Part II: The World Beyond The Water | Chapter 18
18
Whenever the phone rang, it did two things for Harold Wells. Won him money or lost him money. Which was the way he preferred to look at the world; green and red with nothing in between. Sitting in the back seat of his favourite car, a coal black Humvee he stared out at the world through tinted windows, catching the odd reflection of his paper white hair, tanned leather skin and baby blue suit set below his baby blue eyes and a white smile that matched his hair. This was the way he liked to live, on the move, never stopping. Because stopping is when you get caught. Whether it be by age, humanity, disgruntled employees, family members or the law, he didn't care. He had no interest of slowing down, which was one of the reasons why he loved his latest investment. He knew that when the project, started to yield results, he would never need to slow down and he'd never need to get caught. It had first been brought to his attention by one of his advisors. There were two scientists, a married couple, that wanted to run a project which would see the participants submerged into a dreamscape, living an imagined happy ever after wherein the answer to true happiness would be discovered. He remembered that initial meeting, years ago now, when they came to his office. They were enthusiastic but broken. Tragedy had struck the pair yet with the loss of their child. Enthusiastic but broken, and the enthusiasm was the most surprising. They had sat in his office, just the two of them and sipped his coffee whilst explaining just what his money would be going towards.
Harold had observed them for a moment or two after Issie had finished a scientific spiel, one eyebrow raised. "I'm not a scientific man, Dr Wyatt, you'll have to forgive my lack of understanding, it's no fault of your own, merely a man born in an analogue age. What exactly do you need the money for?"
Issie, eyes dancing with excitement, although even then they had started to pale, started listing resources. "Well, we'd need to build a base, there's a myriad of equipment that we need, we...."
Harold smiled, shaking his head and drinking another sip of Ice Tea (coffee went through him and there's just nothing elegant about a man who's stomach makes noises to signal the need for a bathroom break) "I understand that you need resources, equipment, staff, participants. I mean what are you looking for? Why? What are you hoping to achieve?"
Tom and Issie looked at each other for a moment. Tom squeezed her hand but before he could speak, Harold spoke for them. "You don't know, do you?"
Tom locked eyes with Harold then, there was steeliness to the boy, a fire. Harold liked that, this whole thing was beginning to amuse him with a thrill he was ever in search of. "Mr. Wells, that's too simple an answer."
Harold waves away the formalities. "It's Harold. And enlighten me."
Tom glanced at his wife for a moment before he spoke, and that was when Harold saw the heartbreak that splintered through them. "You know about our background, about our history, you're too smart and too rich a man to take a meeting without knowing exactly who you're getting in a meeting with. And neither are we."
Harold raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Really. You know about the......you know about our history. And I don't blame you if you think this is all just an exercise in grief. But I can assure you it isn't. We have a number of theories about what the results this project may yield, but there is no definitive outcome. Simply put, we want to explore what would happen if we lived the perfect life. What would this do to the brain? To our mental health, our physical health? True happiness. No margin for error, no sadness. Now, if it simply becomes an exercise in simulating an alternative life, then maybe it'll just become a tool for therapy. Hell, maybe it'll just become an attraction at a theme park. But there is a chance that it could do more. A lot more."
Leaning forward, Harold was enraptured. "Like what?"
Issie spoke this time. "We're entering territory that is uncharted. We will be altering our basic brain chemistry, the structure of our mind will be tampered with, which could have effects we can't fully determine."
Harold smiled. "Humour me. Give me some hypotheticals."
"You want the most basic or the most outlandish?" asked Issie.
"I like the outlandish." Harold smiled.
Tom took a deep breath. "Well, our most basic hypothesis sees the experiment simply being a revolution in cognitive brain therapy, grief counselling, wherein the world that we give you the space to plug into is used to come to terms with any great loss or tragedy. Or like we said, it could be nothing more than an extreme virtual reality experience, where you get to live a life that you don't live in the outside world."
Harold interjected. "Or what else could it do?"
"The possibilities are endless," said Issie.
Tom smiled. "She's right. Because we are altering brain chemistry, we're building pathways into the sub consciousness, but also into the deep unconsciousness, allowing our participants to live in those worlds, managed by us in a variety of sensory cues, it could do anything. For example, if one of our participants wants to live in a world where he has the ability of human flight, then we can train his mind to believe this. But...now this is outlandish territory here, but we have a hypothesis that, because we are expanding the brain's capacity and playing with brain chemistry, there is nothing to say that the world he inhabits while he is under doesn't act as a training ground that he carries on when we pull him out into the real world."
The room was deadly silent; you could hear a teardrop let alone a pin drop. "What, he could fly in real life?"
Isabelle leaned forward now, and all three of them sat like they were around a campfire telling ghost stories. "Now, let us stress that this is one of the more outlandish theories, borne out of the fact that if they find what makes them happy, if they are aware of this when they come out, they will carry that on. But, there is the possibility that the world they inhabit could be used as a training ground. A kid needs to study for his exams, he needs 5 As. Put him in the tank, let him do the exams and then pull him out. When he goes to do the exams, he has everything in his head already.
"He'd be a genius without having to lift a finger."
"Exactly."
Harold's finger was itching for the chequebook and pen and he knew they could sense it. Tom reduced his voice to almost a whisper. "There is one more theory that excites us."
Harold, matching Tom's whisper. "What?"
"If we succeed in training the braining to be happy, true happiness, bliss, perfection. It may lead to an increased life span. Visits to the tank, could extend ones life, by years. Or it could make them look and feel younger. The possibilities are endless."
And with that final pitch, Harold had pulled the chequebook from his drawer and began to draw up a contract between the three of them.
Sitting in the car now, thinking back and knowing the many problems the project had faced he was still optimistic. They have the results they were still looking for, and he has his. As long as he's pouring money into the project, it would be his results that would come out on top and the project would continue regardless. They'd lost participants, but there were always more people in the world. The real shame was Tom, who had abandoned the project and his continued absence was a constant source of anxiety for Harold and all involved. But he thought back to that initial meeting and held out hope that the promises that had been made would be fulfilled. He didn't entertain the idea that they were well-educated con artists, despite the fact the project was in jeopardy. So when the phone rang now, and flashed up Dr. Isabel Wyatt, he wondered whether or not this would be a call to win him money or lose him money. He answered the call, knowing which side the coin toss would land.
"Dr. Wyatt, don't take this the wrong way, but usually when you phone me, it's with bad news," said Harold.
"At least you can't say I'm not consistent," she replied.
Remarkable, thought Harold. All this trauma and tragedy and still a sense of humour.
"What do you have to tell me, Dr? asked Harold. "Have we made a break through or are we running low on participants? Or, perish the though, have we lost another key member of the team?"
He swore he could hear an intake of breath on the other end of the phone. It was a low blow, bringing up Tom, but Harold had cared not for the feelings of others for some years.
"We lost another participant," said Issie, eventually.
"Shame. And the others?"
"The others?"
"Yes. Are we seeing any significant improvements or results?
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "No."
"OK." Harold thought, making his decision as swiftly as it took him to drag his name in ink across a cheque. "Well, I think it's best we cut our losses, don't you Dr. Wyatt?"
"With all due respect Mr. Wells—"
"—Your respect isn't my concern here. Initiate the flood protocol. It's been a pleasure working with you."
"The flood protocol? I don't think we.....we don't need to do that."
She sounded desperate. Harold sighed.
"Dr. Wyatt, I appreciate your commitment and all the hard work you've done on this project, especially holding it all together on your own such as you have. However, I think it's past due, don't you? We should have pulled the plug after Tom left. You have time to get yourself out of there and anyone you view as essential personnel. You have a great mind, we'll find something for you. Flood the participants and we'll flood the Complex. You have 1 hour."
And with that, he ended the call. Looking out the window, the car momentarily stopped at the lights before it was on the move again.