A man may imagine things that are false, but he can only understand things that are true

Isaac Newton

The greatest thinkers in history have understood one simple fact: that anyone may have a good idea, and any may have a bad. Genius lies in discerning the difference between the two.

We live in a world where a realisation may be of such brilliance that it reforms the world in its own image, or may be so incorrect that it leads to ignominy and the ridicule of one's peers[1].

Mayard Roth had an idea.

There was no one to observe the moment, a moment of such earth-shattering effect that a more suitable herald of the event would have been the cessation of all human work and activity, a pausing of daily life in the knowledge that nothing, now, could ever be the same. There was no fanfare, no record for posterity, no marking of this moment in the annals of history so that all would know that here was where it all began, here was the point at which everything that had come before was revealed to be but a prelude to the real show.

There was only Roth’s incessant muttering, the unintelligible whisperings of an overclocked mind, interrupted by a metallic clank and swear when a carelessly placed something was knocked from the table and onto his foot, and a final wild, half-crazed laugh as he did... whatever it was he did to the curious mass of cables and screens, displays and machinery scattered haphazardly around this cold, bare room.

There was also a long, pained hiss through gritted teeth as Mayard removed his forearm at its base, the bionic connections snapping from his elbow port with a polymer click. He dropped the arm on the counter beside him, forgotten already as with his one remaining arm he raised a mean-looking, bare length of copper wiring that ran from the mass of circuitry and computational equipment all around him.

With a blink and a final long, drawn out breath, Mayard thrust the wire into the port in his arm.

What should have happened next is that Mayard fell to the floor screaming, lucky to be alive and functional after forcing exposed, unearthed electrical current into the incredibly sensitive neural connections running in parallel with his nervous system from arm to brain stem.

What should have happened next is that Mayard fell to the floor functionally dead, neural network fried and fused into an aconscious mess, organs kept futilely operating only by the automatic cellular stimulators built into his body from childhood.

What should have happened is that the story ended here.

What should not have happened is that Mayard disappeared, his entire form winking from existence between one microsecond and the next.

What should not have happened is an empty room and, somewhere, the echo of fading laughter.

Time moved on.

[1] or, occasionally, the unquestioning devotion of a million followers who burn and slaughter their way through those who did the ridiculing.