Garry led Xeno through the open door, to an autopsy table, covered with a life-sized sterling silver platter, under the icy glow of an overhead surgical lamp. Whatever was beneath the lid, didn't smell like roast duck.

“Brace yourself.” Garry lifted the chrome lid on its hinges,.

“Geezus!” Xeno muffled the stench of the charcoaled corpse inside with his forearm. “Is that Zoom?”

“What's left of him.”

“What caused him to burn like that?”

“Spontaneous human combustion, also known as SHC. The victims are known as Flamers.'”

“Was Zoom queer?”

“No, just flammable.” Garry removed a manila folder from his breast pocket and fingered through the documents inside. “According to Zoom's dossier, he was expelled from The Darkphalt School of Performing Arts . . . An exceptional theater student—starring in several plays by Shakespeare, Ibsen, Chekhov, Beckett—until he became addicted to designer drugs, but you already knew that.”

“No, I didn't. He never mentioned his theater background.”

“Well, Darkphalt isn't exactly what you'd call a prestigious school. The town is an industrial shit hole, way out in the middle of the desert. If you're going to Arcade, the highway passes right through it.”

“I always pictured Zoom as some guy who just partied his life away and worked odd jobs. So, what is it in Black Magic that causes SHC?”

“We don't know just yet. Our technicians are performing a comprehensive forensic toxicological analysis as we speak. It's a recent aberration of a very addictive designer drug.”

“Will that happen to me?”

“Have you noticed traces of steam, or smoke, leaking out of your pores?”

“Well, the last time I past out, I smelled something.”

“You need to lay off that stuff.”

“What triggers SHC?”

“We think that Black Magic combines with nitrogen in the blood and triggers a mutant form of thermogenesis—the process of heat production in organisms. Malborg is fiddling with a sequel to Sunlite, in order to wean the population of Metropa off Black Magic, but they haven't got all the molecules in place.” Garry let the platter lid shut on Zoom's corpse. “How about a slide show?"

“Slide show?”

“Follow me to the media room.”

THE PINEAL GLAND

The first slide on the wall-sized media room telepane showed an animated cross section of the human brain.

“This is the pineal gland.” Garry stood behind a podium in the wings, leading Xeno's eyes with a laser pointer across the slide projection, towards the rear detail of the hypothalamus. “Also known as the third eye—a pine cone shaped endocrine gland that produces melatonin, a hormone that modulates sleep patterns in normal people. In normal humans, the pineal gland is calcified.”

“What about in abnormal humans?” Xeno asked, sitting a few rows back with his legs kicked up on the next chair.

“According to the Ergo Sum Probe readings, your pineal gland is cookie-dough soft.”

THE THIRD EYE

The slide showed a mythical illustration of a man with an ominous third eye, centered on his forehead.

“The pineal gland represents evolution's earlier approach to photoreception, homologous to the cornea, lens, and retina—also known as the third eye, the mind's eye, or inner eye.” Garry made big circles around the third eye with his laser pointer. “It also has profuse blood flow, second only to the kidney.”

“What if I get pineal stones?”

“We have lasers that dissolve them inside your head, while you wait.”

“Should I feel relieved?”

“I would. This mystery gland is highly correlated with superstition and the occult—what we at Intellegella like to refer to as The Nth Dimension.” Garry clicked to the next slide.

THE RAT TEST

The slide showed a wall of white tile, stained with several red splatter marks.

“Are those tomatoes?” Xeno leaned forward in his seat, squinting at the image.

“Rats . . . that exploded from SRC—Spontaneous Rat Combustion—after being dosed with Black Magic. In the worst cases, there are no intermediate symptoms. You just pop like a firecracker.”

MONKEY ROOM: CHIMP BEFORE

The slide showed a hapless chimp seated in a plexiglass isolation chamber with the industrial black box strapped to its chest.

“And here's your new toy.” Garry beamed from the podium.

“The chimp?”

“No, the black box. The industrial version.”

“How is it different from the consumer version?”

“This device is capable of analog synthesis modeling. It converts brain waves into ones and zeros, so you can control the telepathic swell rates, in conjunction with the pre-motor patch, for ripple free sustain.

“What kind of batteries does it take?”

“It doesn't use batteries.”

“Solar power?”

“Lunar power—proprietary to Intellegella.”

“So, I just turn the knob and away I go?”

“No, you need to adjust to the pineal payload in increments, under my direct supervision, until I feel that you're ready to fiddle with the knobs on your own.” Garry clicked to the next slide.

MONKEY ROOM: CHIMP AFTER

The slide showed a close up of the chimp's face, glaring into the camera with a peeled banana sticking out of its mouth.

“What happened to the chimp?” Xeno asked.

“We let him play with the knobs on the black box. Within minutes. he just froze from the effects of a synthetic sensory seizure.”

“And?”

“He was a good chimp. He went out with a banana."

“Did he explode like the rats?”

“No, he's fine. We're not as cruel to primates as we are to rodents. I also conducted the same test on myself.” Garry clicked to the next slide.

MONKEY ROOM: GARRY BEFORE

The slide showed Garry sitting in the isolation chamber, straight-faced, with the industrial black box strapped over his chest. He clicked to the next slide.

MONKEY ROOM: GARRY AFTER

The next slide showed Garry's face in close up, glaring into the camera with a peeled banana sticking out of his mouth.

“The results were the same—synthetic sensory seizure.” Garry sighed with disappointment. “I don't have the gift. My pineal output is barely eight volts. I tried herbal supplements, meditation, cosplaying at Comic-Con, belly dancing, bowling naked, nothing worked.”

“Does this box have any sort of safety mechanism, in the event I suffer a synthetic sensory seizure?"

“I've programmed your demo box with an emergency reset duration of five minutes, in the event that something goes wrong. We can tweak it as we go.”

“Have The White Boys entered the Nth Dimension?”

“The White Boys came into contact with The Nth Dimension.” Garry clicked to the last slide.

Nth=MC3

The slide showed The Nth Dimension formula, centered in large type across the telepane.

“However,” Garry continued, “they didn't penetrate the reality that lies beyond The Nth Membrane.”

“Why not?”

“They were injured during a telepathic investigation in The Scorcho Desert. To what degree, I don't know. Now they're on sabbatical, touring the malls as a musical duo.”

“I've heard them on the radio. They're actually pretty good, but I'm not much into folk music.”

“Another fun trivia fact: The White Boys weren't always a duo. They started out as a trio, with a brother from another mother.”

“Let me guess. He was the guy who got kicked out of the band, just before they became famous.”

“He's known as Number Three. The quiet one. He too has a soft cookie-dough pineal gland, like yourself. We took that online baking class together.”

“Is he a natural telepath like his brothers?”

“To a degree.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was the test subject that allowed us to evolve the industrial black box to its current version. The version you'll be experimenting with. Unfortunately, for Number three, early prototypes of the industrial black box became a kind of . . . addiction.”

“So, he's in rehab?”

“No, he's my executive assistant.” Garry brought up the house lights and extended his arm towards the media room entrance.

Number Three entered the media room on cue, clutching a briefcase, his eyes concealed behind dark glasses. He lumbered down the center aisle, past Xeno, towards the center of the stage beneath the telepane.

“He has trouble speaking,” Garry resumed, “and his eyes are sensitive to light. Yet, his mind remains intact.”

“So, the early black box prototypes destroyed his mental faculties?”

“Quite the opposite. The brain damage he suffered gave rise to brain . . . mutations.”

“Mutations?”

“He has sway control: the ability to control someone's thoughts and movements to his way of thinking, but only for a brief period of time.”

“What happens after a brief period of time?”

“Complete mental and physical exhaustion. If he's not careful, cardiac arrest.”

“Any other mutations I should be aware of?”

“He can make cameo-appearances in your stream of consciousness. On several occasions, he's entered my mind when I've had too much to drink, and talked me out of getting behind the wheel of a car. The more we pay, the better he sways!”

“So, when do I get to see this industrial black box?”

“Number Three,” Garry snapped his fingers, “show Xeno the merchandise.”

Number Three set the briefcase down on the stage and sprung the latches, then slowly lifted the lid, revealing the industrial black box, looking just as pristine and sleek as it had appeared on the showroom telepane. Xeno sprang from his seat and went to the foot of the stage to get a closer look.

“Mmmm.” Xeno leaned into the briefcase and took a whiff of the industrial black box. “It's got that new plastic toy smell.”

“Take off your coat,” Garry tore open a small foil packet and removed the pre-motor patch, “and that toy box, and roll up your sleeve.”

Xeno threw off his coat, removed his black box, set it down on the stage, then yanked up his shirt sleeve.

“The pre-motor patch contains Noumenol.” Garry stuck the small circular patch on Xeno's upper forearm, above the elbow joint. “The chemical that insulates your pineal gland from deadly paranormal artifacts, allowing your mind to become a sort of superconductor. It enters your bloodstream within seconds. I sniff 'em to clear my sinuses.” Garry lifted the industrial black box from the briefcase like a royal crown, and held it out towards Xeno. “Strap it on.”

Xeno rolled his shirt sleeve down, took the industrial black box in his hands, hung it over his chest, and tightened the spaghetti straps until it was snug over his sternum.

“I'll be communicating with you through an open line from the studio. You can switch from speakerphone to earphone on the transceiver, depending on the situation.”

“Can I hang up on you, if you become too annoying?”

“You can hit the Snooze button during station breaks and after hours. Hit Snooze again and you're back online.”

“Same as the consumer model.”

“For the most part. Except, I can wake the black box remotely from the studio, if need be. I can also track your location and vital signs from the SSP satellite." Garry backed away, and stopped several yards apart from Xeno, then held up a deck of Zener cards. He drew a card and held it backwards to his forehead, hiding the symbol from view. “What did I pick?”

“You want me to guess, just using my intuition?”

“I want you to concentrate on the card I'm holding, then . . . I want you to gently turn the control knob of the black box from zero to one. No more. No less.”

Xeno slowly turned the dial from “0” to “1.”

An array of LED's flickered on the box, then went solid, accompanied by faint hard drive gurgling.

“Now Xeno, close your eyes and concentrate.”

“All right.” Xeno did as he was told, concentrating on the darkness behind his eyelids. In moments, he saw a series of muddy, red, wavy bands, curving into a round object, like a doughnut “Is it . . . the circle?” Xeno opened his eyes.

“Very good!” Garry flipped the card around, showing Xeno the circle symbol. Garry picked another card, held it backwards to his forehead. “Let's play again.”

“Sure. This is kind of fun.” Xeno closed his eyes again, concentrating on his thoughts with more confidence than before. This time, the muddy red bands behind his eyelids took on the shape of a wavy hourglass, and then what appeared to be a woman's nude torso, in full color. “That's a . . . naked lady card?”

“What color hair does she have?”

“She's a . . . brunette . . .with . . . green eyes?” Xeno opened his eyes.

“Excellent!” Garry flipped the card around, showing Xeno the naked lady card with the matching detail.

“Can I do this with my eyes open?”

“Try!” Garry drew a third card and held it backwards to his forehead.

Xeno focused his gaze on Garry's forehead, confident he could penetrate the back of the card surface, and see the concealed Zener symbol. Within seconds, the new technology opened his pineal floodgates, revealing the wavy black lines of a pentagram, bleeding through the back of the card, in black and white, along with Garry, and Number Three, and the entire media room, rotating in monochrome, capsizing like a ocean liner, filled with inky black regions, like a cathode ray tube losing the last of its phosphorescence . . .

Retinal imagery redirected . . . Elsewhere . . . Technicolor . . . Dragonfly point of view, sweeping across a flowing lawn in the dead of night, soaring off balance, wild antihistamine wooz, deep green horizon, peppered with starlight, moist stench of fertilizer, something up ahead, a constant zoom, crazed velocity on a winged insect feather frame, a female figure, slumped nude in the grass, up and over the dark hemispheres of her rear end, across her rib cage, over the crest of her shoulder, hover, pull back, the face in moon shadow . . .Trianne . . . Dead . . . Eyes open . . .

“Xeno?” Trianne's colossal corpse whispered, her lips massive, vaguely moving, eyes wide open, inert, lifeless.

“Trianne?” Xeno hovered above the lawn from his miniature point of view, rising above the tip of her nose to the magnified whites of her ashen eyes. “Where are you? What is this place?”

“Xeno?” Trianne's corpse whispered. “Are you with us?”

“Us? Who else is here?”

“Xeno? . . . Are you with us? . . . Are you with us?” Trianne's voice gradually transformed into Garry's. “Xeno? . . . Are you with us? . . . Are you with us?”

Xeno's retinal imagery returned to the media room—Garry's face, Number Three's face, slowly coming back into focus, the natural colors of the environment returning to normal.

“Xeno? Are you with us?” Garry gazed into Xeno's eyes, holding him steady by the arms. Not to worry. We'll decrease the emergency reset time to two minutes.”

“She's dead!” Xeno cried, grabbing Garry's throat in a sudden panic. “Trianne's dead!”

“She's not dead!” Garry pried Xeno's fingers from his throat, holding his hands at bay. “It's just the Noumenol mingling with your pineal gland for the first time. The noise is in the medium of the transmission, and so it goes with synthetic sensory perception. Trust me, it'll balance out. If every tool could do its own work, there would be no need for masters or slaves.” Garry cupped Xeno's cheeks with his hands. “You know what you need? A company car.”