by S M Stuart
There was a sudden scramble for our DataRolls as we took the hint. Most of us had to make do with the old style flexible touch-screens to record our notes but one or two toffs made a big show of tapping their temple to stimulate the latest PILS (personal integrated learning system), a minute implant hotwired directly into the short-term memory and only released onto the market the previous year. There’d been a protest about unfair advantages in school situations so the PILS had to be blocked during assessments and exams. They might’ve thought their superior recording devices were impressive but the toffs still had to study the subject to fix it into their long-term memory.
Ms Thorogood continued.
“It may not be an immediate complete connection as your PT might not share your birthday. In this case you’ll sense their presence, their gender and their approximate location. They’ll only fully connect with you when they reach their own sixteenth. This can be quite a blessing for the elder PT as it gives you chance to get used to a partial mental connection before the full onslaught of the younger PT’s personality.”
“Onslaught sounds like it hurts, Miss,” quavered Melanie, the youngest in the year.
“No, not really, Melanie. But it can be quite a shock when you have a complete stranger suddenly having access to your inner thoughts and sharing theirs with you.”
“Will it always be a complete stranger?” asked Davy, as he reached towards Jing-Wei’s leg under the table. She wriggled away, struggling to keep a straight face.
“Not necessarily, Davy. However, you can’t force a connection with your chosen partner no matter how much you stroke her leg!” Davy grinned and Jing-Wei tilted her head forward, using her long curtain of silky, black hair to hide her blushes. The class erupted with cheers and desk thumping. I glanced at Seth but he was looking at his D-Roll so I couldn’t see his reaction.
“And whilst it may not be someone you know,” Ms Thorogood continued as soon as the noise died down, “they may also be of either gender. He or she may be local or from the other side of the world.”
“How will we know what they’re saying if they’re foreign?” Jing-Wei raised her flushed face.
“Communication between PTs isn’t verbal. Language isn’t a barrier because the connection is purely telepathic. Think of a Holo-Comms call – the words spoken are digitised to travel through the satellite system then reconstituted by the receiver so that you can hear them clearly. Advances in technology created the current configuration that translates foreign languages automatically. The language centre in the brain has adapted to the telepathic connection in a similar way. When your PT’s thoughts and feelings reach your mind it understands the communication on a subconscious level.”
“Shame it doesn’t sort out our French homework, Miss!”
“Frankie, I hear that your French essays can be very entertaining. You don’t need any help finding risqué translations.”
We tried to stifle our giggles but Ms Thorogood had a twinkle in her eye.
“What happens if you’re a spy? You’d give away all your secrets and your PT might be on the other side!” Tylar fancied a career in the diplomatic service, convinced that it was less about good international relations and more ‘cloak-and-dagger’.
“My dad says stuff about your job is automatically kept confidential,” I piped up.
“Yeah,” Tylar nodded, giving the ‘nudge-nudge, wink-wink’ gesture, wagging his elbow in my direction and blinking rapidly – he couldn’t quite manage the one-eyed wink. I wasn’t sure whether he was being serious or snide. My dad did work for the diplomatic service and travelled abroad quite often but it was hardly the stuff of spy stories. Poor old Dad, his ample belly wouldn’t be much help if he needed to escape through a secret tunnel or shimmy up a drainpipe. No, I couldn’t imagine him as an international spy.
“He’s just a civil servant!” I said, then, feeling I needed to defend him, “A senior civil servant.”
Ms Thorogood smiled at me.
“Your dad’s right, Dez. There’s a natural mechanism to keep certain aspects of your life private and to protect both you and your PT in the early stages of your connection. Such as work related information; your PT’s identity, thoughts and actions; and intimate romantic behaviours.” I’m sure she paused for effect. “Yes, okay, I’m talking about sex!”
Once more she waited for the class to settle down.
“Let’s have a look at the reasons for this selective block,” she said. “Tylar had a good, if somewhat extreme, case. Telepathic-twinning doesn’t mean that we automatically have immediate access to all the thoughts and feelings of our connected partner. The temptation would be too great to use the information gleaned. Luckily, no one has that ability. It seems that by good evolutionary design our brains have an inbuilt security system that will only be unlocked under certain circumstances. We call this phenomenon the ‘Bloc’ – B L O C, without the K. You won’t be able to share the identity of your PT until the full telepathic permission evolves.
“We’ll be covering it in more detail near the end of the course but imagine if you were connected to one of the Royal Family or a celebrity. Without the Bloc you’d be able to tell others who you had as a PT and, when word got around, you’d be chased by the press looking for juicy gossip!”
“Shame,” sighed Mitch, the wheeler-dealer of the class. “I coulda made a fortune dishing the dirt.”
“Specially if you’d seen ‘em in the act!” Darius laughed.
“Exactly! That’s why the brain automatically closes off the connection during the intensely passionate times of your life,” Ms Thorogood added. She was the only tutor who openly discussed stuff like sex with us. I suppose she was close enough to our age so she didn’t come across as if she’d no idea how we felt. “PTs can sense their partner’s extreme feelings but not the specifics. It’s rather complicated. You’ll probably be able to recognise when your PT is deliriously happy; desperately sad; madly in love or completely distraught, although you’re unlikely to be able to eavesdrop on the action. There are some aspects of telepathy that can’t be taught, you have to adjust over time once the connection’s made, but I’ll do my best to prepare you for the changes you can expect when you reach sixteen.
“In the meantime, I’ll be coaching you regarding the responsibilities and restrictions that you must follow once you become a full PT. Some of you will be quick to adapt, some will find it a strange and difficult process. These sessions will include joint projects and workshops to encourage trust and mutual support. And I’ll be having several individual counselling sessions with each of you to discuss anything you’re uncomfortable about.”
There were several giggles and exaggerated coughs as we considered what might be uncomfortable when a stranger started to share our thoughts.
“Okay, I’ll let you out a little early as you’ve been so well behaved.” She winked at the class and waved her hand towards the door. “Go on. Have a good weekend everyone.”
“Thanks, Miss!” we chorused and ran for the freedom of a sun-drenched Friday evening.
I wonder if anyone asked her about what to do if the PT connection didn’t happen. I certainly never thought to ask during our private sessions and it probably didn’t occur to anyone else either. How naïve of us to believe that not one of our classmates might end up being an ‘Empty’ – MPT: Missing-Psyche-Twin.
So, what happens now?
CHAPTER 3
London: July 2039
“Recent reports suggest that Homo Sapiens have taken a significant evolutionary step forward. Scientists working at the Trevalyn Laboratories in Oxford now believe that many of the mental health issues previously thought to be connected to the 2015 War and the concurrent flu pandemic of that year might have been indicative of changes within the brain, leading to the potential to connect telepathically with another individual…”
“Yes, but why the sudden advancement?” muttered Baroness Julia Simpson.
“Pardon, Grandma?” M
atthew paused, his toast halfway to his mouth.
“Oh. Nothing Matt. I was simply thinking out loud. I’m allowed to at my age.” She smiled at her grandson. She didn’t want the teenager worrying about Grandma’s mental health when he already had enough to cope with. “How’s your mother this morning?”
“Much the same. The medication seems to help keep her calm but she doesn’t sleep much.”
“It’s so hard for her, poor love. I’ll pop up to see her after breakfast.”
“It’s hard for us too Grandma. You lost Granddad to the flu and then Dad …” Matt choked.
Julia moved to sit by her grandson. She gathered him in her arms and held him close as his tears wet her blouse.
“Yes, we’ve had our bad times but we’ve still got each other. Your mother lost her entire family during the flu pandemic. She loves you dearly but your father was her lifeline for a long time before you came along. We can only hope that she remembers we’re here for her now. It may take her some time. She was fragile before he … left us.” Even the ever-pragmatic Julia couldn’t say the words – that her son had taken his own life – it was still too raw a pain.
“Why, Grandma? Why did he do it?”
“I wish I knew, my darling. I wish I knew.”
“I’m … I’m scared I’ll end up doing it too,” Matt whispered.
Julia pushed him upright so that she could see his tear-streaked face.
“What gives you that idea?” Her tone was harsh with worry.
“Since I turned sixteen I’ve felt I’m going mad. I can’t put it into words. When I try, my head hurts like it’s going to explode. All I can say is that it feels as if I’m not alone in there any more.”
Julia’s eyes returned to the vid-screen where the muted news report continued to show images of 3D brain scans and psychic test statistics.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation for the changes, love,” she said. “Try not to worry. We’ll have Dr Armstrong check you over when he comes to see your mother this evening.”
***
The news report had reawakened Julia’s suspicions and when Matt left for school she brought out her numerous journals to remind her of her findings over the years. She’d always resisted technology and relied on her hand written notes to bring back the past.
It had been hard to accept the death of her beloved Andrew. Lord Simpson had only been forty-five when he contracted the fatal strain of flu. To help her cope with the loss she had worked tirelessly to assist those worst affected by the pandemic and the War. Her efforts were noticed and she was rewarded with the title of Baroness in the Honours of 2017. Tragically, she hadn’t recognised her own son’s suffering and depression during the years after his father’s death. For that she would always carry the guilt and grief, labelling herself a failed mother. She would not let her family down again.
A sheaf of papers fell from the diary of 2016. Julia bent to retrieve them from the floor, grimacing a little at the twinge in her back. The papers were her hard copy of the King’s Speech from the Opening of Parliament that year. The decimated ranks of all the political parties had, for once, agreed to work together to rebuild the country on a fair and responsible basis. She recalled the hotly debated policies such as abolishing IVF treatments. The staggering increase in birth defects attributed to the nuclear fallout and after effects of the flu pandemic had destabilised the clinical process. Numerous maternal deaths during labour finally tipped the balance towards a blanket ban on fertility treatments. Compulsory genetic screening was introduced to monitor natural conception with many couples being told they would be incompatible.
Julia felt familiar tears welling up. She and Andrew had only managed to conceive Timothy using IVF back in 1999. Her support for the 2016 Bill to abolish the treatment had felt like a betrayal of all those other childless couples but the statistics could not be ignored. The survival of the living and the rehabilitation of the country as a whole had to take precedence. In brutal terms, funds were needed for more urgent projects.
“Julia.”
She started from her reverie and turned to respond, “Hello, Rosalind.”
“I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”
Julia quickly closed the journal with the speech papers tucked back amongst its pages. “No, I’m fine dear. How are you this morning? Can I get anything for you?”
“I’ve just put the kettle on for tea and wondered if you’d like one. Or coffee, if you prefer?”
Rosalind’s mood seemed to be much improved despite Matt’s earlier suggestion and Julia wanted to capitalise on it.
“I’d love a cup of tea and I think we have some fruit teacakes in the cupboard. I could quite fancy one toasted.”
As she licked the butter from her fingers, Rosalind began speaking quietly, almost as if she didn’t really want to share her thoughts, “I’ve been so selfish, haven’t I? I heard you and Matt talking earlier. He hates me doesn’t he?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course he doesn’t. He’s just having a difficult time. All teenagers go through it.” But Julia didn’t sound as convincing as she’d have liked. She felt a sensation of déjà vu. Matt was the same age that Timothy had been when his father had died. Was Rosalind doomed to repeat Julia’s mistakes?
“It’s not hard to imagine what you’re thinking. Please, Julia. Help me be my boy’s mother again.” Rosalind reached out to grasp Julia’s arm. The older woman drew her into a comforting hug.
“Of course, my dear,” Julia soothed. “We’ll work it out together.”
CHAPTER 4
Ellingham: 25 July 2110
Can’t explain anything until I figure it out for myself.
The thought of telling the ’rents was turning my stomach.
“Dez! Are you coming down for some breakfast?”
“Be there in a minute, Dad.”
I grabbed my favourite pair of jeans and a reasonably crease-free T-shirt. Mum regularly complained about the state of my bedroom floor – covered in clothing that should’ve been neatly tucked away in the wardrobe until I needed to wear it. So what? I was a regular teenager. I have to admit, I did do it simply to wind her up sometimes. She was always finding an excuse to come in, especially if I had friends with me.
The smell of Dad’s freshly ground coffee wafted through the house as I came out of my sanctuary. I struggled to hold down the rising panic and threatening tears. A few deep breaths helped slow down my heart and eased the shaking of my hands. As soon as I entered the kitchen, I could sense that the ’rents had been discussing the party. Mum’s eyes were red and puffy – I expect my blubbing was just as obvious – and Dad had the set expression that meant he was going to keep calm despite huge provocation.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said and he kissed the top of my head as I sat down at the table.
“Morning.”
I poured a cup of tea, hoping it would settle my stomach. I could tell Mum was desperate to talk about my reaction to the connection last night, but Dad must have said something to keep her at bay so she tried a bright and breezy – and totally false – “Got anything special planned for today, Desirée?”
“Just thought I’d head into town. Spend some of those gift-credits if I see anything nice.” My response was equally forced but I had to keep my secret to myself. I couldn’t handle the fallout just yet. I needed time to think, something I generally did using my best friend as a sounding board.
And why had Seth deserted me just when I needed him most? In fact, why isn’t he knocking at the back door now, checking to see if I’m okay? Huh! I’ll go down to the Centre and mooch about all day just to stay away from the ’rents and their enquiring looks. Maybe it’ll turn on later today – a sort of delayed reaction. Yeah, that’s it. Probably just that I’m not really sixteen until later this afternoon.
I’d conveniently forgotten that the precise time of birth didn’t matter. The stroke of midnight to start your sixteenth birthday was the trigger point like all good fairytal
es. Only this seemed more like a horror story.
“Don’t forget we’ve got a birthday tea party organised.”
“Yes, Mum.” I tried to be civilised. I even gave her a peck on the cheek as I left the breakfast table, hoping she didn’t notice that I hadn’t eaten anything.
I looked at myself in the mirror as I cleaned my teeth. The toothbrush buzzed around my mouth making the toothpaste dribble down my chin as I stared at the reflection. I hardly recognised myself. It happens sometimes, when you stare at something familiar for so long it seems to transform into something completely alien. I was looking at a stranger. For a moment I thought; this is it! But as I brought the image back into focus I realised it was still just me in the mirror – still just me in my empty head.
People had been generous with their gifts for my sixteenth. I’d have tons of thank you letters to write. Mum still insisted on old-fashioned, formal emails even if I’d said thanks via Holo-Comms, Txt or face-to-face. Oh well, it would give me an excuse to hide in my room for several hours over the next few days. I scanned the gift-credit vouchers onto my wrist-chip, topping-up my spending account; grabbed my retro-denim bag; dragged on a pair of scuffed but comfy ankle boots and picked up a lightweight jumper. They had the air-conditioning set really cool at the shopping centre and whenever I went in there from the warm summer sunshine I always ended up with gooseflesh on my arms.
“See you later,” I called over my shoulder as I dashed out of the front door, hoping to avoid further conversation.
“Don’t be late!” I heard Mum reply.
The boarding-sensor on the ecotram beeped as it registered my wrist-chip. As the vehicle speaker announced the route, a familiar figure ran alongside the tram and managed to board just before the doors closed. His hair messier than ever, Seth came down the aisle towards my seat.
“How’s the hangover birthday girl? You look like you didn’t get much sleep.”