clean-shaven face.
My answer? I flipped him the bird.
I had met Roger at the CIA Training Academy over thirteen years ago. We had dated once, but the chemistry wasn’t there. I was actually glad because we made better friends, anyway; he always felt more like a brother.
“I’m really excited about this project.” His eyes widened behind his Elvis Costello-style glasses. He pulled me into a sideways hug against his scrawny frame, making me uncomfortable.
“I need to set you up with the rest of the components that go with those lenses. How do they feel?” His inquisitive nature filled the room.
I rubbed my eyes, hoping to stop the scratching sensation across my corneas that seemed to all but disappear when I didn’t think about it.
“I feel them, but Doctor Finway said that in a couple of days I won’t even know they’re there.”
“Well, he’s right. I bet even later today that sensation will go away. Basically, Lauren, it’s all in your mind.” He pushed his thick black glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
I wanted to tell him where he could ‘stick it’ and that the scratching feelings in my eyes were most definitely real, but I decided to be the bigger person.
He propped himself on the sharp edge of his mahogany desk and motioned for me to sit in a chair opposite him, his rosy red lips pulled into a straight line as he looked at me. Roger wasn’t much taller than me but thinner and always wore dark colored clothes in a futile attempt to appear younger than he was. I noticed that today his brown wavy hair, which never touched the tops of his ears before, seemed to cover them just enough.
“Do you mind if I take a look at the lenses?” he asked. His broad nose, ample enough to hold his glasses in place, flared after he spoke. I shook my head as he slid from his desk, took off his glasses and stared into my eyes. As long as I had known Roger, I never realized how dark brown his eyes were.
He shuffled back behind his desk, opened one of his drawers and pulled out a box that looked like a remote control. His bony fingers pushed the buttons and motorized sounds filled the room as the top of the box slid open.
“What’s that?”
“It’s a nanobiosensor, a prototype that I invented,” he said as he stretched on a pair of latex gloves. He pinched a pair of tweezers between his fingers and picked up the tiny biosensor. “This little thing is going to help you control those lenses.”
“Control the lenses from where?” I asked.
He stared at it and I watched as his thoughts carried him away. “Lauren, I don’t want you to—you gotta remember—this isn’t supposed to hurt.” He blushed as he stumbled over his words.
“Just wait a damn minute. Where in the hell is that thing going?” I demanded. Instantly, I got the same anxious feeling as when I knew I had gotten myself into something too deep.
“I’ll install it through your nasal passage.” Concern usurped his expression.
“The hell you are! That thing is not going up my nose.”
“Lauren, this is everything to me. It’s going to change the world. It’s going to revolutionize communication … I’ve put my whole life into developing it,” Roger baited me.
“What are we testing for with this prototype? I mean, what are you expecting from it?” I knew asking would buy me a little time and even if his answer was vag
ue, he quite possibly could tell me something Marshall hadn’t.
“Well depends, if you’re asking from a military point of reference, it will revolutionize the way we handle war. Less equipment to carry means soldiers will be more efficient on the ground. Wicked fast processing, will give access to the internet, records, viable information quicker, which will lead to less lives lost. For the everyday-Joe, well, the prototype will replace every last piece of technology they fumble with on a daily basis. They will have everything thing they need, right there with them at all times. Realistically, this could replace every piece of hardware that exists in your home. Well, with the exception of your kitchen appliances.” He let out a chuckle.
I can’t say my curiosity wasn’t piqued.
“Tell me what to expect?” I sat up rigid. “Will it do anything permanent to my body? Cause pain, what are the side effects? I’m done with surprises, Roger. I think the lenses Doctor Finway installed are surprise enough for one day,” I spat.
“You’ll be uncomfortable when I install it, but nothing like the lenses. You might get a little dizzy. You’re going to notice stuff. Your vision will improve; you may feel stronger. Information will transfer between your consciousness and the nanobiosensor at an instantaneous rate.” He was unemotional. “The thing is, Lauren; you’ll need this device to have the lenses work properly.”
“How long does the device have to stay in my head?” The muscles in my face began to twitch.
“It must be removed before the lenses.” The words of Doctor Finway clung to my mind. The lenses have to be in your eyes for a minimum of two weeks. A thumping pulse in the pit of my stomach rekindled. Nothing about having these foreign objects in my body for one day, let alone fourteen, excited me.
“Lauren, which eye is dominant?” He pointed at my face.
I swallowed hard. “The right one has the blinking cursor.”
He looked at the device; his eyes smoldered and his body reflected a new found confidence.
“Okay, are you ready for this, Lauren?” Roger asked as I closed my eyes and swallowed.
“Sure.” The word shot out of my mouth. At what point do I stop going along with this? I was torn between my unrealistic loyalty to Marshall and my own self-preservation.
“I’m going to recline your head until it’s lower than your feet. I’ll count down from ten. You’ll feel a warm liquid enter your nose and push against the back of your throat. It is very important that you do not swallow any of it. Oh, and you might feel like you have vertigo for about five minutes.” He stood with his body at a slight camber over my right side; he pushed his glasses up, wedging them lopsided across his crumpled brow and counted down from ten … I did exactly what he told me to and he did exactly what he said he would do.
“Looks like we have lift-off! The biosensor is in place.”
No sooner did Roger say that when the room started to spin and I couldn’t keep my mind from twisting inside out. Uncontrollable in my reflexes, I felt every nerve jump at the chance to kick at my stomach and throw up whatever small drops of this thick, bitter fluid that snuck its way past my taste buds. Roger saw my face and how my body lurched, and grabbed the trashcan from next to his desk.
“I don’t remember you mentioning torture as one of the side effects!”
“Sorry about that—I guess I just forgot,” he mumbled. I shot him a nasty look.
He had to be embarrassed, or maybe he just felt guilty. Either way, he refocused his attention and began to run through the steps to make sure the device linked with the lenses.
We spent the next four hours going over the functions of the prototype. When the time was up, Roger stood there in front of me, eyes narrowed behind his glasses; he was focused and confident. I looked at him and at that moment I realized I was in the presence of a true genius.
“This is incredible, Roger.”
“I know.”
I didn’t remember driving to Marshall Grayson’s house. The images of what happened at Roger’s kept rolling over and over in my mind. I noticed the heavy grey sky influencing the clouds to drizzle and the uneasiness as it began to roll across the heavens. I remembered getting in the car. I even remembered the first couple of turns as I left Roger’s office. After that―nothing―until I found myself idling in front of Marshall’s massive, black wrought iron gate.
I pressed the button on the intercom a dry monotone voice spewed from the speaker at the same time. The overcast sky won the battle and rain fell from the dark gloomy clouds. Irritated by the drab asshole in the speaker box, I took a calculated breath and answered him before I turned on my windshield wipers and rolled up my window. I looked at the clock on my dash; it was already two thirty.
Damn it, I’m totally late. Marshall’s not going to be happy. Why in the hell do I even care? We never talked about expectations. Son of a bitch, I knew better than this … here I am once again, affected by Marshall.
By the time I pulled up to the front of his house, I was seething. A man dressed in a black tuxedo with white gloves, holding a huge black umbrella, pulled open my door as the rain still poured down.
“Good afternoon, Miss Matthews,” he said, obliviously properly trained in his manners.
I got out of my car and handed him my keys. Without waiting for the umbrella to keep me dry or answering his statement, I stomped up the slippery hand-chiseled marble steps and stormed toward Marshall’s house. The heavy raindrops fell against the bushes and trees, causing their leaves to shimmy and shake glistening under the drops that rolled off their leaves. Details I’d never paid attention to before, yet seemed to resonate with me at this particular moment. A unique serenity began to swallow me with every step I took. My hair was damp enough to cling to my checks and my olive blouse was beginning to stick to my skin. By the time I was ready to knock, my wild anger had cooled off to a rumbling irritation.
The whole front entry to Marshall’s house was custom-built of pure glass and aged metal. The two doors were fastened to the massive solid glass windows on either side by huge burly hinges. Ivy leaves created from patina copper were intricately woven into branches, intentionally designed to make the front doors look opaque. The entire entry was no doubt designed to remind his guests just how inadequate they truly were. Marshall was wealthy beyond any normal person’s understanding. The ability to get whatever he wanted, when he wanted it, was his everyday reality. Shallow as it may seem, there was something magnetizing about it.
Ashton, Marshall’s butler, was an average-sized man, not muscular or undernourished looking. He was perfectly groomed so he would never be set apart from the mechanics of the house―black suit and tie.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Matthews.” His English accent catered to the persona of sophistication as he answered the door.
“Hi, Ashton,” I replied.
He was always nice to me, even though I knew it was his job, and he never made me feel inadequate. I guess I just found a simple comfort with him, no matter how proper he seemed with me.
“Mr. Grayson will call on you shortly. Please come in and make yourself comfortable. May I get you something to drink?”
“Why, yes, water would be perfect, thank you,” I answered, mimicking the timbre of his voice.
He held his hand out, indicating where he wanted me to sit. I passed by where he pointed and meandered my way to the library, the most comfortable place in Marshall’s house and by far the most captivating. High ceilings above my head and pristine Persian rugs meticulously lay under my feet. The finest Italian leather chairs and ornate gold leaf floor lamps populated the room. Rich with dark browns, reds and blacks, his library was tinted with colors that weren’t meddlesome as you escaped into your favorite book. Maybe that’s why I was the most comfortable here. From floor to ceiling on every wall were shelves of hardbound books with no gaps for trinkets.
I caressed my fingers along the gilded spines, browsing and wondering what adventures waited within their pages when I noticed one that was different. As
a matter of fact, all it had was a handwritten symbol and a number printed underneath. Instinctively, I caught the top of the book and pulled, allowing it to find its way into my hands. It was ancient, smaller than it looked on the shelf, and heavier than I expected. It was soft worn leather that gave way as I caressed it. I found my way into an oversized chair, sat down and was ready to read it when the pale yellow glow of the lamp dissolved into a dark gray.
“Ms. Matthews, your water,” the butler said, extending the glass out to me.
“Thanks, Ashton.” I took a sip and set it down on the table next to me.
“Mr. Grayson will see you now, in his study. Please follow me.”
He held out his hand, expecting me to give him the book. I adjusted it to my left hand and grabbed his offer with my right. I was completely aware he wanted me to leave the book in the library, but there was something about this book and I wasn’t about to give it back just yet. I followed him as he walked at a brisk pace down a huge hall decorated with large oil-on-canvas paintings of what I had to assume were past relatives. Dark brown mission-style doors peppered in between the paintings. I glanced at each one, wondering what stories were locked behind them. We stopped at the end of the hall in front of a pair of massive doors pulled shut. I wondered if the story I was about to encounter was as invoking as the one I wanted to read in the old tattered book.
Ashton, in his most precise service motion, pushed the double doors open. I floated forward and he closed them behind me. Marshall looked up from his computer, his gallant eyes danced and his smile caught me. Everything I was going to tell him vanished in that instant.
Prototype Page 2
