lous T-4
By
Alister Stein
Once upon a time, there was a boy named Phil Riggins, who walked into his psychiatrist’s office on a Friday afternoon. As always, his lanky body approached the weathered couch in the waiting room. Thankfully, he was alone, so he didn’t have to worry himself about others judging his mild body odor, the same red tee-shirt he wore every day, or his oily hair. It wasn’t as if he wanted to be there in the first place, but orders from his school were still orders.
It was either that or be transferred to another school, “just for everyone’s benefit,” as his counselor liked to say. The counselor never specified to which school he’d be transferred, but according to the internet, the next high school closest to him was thirty-seven miles from home. And who was going to drive him? His mother? How could she drive him when she couldn’t afford a portable teleportation wristwatch for herself? Even though they were cheap enough for most people to own. His father? How could he help pay for such a thing when he’s been missing for the past ten years?
Phil was sitting on the couch, gazing stupidly at the clock for the past few minutes. He was expecting to hear the sound of the door opening to his right. He was supposed to hear it about two minutes ago, but the clock said two past three and kept on ticking. Another five minutes, then he finally heard the door open.
He turned around and saw that it was Dr. White, sporting his grey cashmere sweater, balding head, tiny mustache and equally small pair of glasses, all atop a beer belly. Phil’s face remained unmoving and somber despite the unusual tardiness. The expressions Phil had were all so blank and identical that they made people, including Dr. White, wonder if he ever smiled.
White on the other hand, made it a point to smile around Phil at every appointment. This was under the notion that smiling was contagious. So far, every time was a failure, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet. “Hey Phil,” he said, reaching out his hand.
“Hey,” Phil replied in monotone. The boy’s handshake was typically limp, but became increasingly more fierce with each appointment.
White let go of his hand. “How are you doing?”
Phil looked down at the burgundy carpeting for a second, then back at the doctor. He shrugged. “About the same.”
The doctor’s smile disappeared. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Phil looked at the carpet and shrugged again.
White asked, “Still having problems with Andrew?”
No response.
The doctor said with the smallest twinkle in his eyes and a subdued smile.
”Here,” as he held the door open for Phil, “Come into my office, and we can discuss this in private. It’s probably more comfortable than the waiting room anyway.”
The boy nodded his head and went in, not lifting his chin whatsoever. Once they were both seated in the office, Phil on a couch suited for three, he noticed a few things sitting on the coffee table in front of him. He was looking at a glass of water, a bottle of red pills and a battery-powered machine he’d never seen before.
The machine looked a lot like one of those little, antique boomboxes people had in the 2000s. It had two speakers, each with a dial just above them. The one on the left reading “CON,” and the on the right labeled “SUB.” Both sides had their own record, play and stop buttons, as well as a slot about half an inch wide. Each was being occupied by a light drive, which held several terabytes of information, and could be bought on a child’s allowance. At the top was a yellow switch that could be set to either left or right, either “CON” or “SUB.” But the features that really drew Phil’s attention were the long wires connected to them. At their ends were electrodes, each concealed in thin plastic.
White leaned forward, crossed his hands in his lap and asked, “Is Andrew still picking on you?”
Phil was silent at first, but replied, “I guess.”
“Have you told anyone?”
The boy softly recoiled as he admitted to taking White’s advice. “The principal.”
“And what happened?”
Phil hesitated. Instead of saying that Andrew threatened him with a beating after coming back to school from a suspension, the boy said, “He stopped.” He sighed at how stupid he felt. To think, a boy at seventeen—almost a man for God’s sake, telling on someone.
“Do you still hear people gossip?”
Phil couldn’t think of a decent lie, so he told the doctor, “Sometimes.” But he firmly decided not to elaborate—like how some of the other kids mentioned that he was probably crazy since he always walked to school, and how he never wore a coat in the winter. But what kind of sane person wouldn’t be using his wristwatch to get where he needed to go? And what kind of sane person wouldn’t use any shampoos, body washes, toothpaste, q-tips or deodorants every day? It was madness.
“And how’s your drawing going? Your counselor tells me you’re quite good. Maybe you can show me some time.”
The boy shrugged.
White asked him in a concerned voice, “Do you understand why you’re here though?”
Phil didn’t say “because the school is making me and they’re paying for it.” Instead he replied, looking back down at the carpet, “Because I said I’m an angry person on an assignment where I had to pick a book and explain how I felt about it. I said in a way, I could sorta relate to A Clockwork Orange.”
White sighed and looked around the room for a second. “It’s because your english teacher was concerned.”
“It wasn’t overreacting?”
“No.” Before the boy could object, White said, “Now we’ve certainly made progress and pinpointed depression as an issue, but before we make a decision on medication, I’d like to try something different.”
Phil finally lifted his chin and looked the doctor straight in the eye. His attention had been caught.
“I’m sure you noticed what’s on the coffee table here. This machine here is called the ‘T-4.’ It’s still in the experimental stage, but what it’ll do is measure your brainwaves, record some activity and help us analyze your thought processes a bit. Don’t worry, this’ll be confidential like everything else. This will only be used to help diagnosis and further treatment.” Phil’s face was still as indifferent, so White continued. “One of these red pills will put you to sleep for about an hour. Then you’ll wake up and you can go home if you like. You won’t feel a thing. Does that sound okay with you?”
What he didn’t mention was the name T-4 derived from being the fourth model of these machines, and though declared totally safe by development, was still a prototype.
On one hand, Phil thought of a variety of things he could possibly wake up to in just an hour. On the other, it occurred to him that soon he’ll be eighteen. Then he could find a suitable job, leave home. No more of this counseling and the not having the money for this or that thing—everything would be behind him.
Phil reached for the bottle to take several of the red pills, but Dr. White snatched it away. The doctor handed him one, and watched him swallow with the entire glass of water.
The boy laid across the couch, placing his hands on his stomach and told White, “Whenever you’re ready.” He shut his eyes, instantly feeling the drug kick in and held his eyelids down.
After tearing off the plastic, White placed the electrodes onto Phil’s forehead. He pressed the power button, and as soon as it glowed forest green, flipped the transmitter’s switch to CON. Turning the dials slightly clockwise, he simultaneously pressed both sets of play and record buttons. The boombox-like transmitter reverberated, adjusting to Phil within just a few seconds. Then, as the brain waves were picked up by the electrodes in real time, they converted to a much higher frequency as they passed through the wires, as portrayed by the st
atic noise.
The stream of his conscious thought passed through the speakers, coming out as a voice clearer and more masculine than his own. “Sh… Sh…” The voice paused.
For the next ten minutes or so, Phil’s new voice described that girl, Gina Samson, who sat in the front of his physics class. First it was her appearance—her thick, curly black hair; the way her smile always shone the brightest of anything in the room. Then how he never heard an unkind word out of her, even against him.
“Maybe she gossips too,” the voice in the speaker said. “But that would be so unlike her.” It went on, talking about almost summoning enough courage to go up and say something to her. Even something as simple as “Hi” with a little smile added to the end of it, or maybe “How’s your day going?” He remarked that naturally, he’d have to clean up first, in order to be taken seriously.
Phil’s deeper voice even talked about the possibility of this person even agreeing to be his girlfriend at some point. “It’s a pipe dream,” he said through the wires. “But if I can leave home, maybe that’s possible too.”
The voice in the speaker even mentioned doing a few things with her—one of which made the doctor wince. But it was all harmless enough. Phil repeated, “Sh… Sh…”
At that, White got up for the restroom. Once he came back a few minutes later, he listened to Phil talk extensively about leaving home. The brave new world of independence, not worrying about how empty the refrigerator was, getting from point a to point b, not being cold in the winter—all that space. All that space, however great or small his new home would be, to do anything he pleased. This talk continued for the remainder of the session.
Only a minute later, Phil woke up, and rose from the couch with the T-4 disconnected. As he rubbed his right eye, White told him, “You’re free to go.” The doctor smiled at him as he left.
White took out both light drives, and listened to the stream of conscious thought that was recorded to his computer. He went back to catch what he had missed.
“Sh…” The voice said. “I want to sh… I want to shoot Andrew. I want to shoot him in his ugly face. I really want to—”
White immediately turned off the recording, ignored his plan to listen to the other recording of the subconscious stream, and notified the police. The next day, Phil was confiscated and held in custody. The charge was a violation of the new conspiracy law that was put in place earlier that year.
During the trial, both light drives were used as evidence. They listened to the one that turned out to be less helpful in the case: the recording which contained nothing but “SOMEBODY—PLEASE… SOMEONE—PLEASE—HELP.” The court concentrated on the drive with more detail, and of course, damning evidence.
The jury was unanimous. Sentence: eight years.
It was thanks to the fabulous T-4 that another tragedy could be prevented. Thanks to the fabulous T-4, another criminal was punished and justice was served. And thanks to the fabulous T-4, that was used in every school thereafter, every troubled girl and boy could receive the help they needed.