The Infinity Device

Madeleine:

As I drove past, the lights along the road blinked forlornly. The days just seemed to fly by, an endless procession of classes and studying and shepherding confused undergraduates. I stared down the road pointedly.

And another dinner with Tom, both of us a little stressed. At least he hadn't cried this time.

Jesus, at least

I

didn't cry this time

.

So life wasn't the glamorous bounce-a-thon of fun I had kind of expected when I was younger. I mean, sure, how naive of me. But I remember graduating high school (god, ten years ago?), and having it all planned out, all hopeful of the future. I'd become less shy, less awkwardly crabby around people, maybe change my style.

And then I imagined how as I grew into my profession I'd meet some cute mathematician or something -- wealthy, why not? And hopelessly literate too, with nice eyes -- and then trips to France -- showing him off to my impressed parents, my jealous younger sister -- even my brothers would grudgingly concede their support. And then we'd win the Nobel Prize and watch Wes Anderson films on the couch.

I mean, it didn't have to be

exactly

like that. But at least in the same direction. And surely more than just becoming more disheveled as I got older. At least Tom was nice. Could banter.

I was gloomy, but I always felt a little off at night. After I got some sleep I'd feel much better in the morning.

Professor Rogers:

Allow me to describe the scene for you when Madeleine walked through the door. Her roommate, Sarah, was sitting on the couch, as at ease and calm as if she was asleep, the golden glow from the Infinity Device falling on her. It was quiet on weeknights in this neighborhood, and Madeleine certainly wasn't expecting to find me -- her physics advisor -- in her home, her roommate sitting placidly on the couch. And, of course, I wasn't expecting to see her either.

The door closed, and Madeleine looked utterly flabbergasted.

"Madeleine," I said easily, "you're home early."

She stood there.

"Uh, Professor Rogers," she said. "What um. What the hell is going on."

She was pretty nervous, but I was entirely at ease in the change of development. I enjoyed situations like these. I watched Madeleine as she slowly notice that Sarah looked different than she usually did. Not only was she in a brilliant, gold-colored dress that fit her like a glove -- but it was rather fetching too. Something that complimented her compact frame perfectly. Which was particularly notable considering Sarah had always been a little pudgy. In fact, I'm not sure she had ever worn a dress at all.

I watched Madeleine's mouth drop open and then close uselessly. She was a decent-enough scientist. I always enjoyed watching my subjects try to logically think things through.

"I don't understand," she said at last.

I smiled. "It's this machine," I said, indicating the Infinity Device. "It can alter reality. Would you like a demonstration?"

She didn't say anything, but I could see her mind racing -- I had always been such a polite and friendly professor. Even now, calm and collected. It was confusing her emergency response. Too bad, because this was her last chance.

"Allow me to show you an indirect result."

I turned up the power on the projector, and the golden light on Sarah became stronger. She stiffened, became a little more alert.

"Sarah, dear," I said, "your preferred name is Anastasia."

Sarah scrunched her face in confusion.

"My... my preferred name...?"

"Your preferred name is Anastasia."

"My preferred... name... is... S-s-sar—"

"No. Your preferred name is Anastasia."

"My preferred name is... Anast... Anastasia?"

"Yes. Your preferred name is Anastasia."

"Oh. My preferred n-name is... ... Anastasia..."

"You

love

being called Anastasia."

She was sweating and her chest was heaving in confusion. Madeleine was watching with an inscrutable look.

"I l-love... being called Anastasia..."

"You think it makes you sound exotic."

"I... I... I think it make me sound... exotic...."

"Yes. You think it makes you sound exotic."

"I... think it makes me sound exotic."

"Madeleine calls you Anastasia," I said, glancing over at Madeleine. Madeleine brought her hands to her temples and rubbed them. She frowned deeply.

"Madeleine calls me Anastasia," Anastasia said.

"She's called you that name for years."

"... years."

"It's completely natural for Madeleine to call you Anastasia." Things were getting faster now.

"... completely natural."

"You're not really a Sarah sort of person."

With relief:

"I'm not really a Sarah sort of person."

Madeleine:

This was like something out a nightmare. Professor Rogers had become totally unhinged and had drugged Anna.

"An... Anastasia," I said nervously. "What's going on?" She didn't respond. My mind blared a warning --

I had used that name

! But it wasn't a visceral alarm, just an intellectual noting — I mean, hadn't I... always called her Anastasia?

"So is her name really Anastasia?" Rogers asked me.

My heart started beating faster. I had always called her Anastasia -- everyone did. She was just that sort of person who wanted to reconnect to tenuous Russian roots -- anything to be a little more exotic than the Midwestern-sounding Sarah. And maybe with other people there would be an eye-roll -- but she was so earnest about it that...

But on more important level -- hadn't I called her Sarah until just recently?

"God," I whispered, "it sounds so natural now, Anastasia -- but I

remember

that I always called her, call her, Sar... Sarah." I shook my head again. "I have to get out of here. This just doesn't make any sense."

I froze as Rogers snapped the device on again, this time its glow falling on me. It was like an old fashioned projector, with dusty light shining out of it, and I could

feel

it. It was a little like having an electric current running through you -- and the world all of a sudden felt strangely lucid and vivid, as if I was seeing reality, seeing

the moment

, with total clarity for the first time. It felt like anything was possible. My heart sank in unspecified dread.

This was all impossible

, I thought to myself. We must have been drugged. God, I would never, not in a million years, have thought kind-hearted, fatherly Professor Rogers to be the psycho-murderer sort. I giggled in spite of myself. This was all so ludicrous.

"I have no idea what's going on," I said.

"It's easy," he said calmly, sounding just like a professor as he wrote something down on a clipboard he had picked up from a chair, "as I explain things to you, they start to alter reality. For instance... You're not going to physically resist these alterations."

Hah. Fat chance

, I thought. I was sure as hell going to resist whatever he was going to do to me. There was a gun in the cabinet. My father gave it to me when my mother wasn't looking. But then the words started coming out unbidden.

"I'm not going to..." I said, and I had a moment of panic. It felt like the words were bubbling out from some deep, vital place. "But I

am

going to resist!"

"You're not going to physically resist these alterations."

"I'm not going to physically... but I

AM

!" I said, frustrated. What was going on? It felt like waves of truth were washing over me. Was I really not going to resist? Just like that? As easy as ordering around Alexa?

"Interesting, Madeline," Rogers said appreciatively. "Attempting resistance. Good for you, go on and get it out of your system. ... You're not going to physically resist these alterations."

"No, I'm n-not... I'm not g-going to physically resist these... a-alterations..." I said meekly, and I knew it was true. I knew it in the same way you knew you should wake up early, but knew with absolute certainty that you weren't.

"Gosh." I said, stunned. He smiled and stretched. He had been tense all this time, I hadn't realized. Should I make a break for it? I looked at the door. Nope, I realized. I wouldn't. What the fucking hell.

I looked around. Everything still felt so real, with the golden light on me. Tiny dust particles drifted through the beam. Anastasia was lounging calmly on the sofa, still unresponsive. I thought about yelling for help, but when I opened my mouth, I couldn't make noise --

was that resisting physically?

and instead of just letting my mouth hang open stupidly, I said:

"Um, so are you going to lobotomize me like Anastasia?"

"Oh, she's not lobotomized. I just wanted her a little more placid for a while. I'm sure you understand."

"Actually, I really don't. None of this should be possible!" I felt like I was near tears. "And you should know! I'm taking your class where you tell us

exactly

why this can't ever happen!"

Maybe I could distract him. He smiled wider.

"Are you ready to start? I think we should begin making some changes. Your name isn't Madeleine."

"What?! My m-m-my name..."

"Your name isn't Madeleine."

Jesus Christ.

Of course

my name was Madeleine. "My name is

MADELEINE

."

"No, it's not. Your name isn't Madeleine."

"My name... isn't...?" I whispered, confused. I could feel reality shifting. How did I even know what that felt like, to have reality shift? God. Like something you didn't have to have explained. My name was Madel... Madeleine. My grandmother's name.

Rogers was watching me curiously, and then turned a dial on the device, and the beam grew brighter and the projector began making soft clacks.

"Your name

isn't

Madeleine."

"My name... isn't Madeleine," I said limply, and I knew it was true. That wasn't my name. It was

true

, the same way Bobbi and Rapunzel and Obama wasn't my name. Madeleine was a name of other people.

"You have no memory of that name."

"I... I... God..." I started shaking a little.

"You have no memory of that name."

"I... no... I... of c-course I..."

"You have no memory of that name."

"I have no memory of that name." I had no name.

"You have no memory of that name."

"I... I have n-no memory of that name."

I raced through my mind. I had to find an instance where my mother had said my name -- or filling out a form -- a memory of a birthday song -- but I couldn't find a single memory of my name --

not one!

I might as well have been called Robert or Guinevere or Chair. I flushed for no reason. How embarrassing. I noticed Rogers had an erection.

"I... I..." I stammered, flabbergasted. I wasn't usually so speechless. I had always hoped I'd be the quipping sort when the chips were down, like James Bond. Of course, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I imagined that I would be in dangerous situations. And I doubt I'd be able to escape in this scenario. My heart plunged at the extent of the changes he could do. And I might never know.

"Your name is Annika," he said, with a gleam in his eye.

I felt a flush of relief. I had remembered my name. I was Annika. Of course.

"I'm

Annika

," I said with enormous relief. My mother had called me that. Annika was on my birth certificate. My passport. Anastasia and Annika, the two As.

"Everyone calls you Annika."

"Everyone calls you Annika."

"You have always liked your name."

"I have always liked my name." These ones were already true. It was a staggering relief -- God, I hated forgetting my name. And I had such a nice name, too; I remembered doodling little ANNIKAs in middle school, big cursive A's, or admiring it idly when it'd show up in newspapers.

Annika Draper, winning the middle school science fair...

I would fight harder next time. How could I forget my own name? What did one have, if not a name?

"In fact, it's kind of a sexy name for you. Everyone thinks so. You told me that yesterday."

Sexy name? Told him... yesterday? My brain was trying to process what he was...

"You told me that yesterday, remember?"

"I... uh..."

"You told me that

yesterday

."

"I told you that yesterday," I said confused. I thought back to it, disoriented. He had complimented me on my name -- this was at the end of an office hours meeting yesterday --

an eternity ago

-- and I had smiled with satisfaction at the compliment and told him how everyone seemed to think it was kind of a sexy name. And then I had blushed, because that was a totally weird and inappropriate and not even true thing to say.

"It's a sexy name for you," he repeated, "everyone thinks so." Was his erection bigger? Fucking weirdo.

"It's... a... s-s-..." I started unsure.

"It's a sexy name for you," he said.

"It's a... sexy?... name for me?" I said. I mean, I don't know if that was true

true — I

didn't really think so — but certainly people had intimated that to me. Tom once said it was one of his favorite things about me -- he was blushing -- that it aroused him to have a girlfriend called Annika, that

I

was called Annika. And people seemed to use my name a lot.

"It's a sexy name for you."

"Yes," I said, "it's a sexy name for me." I mean,

I

had always thought that, kind of cute and with unusual letter combinations. Sometimes I announced myself in the third person to Tom, and I could tell it made him squirm a little.

Aaannika's here

.

"

Everyone

thinks so."

I frowned. Why was he saying the obvious? I felt like I was missing something, but my brain was having trouble figuring it out... I remember when I was eleven, and I asked my father why I was named Annika. He's an engineer -- a whole family of nerds, my family-- with big glasses and a friendly paunch and he blushed and started stuttering. "I-I-I just thought that Annika"

and he said the name with big, whooshing, enunciation, AH-ni-ka,

"would be a beautiful name for a girl."

And my younger brothers would beat up anyone who even

said

my name in their presence, like it was indecent of anyone to even

use

it. And my genius little sister, Laura, once confided to me that she wished she had a "thrilling" name like I did, and not something so earth-shatteringly normal.

Privately, I agreed. I mean, Laura?

"Yes, everyone thinks so," I confirmed. I shivered and I wasn't sure why. Rogers rubbed his hands under his shirt lightly, running his fingers around the edge of his naval. Rogers smiled happily, and moved his hand down and started rhythmically applying pressure to his pants. I glanced at the projector and he turned it off, and I gave a sigh of relief. I was panting a little.

"Um," I said, "I'm obviously not going to fight you or anything. Don't I get any exposition or anything? Are you an alien or what?" I shifted worriedly. I could only guess at what could come next. Sexual slavery. A lifetime imagining I had hands coming out of my eyeballs.

"Let's talk about you, Annika," he said. I had the usual thrill at my name -- my best feature, unfortunately.

How wonderful it was to have it back.

"How was your day today?"

Thank god the device was off. Maybe it was out of power.

"Um, it was good," I said, breathing heavily, head throbbing, mind racing, "I worked on my dissertation -- which I guess you've read most of -- TA'd my class -- got dinner with Tom. So yeah, good." I had to keep talking. "Um, how was yours?"

"You know, it's been improving, Annika," his hand was under his pants now, the button of his jeans open, hands under his underwear... gross.

"Look, is there any way we could, I dunno, not do this...?"

"You're almost pretty," he said offhandedly, looking me over. "Although you're a little overweight. Skin's not great. On the short side. Intelligent eyes. How old are you? Twenty-eight?"

"Ah, fuck you," I said. None of this could be real.

"Would you like to see some physical change?" he asked. "They're every bit as effective as the mental ones."

"Not particularly."

"Are you sure? We could do anything you wanted. Haven't you ever wanted to change yourself? Surely you don't want

me

picking traits. Who knows what horrible predilections I have."

He leered at me. I had never seen anything like it, so completely lecherous, open, unbounded by social norms, and I shivered.

But I thought about it. I had been thinking about it since I saw Anastasia, hadn't I? I could be tall and thin. Be confident in a bikini. Bench two hundred pounds. Screw that - I could become the best chess or piano player in the world, a brilliant author, immortal.

Or he could just as soon hear that and make me fat and short, some dwarf who could only eat cabbage, who knew.

"I don't think you'd give me any choice," I said honestly.

"Ah, quite right," he said. "At least, not at this stage." He sighed wistfully, and he looked almost regretful. "You always were a wonderful student, Annika. You would've made a good physicist. Maybe even -- who knows? - a great one." He rummaged through my purse and pulled out my driver's license and read off it. "Annika Draper, 27, 145 pounds, five foot three, brown hair." He flung it at me, and it landed in my lap. "Why don't you keep an eye on that. You'll find that

reality

changes -- all of it -- permanently. It's really rather grand."

He flipped on the projector, and that funny feeling came over me again.

Into reality, here we go

. I braced myself.

"You're nineteen years old," he said.

"I'm..."

what the hell?

"nineteen years old." I couldn't stop the words coming out of my mouth. They slid out. They just -- came, like I was reciting divine inspiration.

My brain raced. Maybe there was a way to scientific method this shit. Some cumulative error I could exploit. Something he missed. I imagined kicking the projector onto him, turning him into a cockroach with cancer. But I knew I couldn't resist this sort of thing, even if an opportunity presented itself.

"You're nineteen years old."

"I'm... nineteen... years old?" I said, unsure. "Or... twenty-suh-suh-seven?" How old was I, really? But I could feel these physical happenings on me, changes, all over my body, and inside my mind too, like it was crawling with little feet.

What the hell was going on?

"You're nineteen."

"I... I..."

"You're

nineteen years old

."

"I'm nineteen years old," I said. I felt -- well, better. My eyesight was a little better. Um, maybe getting a few extra years wasn't such a bad thing.

"You remember being twenty-seven, but you're really nineteen years old."

"I... I remember... being twenty-seven," I whispered, feeling my memories slide and rearrange. "But I'm... r-really... n-nine... nineteen years old."

God, would reality change to accommodate that? There was this deep pulsar pain in my head. I had different friends -- friends that I hadn't even

known

before! -- or had I known them my entire life? -- a lot of the teachers I had had before, my favorite ones, had retired by the time I got into high school -- I had different hobbies -- entirely different games I played, books I had read... I had never (but I had?) seen the old Star Wars movies -- the Lord of the Rings trilogy was before my time...

"You act and think like a nineteen year old."

"I... no... really?" I said, confused, as the light on me flickered and grew stronger.

"You think and act like a nineteen year old," he said smoothly.

"I... act... and..." why was I resisting? I was fucking nineteen, wasn't I? "think like a nineteen year old."

What did it even mean, to think like a nineteen year old? That I was excited to be living on my own? That Juniors were kind of scary? Fuck all.

"You

are

nineteen."

"I... I

am

nineteen" I said conclusively. Shit, this stuff was happening faster. My skin had finished changing -- subtle stuff, that I'm not sure I would've noticed if it wasn't like, sped up a hundredfold.