The room was vast—nearly the size of a standard university laboratory—but its circular design gave it an otherworldly, almost theatrical ambiance. It felt more like a chamber within an alien spacecraft or the inner sanctum of a futuristic cathedral. The walls, seamless and steel-grey, curved with mathematical precision, drawing the eye into a gentle vortex that centered on a slightly sunken platform in the middle. The ceiling arched overhead in a perfect dome, its smooth surface dotted with pinprick lights that gave the impression of stars in an artificial sky.
Jake stepped into the room slowly, eyes scanning every corner. There was something sacred about the space, as if science and imagination had struck a fragile truce here.
To the left stood a long console desk cluttered with computer monitors, data processors, neural hubs, and an impossible tangle of fiber-optic cords. The computers hummed in layered harmony, their lighted interfaces flickering like watchful eyes. The sound was oddly calming—like being inside a giant, sentient brain deep in thought.
To the far right stood a towering monolith of machinery—sleek and black with reflective chrome seams. It rose like a shrine, taller than a man and shaped like a hybrid between a server cabinet and a futuristic MRI unit. From its flanks spilled a cluster of multi-colored wires, some curling gently like tendrils in water. One prominent cobalt-blue cable ran out and curled toward a tray, where a pair of black headphone-like devices rested on soft padding—delicate yet ominous, like the crown of a forgotten king.
Jake, arms folded across his chest, stepped closer to the edge of the platform and nodded toward the device. "So that's it? The memory reader?"
Dr. James Garfield, sleeves rolled and eyes gleaming, grinned. "Well, that's the setup. The actual prototype—the original one—belonged to my father. That one's scheduled for auction next week in Geneva. What you're looking at here is the upgraded version. My version."
Mr. Sullivan leaned slightly forward, squinting at the machine. "How is yours different from your father's?"
James clasped his hands together, rubbing them as if warming them over an invisible fire. His excitement was palpable.
"My father's invention was extraordinary," he began. "It could read and replay memories in full immersion. Not just a screen—an experience. You could walk through a moment from your past like stepping into a dream you once lived. But that's where his ended."
Jake tilted his head. "And yours?"
James' eyes twinkled. "Mine edits. It writes. It implants."
Jake's brow furrowed. "Implants? As in... creating new memories?"
"Let me put it this way," James said, stepping toward the control desk. "You have a file manager on your phone, right? Folders, photos, music, documents."
Jake nodded.
"This machine does the same—with memories. It categorizes by time, place, emotion. You can search your entire life. But here's the kicker—my software can create memories. Design them. Install them."
Sullivan's eyebrows rose. "How?"
James shrugged slightly. "Carefully. It starts with reading. Then we write. Picture this: someone in a coma. We extract their existing memories, interpret their emotional and cognitive patterns, then craft a narrative. Maybe a happy ending. Maybe a new beginning. Upload it back. If their mind accepts it... they might wake up. We've had early success with subjects in deep trauma states."
Jake stared at him, then shook his head in disbelief. "That sounds like... like science fiction. Or black magic."
A grin tugged at the corners of James's mouth. "Arthur C. Clarke had something to say about that."
Just then, a young technician in a black lab coat entered the room briskly. James turned to him. "Ready for demo?"
The technician nodded crisply and disappeared again. Within minutes, he returned, flanked by two other assistants. They wheeled in a stainless-steel stretcher with soft pneumatic tires. Lying atop it was a young man in his thirties—olive skin, dark hair, tranquil face. He wore a form-fitting white suit, almost like a hospital uniform but sleeker, more modern. His eyes were open but distant, as if dreaming while awake.
Jake instinctively took a step back. "He's not... sedated?"
James raised a hand reassuringly. "He's one of ours. A neuroscience intern. Volunteer. Fully briefed. We've run this scenario twice already with him."
The assistants eased the stretcher into a docking unit beside the reader. One of them sat at the computer and initiated the system startup. The machine responded with a soft, melodic hum, its lights flickering to life like awakening neurons. A warm golden ring lit up around the platform's edge.
Another assistant carefully lifted the headphone-like interface and fitted it over the young man's temples. The pads clicked gently into place.
Then, from a silver sterile case, the technician removed a slender syringe. With steady hands, he injected the man in the side of the neck. Almost instantly, the man's muscles relaxed, his breathing slowed, and his eyes fluttered closed.
"Sub-neural stimulant," James explained. "Puts the conscious mind in passive mode. Kind of like entering a lucid dream on demand."
The operator typed in a sequence of rapid commands. The large screen across the room flickered from standby to active mode. Text scrolled quickly, then a glowing matrix of folders appeared onscreen—neatly labeled: Audio, Video, Smells, Tactile, Language, Trauma, Emotion.
Jake leaned forward, lips slightly parted. "Is this... his brain?"
"His mind," corrected James. "Memories are stored across different cortical networks. What you're seeing is a compiled interface of his sensory imprints."
The technician double-clicked on the "Audio" folder. Hundreds of files populated instantly. He selected one.
Suddenly, the room filled with the haunting melody of a ballad—fragmented and raw. The lyrics were muffled, and the chorus dropped off just before it peaked, like a memory interrupted.
Jake exhaled. "That was... a remembered song?"
James nodded. "An imperfect memory of music. Captured directly from the subject's hippocampal pathways. Imperfections and all."
The screen switched again—this time to "Video." A short clip played: a street in Berlin, filled with laughter, music, and people dancing under a pale blue sky. It was grainy, like an old camcorder recording, and then it faded mid-frame.
"This is how the mind remembers," James said softly. "In fragments. Emotionally weighted. Not like a movie—more like a collage of feelings."
Jake took a step closer to the machine, wonder and concern blending in his expression. "It's beautiful... and terrifying."
James gestured to the screen again. "Now, watch what mine can do."
The operator switched windows and opened a blank folder. In a command line below, he typed a few phrases. A string of code appeared, followed by a line of Mandarin Chinese text.
"What you're seeing," James explained, "is a basic Mandarin vocabulary and syntax tutorial. Once compiled, we'll inject this sequence into a linguistic memory file. If successful, when he wakes, he'll be able to speak rudimentary Mandarin."
Jake blinked. "You're serious."
James nodded. "Language is one of the easiest to test because it's discrete and testable. Subjects retain the knowledge in their subconscious, even if they're not aware it's new."
The technician clicked a final button. A soft pulse of light moved through the reader. The blue light around the platform dimmed. Another injection followed, reversing the sedation.
Slowly, the man stirred. He sat up, blinking rapidly. He looked around, dazed but calm.
James walked over and asked, in Mandarin, "你叫什么名字?" (What is your name?)
The man paused. Then he answered clearly, "我叫马克." (My name is Mark.)
Jake nearly dropped his glass of water.
James turned to him. "We haven't even touched skill downloads yet—piano, physics, even emotional simulations."
Mr. Sullivan, silent for most of the session, finally spoke. "And what happens if this falls into the wrong hands?"
James's expression darkened. "Which is why we only show people we trust. Investors, yes—but also gatekeepers. You both are that."
They exited the lab through a side corridor, the overhead lights flickering softly above them.
"Come on," James said with a smile. "Time to meet my family."
Jake raised an eyebrow. "In a place like this?"
James laughed. "Well, not exactly here. My wife insisted on living close. So, we built homes right behind the facility—among the woods."
They stepped into a garden path lit by lanterns, weaving past carefully landscaped shrubs and tall pines. The night air was cool and fragrant. Ahead, nestled between trees, stood a cluster of elegant cottages—wood and stone with ivy-draped walls and glowing windows.
"That's mine," James said, pointing to the largest house at the far end.
From the porch, a woman stepped out. She was elegant but grounded, with auburn hair pulled back into a simple twist. Behind her peeked two children—a boy with a stick pretending to be a knight, and a girl holding a plush octopus.
"Fred!" she called. "Still stealing geniuses and feeding them fairy tales?"
Sullivan chuckled. "Still the queen of sarcasm, Maria."
They greeted each other warmly and Jake was introduced.
Dinner was a cozy affair—roast lamb, herbed potatoes, German Riesling, and laughter that spilled out through the open windows into the pine-scented air.
Later, Garfield showed Jake and Sullivan their quarters—quiet rooms with minimalist furniture, deep mattresses, and wide windows looking out onto the forest.
Jake lay in bed, staring up at the wooden ceiling. A single lantern glowed beside him.
"Magic and science," he whispered. "Just like a dream."