31
Rosie was finally out of the stifling claustrophobia of the room. She sat to Blake's left, listening intently to Tinker's spit-flinging monologue. Not sure what to think, and not for the first time.
I don't wanna make too strong a statement,” he was saying, eyes about to glaze, "but this might make you the messiah. Not like Jesus, or Neo, or Luke . . . not so predetermined, let's hope. But you, missy, are the closest thing to a real life mystic that I'll ever meet.”
Too much to process. She'd only just gotten out of that little room and uncomfortable MRI bed. Tinker turned to his computer console again, a giant monolith of a thing, one screen blinking, with too many swirling, gesticulating skeins, scrolling and flashing programs to follow. He cut through them instantly with a couple button presses.
"You're looking at me a little funny. Why don't I just show you what I mean. Take a look, this is your brain," he gestured to the now fullscreen graphic, multisectioned, all different colors, decorated by ten or more white shining dots. "The little bright guys are the implants in your head, sophisticated little blokes. The way they were, they were more than a little intrusive, yeah? But, here's the wonderful thing. Each of these, we're going to change their software." He paused, clearly waiting for that to mean something to them. There was a short, tentative silence.
So . . . what?" Blake said finally.
"So what!?" Tinker’s face exploded into an array of blushing colors. "So, first of all, all that intrusive shit, gone. Wăn le, but you probably guessed that since you're not in your little cubby hole anymore."
"The thesis of this A-level research essay is this: we're gonna turn it inside out. We're gonna use those sensors to let you take control for once. All these electronics, all at your command, say hello to Missy Rosie, Electric Queen."
He slowed down.
"But of course that comes later. Now comes a validation. Rosie please direct your eyes to stage center." He pointed behind himself, then to the desk, to a device that was a hodgepodge amalgamation of parts. The thing was a small light bulb that attached to a white base. The white base was screwed atop a flimsy piece of plywood. On that, an uncovered wire leading to a computer chip.
"Made this while you and Blake were dozin' off. She's no beauty, but . . .” he tapped the space bar on the console twice, the light winked on and off again. “She's wired into the Net. With a few software updates, you, m'dear, should be able to at least turn anything with wireless on and off. Right this minute," he scratched his head in a blizzard of dandruff.
You should be able to turn on this little bloke.” He put out his palm in a childlike gesture, “Validation, please."
Rosie had been in shock for quite some time. She estimated between two and three weeks, but it was hard to keep track. She was laboring to catch up like a sprinter going up a sharp incline. Blake was looking from her to Tinker, expecting to see something.
But she felt the same as he did. She couldn't do this. It wasn't possible.
"Feel for it. Think of the object, the area it's in. The physical space it's inhabiting." Tinker spoke while lighting another cigarette. "Once you got it, think 'on,' not so much the word, the feeling." He laughed and shrugged, "At least that's what I think. Remember this is new to me too."
Rosie wanted it so badly to work. She was so sick of the feeling of powerlessness that had haunted her ever since the two “police officers” had showed up at her door and taken her away. Indentured, kidnapped, imprisoned, and running since the escape. This was her chance, if only she could figure it out. She looked at the bizarre light; she could almost feel it, but not like any of her main senses, entirely different. But there it was, concrete, as impossible as describing sight to the blind.
The light flickered on and sustained in optimistic glow. Blake's jaw made a peregrine dive toward his chest and Tinker thundered a great roar and jumped from his seat. Rosie made no sound at all. She could feel the light's energy somewhere in the back of her head, pulsing like an inorganic organ. She smiled for the first time in days.
Three days passed in drastically alternate feelings for Rosie and Blake. Both noticed this and felt powerless to stop it. Rosie's development was as pure and torrential as the artistic stagnation concerning Blake.
In this time, Rosie communed with her new abilities. Each day brought new possibilities for what she could do—at first it was simply turning equipment on and off, then on the second day Tinker had jumped up again echoing in triumphal squalor. He'd made her an "interface," as he called it, something she could see if not touch and use as a foundation to develop what she could do.
The result frightened Blake, though he did feel happy for her new strength. Seeing Rosie after that was not the same. She was excited, he could see that, but she rarely wanted to talk—as if every moment spent outside herself was a moment of lost potential. He had to remind himself of their situation, their actual peril, just to justify not shaking her out of it. In fact just watching her was unsettling. Her eyes were always closed, moving ever so slightly underneath their lids. Her face might jerk or it might remain supremely calm, even as an appliance would switch on or off, or as Tinker's enormous monitor would go black, then flicker and assume her perspective as she opened her eyes. Every time she did something Tinker's good-natured and slightly jealous cheers rang out.
The things she could do only became more impressive, and more uncomfortable for Blake.
As a result of her new genius, he was left to his own thoughts more often than not. He even took to smoking with Tinker to fill the void. More often than not he was left to ponder the loss of his art. I was never, he thought, brilliant enough, but at least expression was my life. What you think about after you're safe and sound and the bills are paid, is that what makes you?
He wondered who he was now, dreaming only of what he couldn't do.
It seemed like all he ever did was wait.