‘What exactly is wrong,’ he asked, ‘in
your terms,’ he quickly amended.
As with many of
our species this child showed symptoms of early onset spaceotemporal
manipulation, which then lead to occasional ambient psychic events. These events were initially minute.
‘But…’
But…the events
soon become significantly more elaborate than anything we had ever seen. Soon the child was manipulating small
objects, then larger ones, and then those attending him reported instances of
confusion and disorientation.
‘I see where this is going,’ said the Doctor, deep
in contemplation. The Doctor’s welcome
had been more confrontational than he had expected, and that, he expected, was
not so much out of anger, but fear. A
child’s fear. The guard’s had fallen like toy soldiers, implying that the power
over them was not perfect, nor completely controllable. The fact that after control was relinquished
the people knew what had, and was happening, meant that this power was over the
physical form only, not the mind. ‘Has
the child responded to any treatment?’
No, came the Regent’s somber reply.
‘And the events have become increasingly
violent.’
Indeed. Our continent is in a state of chaos. At first it was just isolated groups
attacking neighbours, but recently the entire population of this continent has
started attacking other continents, and there have even been reports of
individuals on these other continents with the same symptoms we had here when
this first began.
The Doctor was fiddling with the
psychokinetic scanner attached to the child when he snapped up to attention and
looked the Regent direction in his eyes.
‘It’s going global?’ The Leader’s
lack of response was an answer all the same.
‘The child’s power is growing exponentially.’ he mumbled. ‘Has the duration of the episodes been
growing longer or shorter?’
Shorter, but just
barely.
The effects of the child’s power was
growing, but at a cost to duration, which generally, in the Doctor’s
experience, meant that the output of power was draining the child’s energy, or,
it could be the case that the boy was running out of energy and the power
output was going critical due to the stress, much like a star at the end of its
life. This child was in the process of
going nova!
‘This condition, if it were a normal
occurrence, what would be the usual prognoses?’
Eventual death
for all who become afflicted, although adults live longer on average, ten to
twenty years in some cases. Adults have
built up enough mental strength to compensate for the disease’s effects, at
least partially. Children rarely survive
for long, perhaps one year, two at most.
‘And how long since the diagnoses?’
The Doctor dreaded long pauses before
answers.
Nearly five
years.
The Doctor sprang into action. He raced around the small room checking, and
rechecking every reading, every display.
‘Is the boy ever conscious?’ The
answer was no. ‘I have to speak with the
boy,’ he yelled. The Regent’s response
was that it was impossible. ‘Even with
your telepathy?’ Again, the answer was
no. ‘Then I have no choice. Do you have
a neurological bridge handy?’ The Regent
affirmed there was. ‘Good, bring it here
immediately. We have no time to lose!’
Doctor, I must
insist. Your cerebral cortex is not
compatible even with a healthy Clyreonite, let alone one in such a
condition. I must insist—
‘My cerebral cortex is brilliant!’
The Regent didn’t respond.
‘You called me here for my help, did you
not? Then let me help. This is all I can think of that might give us
any answers. I have to try!’
The Regent hurriedly left the room to
bring back the neuron-bridge, or so the Doctor hoped. It was his only chance, and a very slim one
at that. There might be some way to stop
the events if he could reach the boy’s consciousness directly, although nothing
was certain. He was dealing with a
child, not an adult. He had no other
choice. The boy was going critical. If he wasn’t stopped now there was no telling
how far these vents could go. If the boy
was surviving so much longer than usual, there was no telling just how long he
would last, and by then, the situation could encompass the whole planet, or
even farther.
The Doctor looked around the room. Everything was in place. There was nothing he could do but wait for
the Regent to return, leaving him to listen to sounds of the equipment
surrounding him. It was now unavoidable;
the Doctor’s gaze fell directly onto the child in the bed. He had avoided looking at the child until now
because he just didn’t have the stomach for the suffering of innocents, let
alone the suffering of children.
‘I’ll try my best, I promise.’
The boy stirred in his bed. The Doctor leaned closer.
I have brought
the neurological bridge as requested, came the Regent’s
voice, visibly startling the Doctor. But I must reiterate my objections to—
‘Bring it here.
Now!’
The Regent obliged.
The neurological bridge was shaped like a
helmet from a more barbaric time. (Any
planet, any species, it didn’t matter, as every species seems to have had a
more barbaric time.) It was covered with
concentric rows of cylindrical crystals, each with a bundle of filaments
branching out from the top and connecting to other crystals in an incredibly
complex network. Two braids of fibres
came down from panels over the cheeks, bending up over the shoulders before
attaching to another panel positioned over the brainstem. The device was self-adjusting, and reshaped
itself to fit the Doctors head snugly.
‘Alright,’ said the Doctor, a streak of
adventure glimmering beneath his uncertain eyes, ‘nothing ventured, nothing
gained, wouldn’t you say?’
The Doctor reached behind his head and
flipped the switch at the base of the helmet.
White-hot pain bleached the clarity from the Doctor’s vision and soon
the whole world around him bled away.
Everything he could see or sense was a mentally projected interpretation
of his consciousness. At first the
sensation was terrifying; it felt as though every bond holding every molecule
of his body together suddenly let go at once.
He struggled to keep mental cohesion, as it was critical to maintain
some sense of personal boundaries and self throughout the process. He could see the electro-chemical pathways
between the neurons in his brain, and he could detect the delicate,
imperceptible entanglement that linked every atom in his body to the entire
universe. It was almost impossible to
navigate. He only had the pinging memory
of himself as a centre point, but slowly he managed to reach out and detect the
other beings around him; first the Regent, and then the child.
The Doctor called out to the child. ‘I’m the Doctor. I’m here to help. Can you answer me?’ A sharp spike in emotions travelled
through every pathway in the Doctor’s mind; fear, anger, confusion, hope,
loneliness, and dismay all hit at once, nearly forcing the Doctor to lose
cohesion. But he held on, and asked
again, ‘Can you answer me?’
‘Help
me,’ came a ghostly reply.
‘Do you know what is happening to you?'
‘I’m
afraid, please help me!’
‘I want to, but I don’t know how. Please,
you have to fight it. You must try to think pleasant thoughts. You
must never play soldiers again, do you
understand?’
‘It
hurts. I’m afraid. I’m alone. Please help me!’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help. Your condition,
it is only going to get
worse. But I beg you; you must think
only positive thoughts!’ The words—or, more aptly, thoughts—rang hollow
even in
the Doctor’s hearts. How could he ask
any sick child not to feel afraid and confused and angry and alone?
‘You asked for a gift when I arrived. What can I get you?’ He knew
this child’s condition was terminal
and that there was no way to ease his suffering. If the boy wanted
anything at all the Doctor
would try his hardest to get it for him.
The child’s message was unclear. Words failed to coalesce in the Doctor's mind,
but pure emotion took their place; hope, pleading, desire, love, and compassion
all painted the fragmented word the Doctor was navigating a bright, almost
optimistic hue.
‘End
it!’
The Doctor burned with compassion. ‘I told you, there is no hope. I’m sorry, but I can’t—
‘Kill
me!’
The Doctor didn’t know how to
respond—couldn’t respond! Such desire
should never be held by a child. Even in
this state of hyper-consciousness the Doctor felt his hearts sink. And then, suddenly, he could sense the boy’s
consciousness slipping away.
‘No, don’t go. You mustn’t—‘
Pain bled through the Doctor’s
perceptions, blurring the effects of the neuron-bridge and ripping him from its
embrace. Blinded, the Doctor ripped the
helmet from his head and was staring up at the Regent, who was standing over
him holding a tall piece of medical equipment in both hands like a spear.
‘No, stay back!’ But the Doctor knew his plea was futile. While under the boy’s control there was no
way to reason with those he was controlling.
The Doctor spun like a log as the Regent slammed the equipment into the
floor. The Doctor jumped up and rounded the
bed so that the child was in between himself and the Regent. The Regent circled to his right around the
corner of the bed, and the Doctor mirrored him by moving to his own right. This went on for a short while, back to the
left, then the right, and so on, until the Doctor was no longer amused,
‘Enough!’ He revealed to the Regent a
hypo he had taken off a tray during one of the turns of their dance. ‘Stop right now or I’ll put your physical
body into critical just to stop you.’ He
was talking at the Regent, but to the boy. ‘I don’t want to do it, but I will!’
The Regent raised his makeshift weapon
over his head, and charged. The Doctor
hesitated for only a nanosecond before placing the hypo up to the child’s neck
and releasing the medicine. Innumerable
rings and buzzers and beeps and whines and whistles began sounding all at
once. Simultaneously, the Regent
collapsed, and a wet snap followed as his weapon slammed into one of his
forearms. Quickly, the Doctor set about
re-stabilizing the child with other prepared medicines lying around, and soon
the boy was stable, or, as stable as he could be considered.