The Complicity of Fools

In Peter’s crudely decorated Jeffers St salon, leering near-naked new world islanders, forever frozen in time, looked on from grotesquely vivid paintings.

'Peter?’ Dr. Shipwater was as ever impressed with the subtlety of the sonic programming pen. It appeared to cause the subject to go into a daze when activated, and then snap out of it, utterly unaware of what had just transpired. Peter looked up from his rippling reflection, in the dark surface of an untouched mug of ersatz coffee, to make eye contact once again.

'What, oh, eh, yeah, that is, yes, doctor that’s all I know about that!’ On the other side of the desk a silver pen was clicked, slowly, twice, and carefully slipped into an inside jacket pocket.

'Well then…’ began Dr. Shipwater, with an expansive gesture and professional smile.

'... I suppose that about wraps it up for this week unless there is anything you’d like to tell me yourself?’ He finished and began to put his notepad away. Peter frowned, the dull buzzing in his head lifting off like a weight from his mind, fleeting moments of indecision cascaded across his placid face as he wondered what to say, whether to trust.

'Well, to tell you the truth my notes are a bit patchy lately. You know the way I write things down all the time, I think I’m missing a couple of days here and there…’

'Yes, well, you’re just getting over a cold Peter.’ Shipwater lied, eyeing his patient. That’s the third week in a row…at least two hours, every few days, in some form of...of stasis… Shipwater’s horsey teeth pressed into his curled lip. Nothing to worry about there… the same thing happened to the test animals.

'I, um,’ Peter begins, feeling a little embarrassed, ’I remember reading this morning, a passage I’d written recently about a dream. I’m talking to a man, my father I think, and he is telling me about these slums where everybody has a wheel to turn or a button to push. There are red and green boxes everywhere, lining the gutters, they’re clean looking but in the dream, they represent something really bad. Anyway, as my father is talking my blood begins to boil, but I’m trying to hide this from him, as it’s rude to interrupt...’

'Is this something you remember yourself?’ Dr. Shipwater asked, arched fingertips softly tapping his long chin. '…About it being rude to interrupt, I mean or…?’ Peter stares back at him, long and level until, eventually, his eyes drift off over Harold’s shoulder.

'Ah... Continue… please?’ Harold’s fingers now pinching to thumbs before his chest. Peter paused, thoughtful, and then continued at full speed.

'...Anyway, so I’m boiling up and he, my father, begins to laugh, and as he laughs his head tilts back, and this black and chrome bar starts to push up through his throat and he only laughs harder. By now my head and shoulders are on fire with pain and he says, “Pull the lever, son!” I reach up and pull this lever sticking out of his face and then bang I’m awake. I think it’s one of the last things I’ve written.’

'You remember all this detail from what you read this morning?’ asked Dr. Shipwater, who had pulled out his notepad and a regular ballpoint pen. He hardly lifted the pen tip from the pad during the re-telling.

'Yes, I’ve had little else to do today except read.’ Peter replied distractedly, slipping once more into his private world.

'We’ll be looking into these dreams for you and I’ll see you again in a week as usual, OK?!’ Harold Shipwater finished with a swift handshake and a pat on the back. He strolled out through the reception lobby and into the afternoon sun. There are far too many machines in his dreams, for a man who doesn’t even know about data-blocks…he just stared at me and asked what it was, for Prophet's sake! The waiting transport swept him away into the cold embrace of the city, his pale face reflected unnoticed in the window.

Later that day, after a lavish lunch had been consumed, a toecap nervously polished on the back of an expensive tweed calf. A clandestine meeting held in the fading light of day, at one of Dr. Anthony’s’ favorite uptown cafés. Big windows, pretty service and, of course, priced beyond the resources of the common man. The bloated surgeon loosened his belt with an extravagant tug while simultaneously trying to smile and breathe a belch past his clamped teeth, lending him the appearance of a pantomime drunk. Settling himself comfortably he studied, past smiling eyes, the young psychiatrist before him. Tall and handsome, Harry Shipwater had all the traits of a privileged background though his, like many a family, had lost their titles and deeds, rents and licenses, in the reformation a year after the war had ended. He must be one of the oft-bemoaned “lost” generation. Dr. Anthony mused. Why do his eyes remain dilated and ruddy... Anthony thought to himself …must be down to some kind of low-level addiction, uppers or downers …or both… typical hospital staff, they’re all on something. Harry’s shabby chic marked the time, like a line in the sand, when his life shifted, Sifted down the socioeconomic ladder. His airs and habits remained, as shabby as the clothes on his back, but the money was long gone. Little could be held onto after the war; less still could be hidden from Burndegard’s almighty revenue service. There was a deep bitterness, too, that had crawled under the skin of that long, handsome face. A face once chiseled with pride and purpose, now displaying the years of disappointment at having his childhood dreams snatched from him, and of his sinking to the lows of the workingman.

'How can we be sure if we can trust this buyer of yours, Dr?’ The question from across the table whipped Dr. Anthony’s daydreams from the front of his mind, too much good food, that traitorous thought came unbidden as he focused his mind back on reality.

‘My dear Harry, as I have already told you, I have had many safe and profitable dealings with this particular person. And anyway, after the sales meeting, we will no longer have any direct contact with each other,’ He reached into his jacket pocket like a magician and, with an elegant flair, produced two slim, black, solid-looking data-blocks. 'These fabulous things are encrypted to communicate only between each other, and only via the person who first uses it, one for you ...’ A manicured hand crossed the space between them to release one of the ominous black blocks into Dr. Shipwater’s reluctant hold. '…The other for me. Just pull the tab out of the back there and it’s active. Clever things these, you know they have quantum-entangled electrons governing them? Marvellous, eh!’Dr. Shipwater pulled out the small plastic tab from the back of the device only to squeal as a filament needle shot out on a tether, harpooning him for an instant before returning inside the data-block. Too late, he snatched his hand to his mouth.

'And that is how we make sure that only you can use it, haha, that was the part I worked on, don’t you know. Nano-device reads your DNA and twins itself to you. Very simple really.’ Dr. Anthony said, sliding one eyebrow skyward.

'Why exactly do we need these?’ Harry Shipwater asked, rubbing the little pockmark that was reddening on the back of his hand.

'Well, as I was saying, I’ve had many a dealing with this buyer and I know for a fact that they are honorable, but if anyone knew the location of the test subject… well, temptation you know… anyway with us two connected only through these data-blocks they can’t find you or hack the link, “Security first, is best!” as they say, no?!’ he exclaimed, both eyebrows up and dancing.

'You up-link the files and evaluations as you complete them, and I can monitor the information as we go. I do the business and you keep an eye on the patient. Only contact me after eight o’clock in the evening or in the unlikely event, Prophet forbid, that something comes up.’

'Well…’ Dr. Harold Shipwater weighed the plan in his mind. Creating a remote-control man, selling him and the Tech to somebody, or some group, with use for… that kind of device. What kind of people wanted that type of control? Probably best not to think on it too much. Better instead to think of the ten million he was receiving for his work on the project.

'…You’re sure you have this whole thing worked out, inside-out and back-to-front?’

'I’m telling you it’s perfect, nothing can go wrong. You just ensure that our implantation is covered, gather the data and I will worry about the buyers.’ Dr. Anthony said, with a wave of his hand.

'I know, but I can’t help feeling this is going too far, kidnapping, and falsifying death certs ...’

'Yes, well it’s too late to worry about that,’ snapped Dr. Anthony, eyes flashing coldly. 'And anyway, Harry nothing appears to be amiss with your “perfect test subject” now does there?’Dr. Harold Shipwater sat staring at the floor, feeling like a schoolboy at the headmaster’s office. Ever since Dr. Anthony first approached him with this scheme he had felt increasingly anxious. Telling Peter’s family that they had lost their son to an unexpected viral infection had taken every ounce of his skill, although the strain was hardly causing him sleepless nights. But if the hospital board found out that he had faked death certificates and kidnapped a patient his career was over, and the state would… best not to think too deeply on that. Dr. Anthony interrupted his musings.

'Just think of the implications Harry, not only the wealth. Naturally, there will be plenty of that. You could go anywhere; get out of this God-forsaken country. But the acclaim, the adoration; we will be on a par with the great minds of our era. If it works as well as it appears to, and as I’ve predicted,’ he paused, looking straight into Dr. Shipwater’s eyes.

'We shall be Gods!’ he whispered. Dr. Shipwater watched him, stiff and blank-faced.‘Oh, come on Harry, this is a big thing. Stop moping around. Are we or are we not on schedule?’

'Yes, I suppose we are, but I can’t help but think that Peter knows something, on some level. All that scribbling and doodling, fevered ideas and half thoughts littering every surface of that apartment, all pointing towards the ghost in the machine…’ Shipwater grinned a little, '…or in this case, the machine in the pale ghost of Peter Elworth.’

'And have we not been as thorough as thorough could be?' Dr. Anthony asked as if he were teasing a small child.

'Yes, I guess we have ...’ Those dreams, the machines, what if he finds out? Something is amiss, even if all the test results show an average that is consistent with the general population, some of those drawings and writings are disturbing. The idea unsettled Harold until he remembered the money. Who was Peter anyway, a nobody, with no papers, no memory… just a crazy man’s word against mine.

'Well then, relax and enjoy the anticipation…’ a beaming Dr. Anthony again interrupted his tangled thoughts. '…Soon you will be back on top, where you belong my friend.’ His voice caressed Harold’s worries flat out of sight. After some trivial discussion, they each left separately to reconvene after Peter’s next evaluation.

Incrementally, Peter’s tiny internal machine shortened the inventory of work to be done.

DATA IN-FEED NETWORK ON STAND-BY. 372:

HOOK UP. LOCKED. 485:

ENVIRONMENT ANALYSES COMPLETE. 1242:

MICRO-BIONIC ENGINE ENGAGED. 1280:

CONSTRUCTION / RESTORATION PROGRAM ONLINE. 1440:

COMMENCING SYMBIOTIC CONNECTION. 2510:

An alarm clock sounded. In the corner of the ceiling, the unblinking eye of the smoke alarm turned itself on, and the ornate flowerpot on the nightstand began to listen. Peter, crusty-eyed and rumpled, stretched, yawned, and then blinked about in confusion. He sat up, turned off the alarm clock and picked up the crumpled letter he found next to his bedside. Throughout the apartment the array of concealed sensors came online, as their subject sat on the side of his bed, slowly, dejectedly reading the contents of the letter before him. Without memory there was no getting used to it, every morning started like a descent into hell after the splendors of the dreamscapes he lived in, only moments before. Watched as he dressed, as he ate, as he showered, watched closely for signs, signs of things to come.

'Oh shit...damn!’ the toilet benignly swallowed his dropped toothbrush.

After breakfast, as he sat to write, the subject gasped and threw his shoulders back. After a moment frozen in this position, he appeared to relax. As the subject bent to retrieve the pen, which had subsequently fallen to the floor, he slid off the chair to his knees, teeth clenched and white-faced.

Then suddenly, his eyes rolled upwards then he hit the floor. The subject’s head bounced once and then settled on the rug. Exactly two hours later the subject rose and returned to his writing, apparently unaware of anything having happened. These episodes appear to be occurring more and more frequently, and yet all medical sensors report nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, the subject’s health is improving daily. *

* (Taken from progress notes found in the possession of Dr. H. Shipwater) Ajare library.

Two weeks had gone by since the implantation and now Dr. Shipwater began to note changes. 'The subject has begun to increase his food intake, he has gained a considerable amount of weight, as indicated by the concealed pressure pads in the bathroom floor. He is looking healthier, overall. His posture has improved, as has his muscle tone, although the weeks of lethargy in the asylum has left him in below average condition.’ Whatever the final outcome was going to be, it was going to be soon. He had scheduled a final assessment with Dr. Anthony for the following week. The final phase of their plan was nearing fruition; Harold finally began to relax.