by Martyn Ford
‘Hey,’ Tim said, pushing the foam back inside his blazer’s shoulder, ‘it kind of looks like an exhibit in a museum.’
Chapter 2
The Dawn Star Hotel, with its black iron corner lights, grand old windows and golden frontage, looked well placed in the city of Glassbridge. Not many people can call a hotel a home but for Tim, the Dawn Star was the only place he’d ever felt truly comfortable.
‘I feel it essential that I express mild, perhaps even moderate, disappointment,’ Phil said. The tiny finger monkey was searching through a pot of pens on Tim’s desk up in the bedroom they shared. He was lifting them out, one by one, and dropping them behind himself. ‘I have been absent for great spectacles of both fire and now ice.’
The biros, although twice his height, were easy work. But some had rolled off the desk and Tim was dutifully clearing them up. ‘You should be glad – either could have killed you,’ he said.
‘Why, of course, I am not implying for even a slice of a jiffy that subconscious arson is a positive thing,’ Phil said. ‘Au contraire, by and large I think almost everything is better when not on fire.’
‘Definitely,’ Tim agreed.
‘But the tiger? Oh, the tiger – hungry and incensed at its inexplicable existence, it must have been quite the sight.’
‘What are you looking for?’ Tim said, catching a rubber which the monkey had thrown over his shoulder with surprising power.
‘My fine-line marker,’ Phil said. ‘It is in here somewhere. I just need …’ He grabbed a pair of scissors, climbed up and the entire pot tilted and fell – everything tumbling out.
‘Be careful.’
Phil swept pencil shavings away and then scurried inside the cup. ‘Not here. Not anywhere.’
Tim grabbed the pot and placed it upright. ‘We’ll buy you another,’ he said, peering down.
‘Heavens,’ Phil gasped as he clambered to the rim, his furry little head poking out. ‘Timothy, just simply make me one.’
‘No.’ Tim shook his head. ‘No more. No more imagining stuff.’
‘But I have work to do on the comic. You cannot – nay, must not – hinder my art.’
‘It’s too dangerous. I can’t control my own thoughts.’
‘Perhaps none of us can.’ Phil’s finger was on his chin. ‘What a troubling notion … to be prisoners both in and of our own minds. Anyhow, usually I am a great admirer of such punctilious conduct but, with all due respect …’
The monkey carried on talking but Tim phased out. He didn’t even know what ‘punctilious’ meant. Just last week Phil had celebrated his second birthday (or rather, more accurately, the second anniversary of the day Tim created him). It was a strange thought that something born from his mind had always known words he did not – stranger still to think that in human terms the monkey was only a toddler.
The comics Phil was referring to were autobiographical – the monkey had documented the past two years, so all of his life. The first one, entitled The Imagination Box, was all about their first investigation. It told the story of Tim finding the imagination box in room nineteen, the guest suite opposite his bedroom. There were chapters dedicated to the moment Tim used the device to create Phil and the following challenge of finding the machine’s inventor, Eisenstone, who had been kidnapped by Clarice Crowfield and the professor’s former academic partner, Professor Whitelock.
The next was called Beyond Infinity. This one was about last year’s events, which saw Tim, Dee and Phil (referred to in the comics as ‘the team’) discover that IcoRama mobile phones were being used in a network of mind control. The man behind the scheme, Fredric Wilde, was currently in prison, thanks to their efforts.
The latest edition didn’t have a title yet (although Phil said he wanted to get the word ‘mind’ in there somewhere), but it was about everything that had happened since then, about all the things Tim had created with his new abilities. Phil had already pencilled in the Dawn Star hallway fire and had just that morning finished sketching the encounter with the sabretooth. For the monkey, all this madness was a joy – literally inspirational. His unstoppable enthusiasm wasn’t dampened by the risk of death.
‘… take Medusa, for example, her hair is made of snakes. How could …’ Phil was still rambling on.
But for Tim, things were different. Overall, his memories of the technology weren’t entirely positive. This is not to say he hadn’t had fun – he had enjoyed creating things at first. He loved playing in the imagination space, watching his castle appear, filling it with everything he’d ever wanted and much more. He had revelled in the praise he received for his abilities – impressing adults, especially ones he liked such as Professor Eisenstone, always felt good.
However, some other stuff did not feel good, like eventually getting bored of having everything – which he had compared to that tinge of disappointment you feel when Christmas is over. He’d learnt that looking forward to something is, quite often, better than the thing itself. It sucks, but it’s true.
Also, he didn’t like accidently creating monsters from his nightmares, nearly dying, nearly killing other people with jet-pack explosions, lava fires, large predatory cats and so on. He didn’t like feeling scared of his own mind.
‘And then there is the topic of unicorns,’ Phil said. He was pacing now, up and down Tim’s desk. ‘Of course, they are armed with stings, but are they venomous?’
Tim had no idea how the monkey had arrived at this subject. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘Unicorns? Like horses, but—’
‘Yeah, no, I know what they are,’ Tim said. ‘But you said they had stings?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, no.’
‘On their head,’ Phil said, rolling his eyes.
‘That’s a horn. They’re just magic horses with horns.’
‘Forgive me, but I was under the impression unicorns were mythical, id est not real?’
‘Yeah …’
‘Then, dearest Timothy, who are you to declare the details of their anatomy with such steadfast conviction?’
Tim nodded with a pout. ‘I’m glad you exist,’ he said. ‘You’re my favourite creation.’
‘That is a most gracious sentiment, and I shall accept your change of topic as concession in this debate.’
‘Anyway, you don’t have time to draw,’ Tim said. ‘We have to go.’
What Tim had said was true: he really wouldn’t be creating anything else. In fact, Professor Eisenstone had scheduled a trip up to the Technology, Research and Defence (TRAD) agency in London to address the issue of his abilities. The fire was one thing, but the tiger had closed the school down, it had caused news coverage around the world. It was serious stuff.
The finger monkey climbed up the neck of the desk lamp and Tim held out his hand. Phil then ran up his arm and rolled across the front of his shoulder, landing smoothly in the top pocket of Tim’s shirt.
Together they headed downstairs.
*
The headquarters of TRAD still impressed Tim, even though he had visited countless times for testing and brain scans. The skyscraper was huge and made from glass so clean it lived up to its name, the Diamond Building. Inside they worked on all kinds of amazing inventions, from teleportation to mind control, from imagination technology to cloning.
‘Oh, Tim, Tim, Tim,’ Professor Eisenstone said in the car when they pulled up. He ran his fingers through his grey, wispy hair. ‘Thank you for agreeing to do this.’
It had been drizzly all morning. Now though, it was raining so heavily that the windscreen seemed to be flowing, as though they were in a car wash.
‘No, thank you,’ Tim said. He was relieved. Having to contain his imagination had begun to feel like torture, like holding his breath.
‘But, but, it must be your choice,’ the professor added. He removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses. ‘Indeed, normal people have to work very hard to get things out of their imagination and into the real world.’ He put his specs b
ack on, blinked and turned to him. ‘Are you sure you want to give this up?’
Tim nodded.
‘Right, well, let’s be fast,’ Eisenstone said, lowering his head to gaze towards the rain clouds above.
However, Tim glanced once at the professor’s lap and, with a faintly fizzy hiss, a black umbrella came into existence. Eisenstone laughed, looked down at the new item and shook his head in wonder. Tim would miss that face.
Bone dry, they made it inside the Diamond Building and TRAD’s director, Harriet Goffe, escorted them down one of the many long corridors on the upper floors. They came to a door with frosted glass on the front. Tim read the name ‘Rick Harris’ along the bottom of the pane.
Harriet knocked once and they entered to see a cluttered workspace with all kinds of circuitry and gadgets scattered throughout. Rick also had a tall bookcase and, at eye height, Tim spotted the familiar sight of Professor Eisenstone’s book, The Future of Nanotechnology, Physics in a Quantum World.
‘Guys, this is Rick Harris,’ Harriet said. ‘Rick, this is Tim, and I think you’ve met Eisenstone.’
They did half waves and full smiles. Tim had heard his name mentioned in passing and knew he was one of TRAD’s neuroscientists, despite being only in his twenties. But, most notably, he was the person who managed to fix Clarice Crowfield’s broken teleporter – something Tim was keen to ask about. Rick had a long beard and an even longer moustache. It looked like the kind of facial hair that could be wound up to generate thoughts.
‘And Phil?’ Harriet asked.
The hairy head emerged from Tim’s shirt pocket, turning left and right to take in the new room.
Utterly captivated, Rick’s face transformed. ‘Aye, your finger monkey,’ he said, speaking in his low Scottish voice – his words seemed to bounce. He carefully held out his hand and Phil leapt down on to it. ‘Oh, ha, wonderful.’ He lifted him up in front of his face. ‘It’s fantastic, isn’t it?’
‘It?’ Phil said, frowning, his tiny hands on his tiny hips.
And again Rick’s face took on a new shape – his eyes opened as wide as they would go and he slowly pulled his head back, giving himself a double chin, his lips twitching in astonishment. He looked almost scared.
This always went the same way when new people met Phil. Even if you know what’s coming, apparently hearing a finger monkey speak takes a moment to appreciate. However, after a short exchange, in which Phil complemented Rick on his ‘most exuberant moustache’, Harriet interrupted the excitement to discuss business.
‘Rick has used the MRI scans of your brain to develop the chip,’ she said. ‘It’s … good work. I’ll leave you to get it all installed.’ Harriet said goodbye and left the room.
‘That’s right.’ Rick handed Phil back. He then sat on his swivel chair and spun, dragging himself towards his desk with his heels. Beneath a suspended magnifying glass was a small silver device about the size of a micro SIM card. Rick turned back, holding it between his thumb and index finger.
‘This wee gizmo will be gently implanted in your neck, just behind your ear.’
‘In my neck?’ Tim asked, feeling a little scared at the idea of something going under his skin. ‘How exactly will it work?’
‘Well, first you have to understand how your abilities are possible, how best to explain …’ Rick twisted the end of his moustache. ‘Aye, so, now, remember in the imagination space, you would create a castle, or some trees, or anything a few metres away from yourself?’
‘Yeah,’ Tim said.
‘You would look at where you wanted something, right, then you’d imagine it clearly and it’d appear? Now, the Wilde Tech reader worked slightly differently to Eisenstone’s.’ Rick gestured towards the professor. ‘Eisenstone’s original prototype used a conventional reader. It … well, in layman’s terms, it downloaded your thought, the image of what you imagined, and then, in turn, the box created it.’
The professor was nodding. ‘Indeed.’
‘Wilde Tech’s reader was … well, think of it as a projector,’ Rick said. ‘It read your mind and projected, as it were, what you wanted to create.’
‘But the creations were real, solid things,’ Tim said.
‘Yes, perhaps projection isn’t the right word – it’s a tricky concept. I’m not even sure Fredric himself knew the details – he just paid some bright sparks to work it all out. Point is: the imagination space itself was simply a frame, a canvas, if you like, in which you could paint. But instead of paint, you were wielding all conceivable matter.’
‘So, I could have used it outside, anywhere?’
‘Oh, aye, definitely,’ Rick said. ‘If you had a functioning Wilde Tech reader you could theoretically make any room your imagination space.’
Tim’s eyebrows went up. ‘It’s like an imagination box and reader all rolled into one?’
‘Exactly that. I’ve looked at your scans,’ Rick said, ‘and I think our suspicions were correct. So, when you calibrated that Wilde Tech reader, you were stressed, correct?’
‘Yeah,’ Tim said. ‘Very. I thought we were going to drown. We were trapped in the control room at Fredric’s Nevada facility and water was flooding in. I felt … hopeless, powerless.’
‘Well, then what happened makes complete sense. You inadvertently replicated the technology inside your own skull, or the biological equivalent, hence your abilities. It is extremely dangerous that this possibility was never explained to you. Of course, the technology doesn’t know the difference between air and human flesh. You could have created anything inside yourself, or anyone else for that matter.’
‘Whoa,’ Tim said. ‘So you’re saying I created a Wilde Tech reader and built it into my own brain?’
Rick stepped over to a white glowing box on the wall and clipped in an X-ray of Tim’s head. He could see the inside of his nose and the strange swirling pattern of his brain, like a cauliflower chopped down the middle. There were a few dark lines – which looked like veins, or tree roots – running amid the shaded grey image.
‘Yes, and quite neatly too,’ Rick said, pointing. ‘It’s woven beautifully throughout your skull – it’s impressive that it caused you no harm. You said you felt powerless? So your subconscious created the necessary components to make you powerful. But, as discussed, perhaps too powerful. Of course, as you can see, removing the technology is impossible.’
‘So, this new chip?’ Tim said.
‘Hmm.’ Rick was stroking his beard now. ‘The chip just transmits a very low-level signal that essentially disrupts the transmission in your head – basically turns off your abilities. So you’ll be able to safely think about dragons and bird flu and plutonium without any risks.’
‘Can it be reversed?’ Tim had his first bit of doubt. Hearing Rick’s explanation made him feel as though he might be making a mistake.
‘I suppose, aye. If we discover a way to make the reader in your brain safe, we can simply remove the chip. I must say, I am sad to be the one to neutralise such a power – there is still so much to learn from this. If only I had your mind.’
Tim frowned – that was exactly what Elisa said to him after the fire. And then he had an incredible idea – a spark. ‘You can have it,’ Tim said, nodding, faster and faster.
Eisenstone was intrigued.
‘Sorry?’ Rick looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you guys keep talking about not understanding how the human mind works, particularly mine. So, before you install the chip, I’ll create a replica for you.’
‘A replica?’ Phil wondered – he was cross-legged on the desk, next to the chip. He was mimicking Rick’s beard strokes.
‘Yeah, a straight copy of my brain. Then you can study it to your heart’s content. And … and then you could use it too,’ Tim added. ‘Of course, then you could make a relay with it or whatever and anyone could use the technology. That’s always been the aim, right?’ He turned to the professor.
‘That would be a remarkable breakth
rough,’ Eisenstone said. ‘But … but let’s think for a moment, how would it work?’
Rick was nodding. ‘It almost doesn’t matter how it works,’ he added, excited. ‘Humans have been using technology we don’t fully understand for millennia.’
‘Indeed, but, but ethically …’ Eisenstone was flustered – clearly uncomfortable about it.
‘It’s a genius idea, but do we have time?’ Rick said. ‘To create such a thing … How long would something like that ta—’
‘It’s done,’ Tim said.
Rick turned. Sure enough, on his desk, just behind Phil, was a tall glass jar with a human brain inside. The wrinkled grey lump was floating in clear liquid and had wires coming down from where the spine should be, like a ponytail.
It was an ominous and unsettling moment. Rick looked like he had just found a winning lottery ticket. But Eisenstone’s face was blank – the only reaction he showed was the slightest shake of his head. Silently, he disapproved. Seeing this, Tim wondered whether the object he was looking at was conscious. Could it think, could it feel? He remembered the clone of himself he’d created in the imagination space and how sorry he had felt for it, or rather him, when he was killed by Frederic. It wasn’t difficult for Tim to imagine the fear and pain that doppelganger must have felt. He frowned at the thought. But this would be different, he told himself, catching Rick’s eye. This was just a brain.
And Rick’s bright smile chased those doubts away. Tim didn’t say it out loud, but he knew the real reason he did this wasn’t to help these scientists advance the technology. No, it was simply to impress them one last time.
Later that morning they ‘installed’ the chip in Tim’s neck. Rick told them he had started his career as a medical doctor as he flicked a syringe and then sterilised a patch of skin just behind Tim’s ear. It felt wet and cold, like minty toothpaste. Then Rick injected him with some local anaesthetic, numbing the area. He said it’d feel like a ‘little scratch’ which is an interesting lie doctors sometimes tell. In actual fact it felt like a piece of metal being shoved into Tim’s soft, sensitive flesh. However, it was all over and done with in around fifteen minutes.
