The soft purr of the private jet hummed like a lullaby through the pressurized cabin, the sound more soothing than mechanical. At 40,000 feet above sea level, the world below dissolved into a patchwork of cotton clouds, a dreamy watercolor landscape stretching toward a pink-tinged horizon. It was the kind of serene beauty that made time feel irrelevant—just sky and silence and soft luxury.
Jake sat reclined across from Mr. Frederick Sullivan, legs crossed, a tall crystal glass of chilled guava juice sweating in his hand. The interior of the jet was anything but modest—full-grain leather seats embroidered with golden thread, polished walnut trim, ambient lighting set to a calming honey-gold hue, and above them, a tinted glass skylight offering an unfiltered view of heaven's underbelly.
Jake tilted his head back against the seat and took a sip, watching Sullivan leaf through documents with an intensity only corporate veterans could muster.
"So," Jake said, breaking the silence, "who's this mysterious friend we're flying halfway across the planet to meet?"
Sullivan chuckled, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. His eyes, sharp and calculating even in relaxation, glimmered with intrigue. "Do you remember Dr. Sean Donovan?"
Jake's eyebrows shot up. "Donovan? Of course! The guy was everywhere in the '90s. Groundbreaking bio-neuro tech. Wasn't he the one who claimed memories could be stored like data? Then he just vanished—poof—like Houdini on retirement."
Sullivan nodded. "That's him. We're about to meet his son. Dr. James Garfield."
Jake blinked. "Garfield? Wait, I thought Donovan didn't have any family. The tabloids made him out to be some lone-wolf genius. The 'mad monk of science,' wasn't that what they called him?"
"They did," Sullivan said with a knowing smile. "But the truth is always a bit messier. After certain…incidents, the family had to take another name. Disappear. James Garfield is Sean Donovan's son."
Jake whistled. "How the hell did you find that out?"
"We went to the same college. Sean and I were inseparable back then—shared labs, secrets, bad whiskey, you name it. I knew about James even when the press didn't. He was a quiet kid, brilliant even then. Sean used to joke he'd outdo us all."
Jake scratched his chin. "And now the kid's a scientist too? That kind of brilliance must run in the blood."
"Not just a scientist," Sullivan said, leaning forward slightly. "He's one of the world's most secretive inventors. Like his father. Very few investors ever see his work. Everything's under the radar."
Jake nodded slowly, taking another sip. "Makes sense I've never heard of him. So, what are we talking about this time—teleportation, immortality, robot chefs?"
Sullivan laughed. "Something to do with memory—reading, recording, interacting with the human mind. James didn't share much over the phone. Said I needed to see it with my own eyes."
Jake raised an eyebrow. "Brain-reading tech? That's sci-fi level stuff."
"Indeed," Sullivan said with a rare seriousness. "But when James says it's worth seeing, I listen. Sean's boy inherited the genius…and maybe a little of the madness."
The rest of the journey passed mostly in silence. Sullivan buried himself in financial projections, scribbling shorthand with a Montblanc pen that looked older than Jake. Meanwhile, Jake tuned into Clara Fenton's new series—his name now proudly stamped in the credits as executive producer. It still felt surreal seeing her onscreen, commanding each scene with the same fiery determination he once fell for. She'd come a long way, and even if they no longer shared everything, he couldn't help but feel proud.
The sun was just beginning to rise when the jet began its descent into Berlin Brandenburg Airport. Pale gold light swept across the tarmac, casting long shadows from the hangars and control towers. Everything felt crisp and clean—Germany had a way of making efficiency look elegant.
A sharply dressed chauffeur stood outside the terminal, holding a discreet black placard with "Sullivan" embossed in silver.
They were soon driving north in a sleek, black Mercedes S-Class, the road slicing through dense pine forests like a silver thread through green velvet. The farther they went, the more remote it felt. Civilization faded behind them, replaced by tall trees, the scent of moss and salt air, and the occasional deer vanishing into the undergrowth.
Eventually, the road narrowed to a cobblestone path hidden beneath an arching canopy of leaves. As they approached a clearing, Jake leaned forward.
"Is that it?" he asked, eyes wide.
Before them stood a mansion that looked like something lifted from a gothic fantasy. Constructed from slate-grey stone, it had sweeping arches, turrets wrapped in ivy, crescent-moon-shaped windows, and subtle carvings in the masonry that shimmered faintly under the morning light.
"Looks like Dracula's summer house," Jake murmured.
Sullivan grinned. "James always had a flair for drama."
Behind the mansion, perched closer to the sea cliffs, was a strange octagonal structure—metallic and smooth, its roof covered in sleek solar glass that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic glow. It looked alive, like some alien temple embedded in the Earth.
Outside the octagon stood a man in his mid-forties, of average height, with sandy-brown hair and the casual ruggedness of a well-traveled academic. He wore dark jeans, a grey Henley shirt, and thin-rimmed glasses that caught the sunlight as he waved.
"James!" Sullivan called, stepping out of the car with surprising energy. "You old genius!"
"Fred!" James shouted back, striding forward. "Look at you. Finally starting to look your age."
They embraced with warmth, like brothers separated by time and tides.
Sullivan turned toward Jake. "This is my friend, Dr. James Garfield."
Jake extended a hand. "Pleasure to meet you. I've heard a lot about you. Recently."
James shook his hand firmly. "Likewise. All of it exaggerated, I hope. Come, the real show is inside."
They approached what looked like a blank slab of stone embedded in the side of the octagonal building. Jake frowned. "No door?"
James smirked and leaned in theatrically. "Open sesame."
The wall split in the middle with a low hum, revealing a soft blue-lit corridor that seemed to go on forever.
Jake let out a short laugh. "What the hell? This is straight out of a fairytale. Alibaba's cave, man."
"Is this science or magic?" he asked as they stepped inside.
James replied without missing a beat. "Arthur C. Clarke said, 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.' I like to blur the line."
They passed through a sequence of glass-walled labs. Inside, technicians in lab coats worked with floating holographic models, robotic limbs twitching in response to their commands. Blueprints hovered mid-air, constantly shifting as parameters changed. One chamber contained a levitating sphere of water, rippling without a container. Another held what looked like a small tornado confined in a cylinder.
Jake slowed as they passed. "Is that a—?"
"Contained weather simulator," James said. "For agricultural modeling. One of the side projects."
Eventually, they reached James's office—a calming space with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, intricate models of human brains, planets, and strange machines Jake didn't recognize. One entire wall was a window, offering a breathtaking view of the Baltic Sea below. They sat on a dark leather sofa that looked as old as it was expensive.
A young assistant entered quietly and handed them tea in handcrafted ceramic mugs shaped like neurons.
Sullivan raised his mug and asked, "So, what is this new miracle machine you're letting me peek at before the rest of the world?"
James sat back. "A memory reader. Not just playback—interactive, immersive experience. Real-time edits. Eventually… even implantation."
Jake stared at him. "You're talking about changing memories?"
James nodded. "Eventually. Right now, it's read-and-respond tech. The brain's basically an ocean of electrical storms. I've built a boat that can navigate it without capsizing."
Sullivan looked skeptical. "And you want an appraisal?"
"I want a reality check. Investor interest is growing. But if this tech gets in the wrong hands…"
Jake frowned. "How do you even test something like that?"
Before James could answer, a muffled boom shook the walls.
Jake shot up. "What the hell was that?"
James stood. "Come. I'll show you."
They hurried into a large observation room behind a glass wall. Inside, a team of technicians stared at floating screens displaying a collapsed, charred bicycle.
"What happened, Lee?" James asked.
An older technician turned. "The water-powered bike failed the load test. Settings were off. It... exploded."
"No injuries?" Sullivan asked.
Lee shook his head. "Virtual trial."
Jake squinted. "Virtual?"
James gestured for them to follow him into another lab where a massive curved screen replayed the explosion. "We test all prototypes in a high-fidelity simulation before building anything physical. The digital models react like the real thing—physics, pressure, temperature. If it blows up here, nobody dies."
Jake whistled. "You're not just a scientist. You're an oracle."
James chuckled. "My father was. Most of this place—his vision. I just gave it walls and power."
Jake looked around, genuinely impressed. "And the memory machine?"
James tapped the screen. "That's my invention. Took three years. With the internet and AI, I had an edge my father didn't."
"Well," Jake said, straightening his jacket, "let's see if it's as magical as it sounds."
James smiled. "Prepare to have your mind read, gentlemen. Literally."
The doors slid open with a whisper, and together they stepped into the heart of the future—where the boundaries between science and sorcery no longer existed.