Title: "Specimen 51" Author: WestShore Email: westshor1@earthlink.net Summary: A woman scientist, faced with a personal life crisis, discovers a mysterious young prisoner who needs her help to recover what was taken from him -- his memories. In return, the handsome stranger helps her to learn that memories and fears are not the sum total of who we each are. Disclaimer: The X Files characters are the brainchildren of Chris Carter and Company. I have only borrowed them for "fun", not profit. I have messed them about a bit, but I have also cleaned them up and returned them to the shelf from whence I took them -- so that some other imaginative type can play with them. All other characters and the story are mine. May I dedicate this? This one, Ladies (and Gents), is to Friendship: That quality in a similar soul that we respond to whether it is over the unseen connections of cyberspace, over the unknown stretch of many lifetimes or over the distance across an aisle on the Dial-A-Ride bus. To The Saint and Our Amazon Progeny. To Dodie and The Dot -- and the friendship they had for over 45 years. ********************************************* "Are you NUTS?" -- Dodie June 1997 R.I.P. ********************************************* "Specimen 51" X Files Tale by WestShore ******************** PROLOGUE ************** "There is an ancient Indian saying that something lives only as long as the last person who remembers it. My people have come to trust memory over history. "Memory, like fire, is radiant and immutable. Those who will douse the Flame of Memory in order to put out the dangerous Fire of Truth... Beware of these men, for they are dangerous themselves -- and unwise. "Their false history is written in the blood of those who might remember and of those who seek the Truth." - Albert Hosteen ("Anasazi"/"The Blessing Way") ******************** Summer Cottage Late May 6:45 a.m. Walking down this road, in the stillness of early day, always brought back the memories. The sights: a country road dappled with sunlight pouring through the canopy of fragile green spring leaves, tall stately evergreens standing sentinel at the roadside for as long as he could remember. The sounds: noisy songbirds, busy preparing nests for the arrival of new life, the muffled roar of the ocean waves crashing on a sandy beach hidden beyond the trees and the cliffs to his left, the faint echoing bark of some distant neighbor's dog. The smells: ocean freshness and the early morning loamy smell of pine needles and earth. Fox Mulder stopped his slow stroll to stand still for a moment, letting the memories overtake him. He closed his eyes and lifted his head to the mild warmth of the morning sun, breathing deep. Let the memories come. Hot summers. Sea spray. Breathless exhilaration. The play of children. The musical shriek of her little-girl laughter as he chased her down to the seaside. And that last summer... so very, very long ago. He opened his eyes abruptly and stared stonily through the pines toward the rose-colored dawn sky, abruptly willing the memory of his sister away. It was a useless memory after all. Nothing to learn from it. It served no purpose. He twitched his shoulders in his denim jacket and stretched lazily, concentrating on the sunrise. Pink sky in the morning; Sailors, take warning. Was there a storm predicted today, he wondered? Three days into his vacation. Boredom. Melancholy. The decision to come up to the old summer house had been a big mistake. He had thrown himself back in time. Eidetic memory was his cross to bear. He sometimes wondered what it would be like to be without the power of perfect recollection, living in blissful ignorance. Everything he touched or saw for the past three days triggered a childhood memory. Even the sweet ones had a cloak of sadness around them now. Three days had been two days and twenty three hours too much. He grimaced to himself as he recalled the worry he saw in the quick look his partner Dana Scully had given him when he announced his vacation plans. So? Well... okay. It WAS a dumb idea. He wasn't good at this vacation-planning nonsense. Next time he'd sign up for one of those ocean cruises and spend his days and nights as a hostage to his motion sickness and blue-hair ladies that would single him out for Macarena lessons. He smiled. Would that make Dana Scully look any less concerned with his vacation decision-making process? Probably not. He stuck his hands into his jeans pockets to warm them against the early morning chill and started down the long winding two-track drive that led to the summer house. Behind him, the sudden screech of tires on pavement and the growing roar of several car engines shattered the morning peace. He never looked back. Instinct told him to do so would be to lose precious time. It wasn't necessary to pause and wonder if the noise was a danger signal meant for him or not. His long legs served him well. Speed on familiar grounds. He could hear the splintering of young saplings and the grind and whine of rubber tearing and sliding in damp earth as the cars neared. The summer house was in sight. When he broke into the clearing of the yard, he veered right sharply and headed for the protective cover of another thin stand of woods. He knew he would never make it across the clearing to his house. His gun. His phone. Everything was in the house. How much more fucking stupid could I have been this morning, he berated himself. Lulled in memories of a carefree past, he had foolishly forgotten the cautions of his present life. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat when he saw the glint of metal from the hood of another car. It was waiting, half- hidden in the stand of woods. He swerved again, aware that the growl of a car engine behind him was much louder now. Head to the cliffs. There had to be one he hadn't counted on. There always has to be one... Mulder felt his knee and thigh strike the bumper of the car that bolted into his path. He went down among the spray of dirt and gravel thrown up by two more cars that screeched to a halt around him. Doors were opening. Forced to flail blindly at rough hands that were pulling him to his feet, he fought to clear the dirt out of his eyes. He kicked out and was rewarded with the minor satisfaction of connecting with some faceless thug's soft tissue. He heard a grunt and the rough hands got rougher. Body-slammed to the ground and pinned down, he continued to struggle. Bizarre silence. No shouting. No cursing. No threats. Just efficiency. A professional abduction. Men in Black. There was no need to see them. Faceless men. There was no need to scream. No one near enough to hear. Oddly, his panic-stricken brain called up the calm, amusing memory of Dana Scully, looking worriedly after him as he left the office that last day. She had waved. "Don't forget to come back," she had called after him. He felt a soft cloth being pressed firmly to his face. His stomach lurched at the cloying sweet smell of chloroform. His last thought was another memory. Samantha? Samantha. Sam. ******************* Chapter One ************** Pinck Pharmaceuticals Company Lobdell, Louisiana Site Mid-June It's been a long three weeks. And now, walking the concrete block and institutional steel hallways of Pinck Pharmaceuticals Company -- Louisiana Division, I regret that I hadn't opted to stay away longer as was the original plan. Perhaps I should quit altogether. I've lost my fire. I realize I hate it here. I hate my job. I hate my life. I hate myself -- defined by an indefinable position in an obscure company in a go-nowhere town. Forty years of age is a hell of a time for a woman to realize what a wasteland her life has been. If I'm brutally honest with myself, I can say the realization has been creeping up on me for a long time. I'd gone from timid child to timid teen to timid adult, hiding in books and studies until attaining my Ph.D. in Clinical Research at Louisiana State. Horrified to find myself facing the real world on my own, I immediately took cover in a tiny research job in a lab that was only a mere hundred miles or so from my birthplace. I became a lab assistant with Pinck Pharmaceuticals, Lobdell, Louisiana, just north of Baton Rouge. Almost twenty years later, very little has changed. I live in the same small apartment. Drive the same five mile route to and from work. And have the same empty life I've always had. Except, I've always wondered... Wondered what it might be like to be someone else. To be in love. To have children. To grow old with someone. To have someone to care for. Someone to look after. Oh, I've often thought these things as the days have slipped by, melded by routine into months, molded by indifference into years. After these last three weeks, however, the ache of loneliness and the sense of loss have become tangible things in my life. And Pinck Pharmaceuticals has become the symbol of all that is wrong. After all these years, I know no more about it or what it really does than when I started here. I am the perfect employee; I know nothing beyond the door of my own lab and office, and I do not ask. >From timid child to timid worker ant. I have been my own greatest disappointment. And for that, I've been handsomely rewarded each payday by the unknown faces behind the signatures on my paycheck twenty-six times a year, with bonuses at Christmas. God Bless Ye, Mystery Gentlemen... whomever you may be. A two week death watch over my Grand Marraine and a week- long funeral in the best of New Orleans Cajun traditions is the probable cause for all this soul-searching. Marraine Solange Terrebonne was a woman who loved life. And she loved me. And even though I haven't had a blood relative to answer to in twenty-some years, I considered her my only real family. And she happily made me part of hers, always trying to infuse my paltry soul with her "joie de vivre". Marraine Solange had seemed ancient when she became nanny to the dingy Branson household and its single pale, forlorn girl child thirty-eight years ago. In retrospect, she may have been god-sent; she had no need of the miserly salary my father paid her. She had a large, loving family of her own. But she chose to stay by my side until I was old enough to go out into the world on my own. I had so much to be grateful to her for. Our old house along the Mississippi River in St. Gabriel, Louisiana was brightened by her presence and so was my life. I had lost my mother to a failed childbirth, and I had lost my father to my mother's memory, it seemed. Colonel Emerson Branson wandered through what remained of his life a haunted man, making me an orphan for fifteen years before he actually died. Marraine Solange, a instinctual practicing psychologist without benefit of formal schooling, knew that she would have to step in with the love that had been taken away from me. She saved me. But for what? When I wandered off to my schools and books and studies, she headed back to her family in the heart of New Orleans, and our relationship became one of long heartfelt letters, occasional visits and phone calls. When her health began failing earlier this year, I selfishly feared for myself. I hadn't been face to face with her in almost two years, but she was still the only candle flame that kept the darkness of my dismal life from claiming me. She knew it, too. Her last words were to me, even as her great-niece Lucille and great-nephew Edel stood behind me at the bedside. "Try happiness, Deanna," she had said. "You should have a happiness in your life so that you have a light for your soul." "You are my light, Marraine Solange," I said. She had smiled sadly at me. "Cherchez l'amour, ma petite. Don't be so afraid. Take the love if you have to, but find a happiness. You have been a sad child for too long." I sat numbly through the clamor and joy that accompanied Marraine's spirit into the next world. Marraine's niece, Lucille Terrebonne, a lusty, beautiful woman just a few years older than me, invited me to stay, to become part of their lives again as I did when I was young and to leave my nowhere existence behind. But her life terrified me, as I suppose, everything about life terrifies me. Even as I am fascinated by it. Lucille and her handsome brother Edel, run one of the more successful nightspots off Rue Bourbon in New Orleans. Sultry jazz music, the smell of sex, expensive cigars and booze, all night partying and lazy daylight living. All of it light-years from my dreary little existence in Lobdell. So, I said hurried good-byes and fled back to... What? What have I come back to? What am I doing here? How will I ever "find a happiness -- take a love" here, eh, Marraine Solange? My own thoughts are so loud in my head that for a long time I don't even register all the racket coming from inside my lab. I pause with my card at the lock. It had been an automatic gesture: pull the keycard from its secret compartment in my purse. Swipe the card. Unlock the door. But the door was already open. I can hear my lab animals -- the few that are left -- frantically scratching and banging in their cages. They are terrified by the burr of drills, the bang of hammers and the clang of metal upon metal. What is going on in my lab? I stand in the doorway of the lab, open-mouthed. To my right, twenty cages hold my frightened charges: six rabbits, ten rats, and four macaque monkeys. The monkeys in particular are throwing up a fracas all their own. They have worked themselves into a frenzy, and I despair of calming them down enough to get them ready for the daily rounds of feedings, meds and tests. Over their screeching, I can hear the man-made disturbance. To the back of the lab are two darkened rows of cages that have been unused for several years as the usefulness and morality of animal testing has dimmed in the eyes of the public. Just beyond them, stands a doorway into the old primate labs. A vestige of days when research money flowed a little faster, the primate area was handsomely equipped with a small clinical room for testing and surgery, six large primate cages and an employees lounge that had bunks, a kitchenette, showers and a locker room. Those were the days, but now that entire area is deserted. Or rather, WAS deserted. I am surprised to hear anything going on in there. The primate caging and testing area has been closed down for over a year. I never asked why. I know that a lot of the experiments were secretly moved to another location -- I wouldn't know where -- under the supervision of my former partner, Doctor Victor Kent. Victor's departure was a relief for me at the time. We worked closely in these shared quarters for nearly nine months as co-workers in a project he had dubbed "Genera", and we had begun an odd, uncomfortable relationship beyond the walls of the Pinck Pharmaceuticals Company. Terrified again, I rejected him later with little finesse. He wasn't attractive: he was a bookish type with a balding pate and soft rounded thighs and shoulders that marked an non-athletic scientist who spent too many hours in an office chair hunched over slides, data and specimens. Still, in all, that wasn't what had bothered me most about him. I had always had a second sense about him. There was a cruelty and unreasonable ambition behind his eyes, and even though I never heard the man utter a nasty remark about anyone or anything, I had suspected there was another, much darker side to Victor Kent. He scared me. His ambition scared me. And the stupidity of having an affair with one's work partner had taken its toll as well. Our communication - about ourselves, about the project - had dropped precipitously in the last few weeks. My personal relief aside, I had had a number of concerns about the direction of the Genera Project. However, before I could find out more about him and his intentions for the future of the Genera Project to put to rest my fears, he had taken the project and moved it elsewhere. No preamble; no postscript; no good-byes. So I am shocked to see that back door to the extinct experimental lab open and to look again upon the visage of Dr. Victor Kent. He stops short when he sees me, his pale blue eyes blinking owlishly in surprise behind his heavy horn-rimmed glasses. He is still wearing the tense scowl I noticed on his face when he came through the door. He changes it quickly, though, softens it into the shy smile of a rejected beau as he makes his way hurriedly toward me, arms open. "Deanna!" He has to shout over the din. His hoped-for moment of a staged, sentimental reunion is ruined by circumstance. "Victor." I politely acknowledge him at the same time I reach for my lab coat and turn to my distressed animals. I am not touched by his offer of open arms. I am suspicious. What is he doing here? Why is he in MY lab? What is going on? I should ask. But will I? A good PPC soldier never asks. "Dr. Branson, I thought you might be glad to see me." He sounds sincerely morose. Good. He dropped the play-acting fast enough, I note. "Of course, I am, Victor. I am a bit put off by the disturbances in my lab, though. And so are the animals, as you can see. I will lose an entire day -- or more -- depending on the duration of the commotion back there. I wish I had been informed." "Yes, of course. I'm so sorry, Deanna." The play-act is back. I can see the falseness in his manner. There is something going on here, and I wasn't supposed to know about it. Victor Kent is nervous. But why? "I was told the lab would be available for a short term use. And..." He looks at me with mock sheepishness. "I didn't expect you back from vacation for another two weeks. I would have been done with the experiment and gone by the time you..." I brush past him, heading for the supply cabinets. "I was not on vacation, Victor. I was on a death watch -- for Marraine Solange." For a few moments I could feel his silence, even through the rest of the noise. He knows how much my former nanny had meant in my life. "Oh. I... I'm so sorry, Deanna." Well, that at least sounds sincere. I brush past him again with food for the lab animals. They are probably too scared and excited to eat, but keeping to my routine is important for my sanity if not theirs. Victor is just standing there, staring at me. His expression is only semi-readable. I know he's still attracted to me. At forty, my figure is still remarkable, and I am fortunate not to have any gray showing in my red-blonde hair which I keep in the same professional, shoulder length bob that I have had for years. He had often told me he thought I was beautiful. I thought "beautiful" might have been a strong word, but I knew I wasn't homely, either. It could have been a line he used to wheedle his way into a sexual relationship with me, but as suspicious as I was of Victor Kent, I always chose to believe his compliments. It made our few clumsy, pathetic attempts at "lovemaking" more palatable. It also made it easier to excuse myself the following morning when I'd look in the mirror, remember his clumsy groping and grunting and pushing, and ask myself -- again -- why I couldn't "fall in love". Depressed and disappointed, I remember thinking at the time: If sex is considered an innate hunger, I may be anorexic. It has never been a need of mine. I often told myself that if it were one of the basic instincts required for sustaining my life, I would have been dead a long, long time ago. Survival of the fittest, indeed. Perhaps it is survival of the least insecure. It's time to say something. Time to fill the silence and shake off my melancholy musings. So I say something he doesn't expect from a fellow PPC "good soldier": "What's going on back there, Victor? Is this experiment part of the 'Genera Project' that you were working on?" I stop myself short of saying <"...before you ran out of here without a word to me. Wham. Bam. Thank you, ma'am."> His eyes widen a bit in surprise. Deanna Branson asking questions? I'm sure he's shocked. Well, he ain't seen nothin' yet, as they say. He draws closer to me, looking perturbed. "You weren't supposed to be here, Dr. Branson." Hardly an answer to my question. "But I AM here, Dr. Kent, and if your research is going to threaten my research, then I should be informed." He looks angry and waves his hand at the twenty cages of my animals. His sharp movement sends the already-disturbed animals into a new frenzy. "Your 'research', Deanna? Who are you kidding? You've been marking time here -- that's all. You and your little mammalian congregation in the Church of Saint Deanna! You're just feeding, cleaning, weighing, measuring -- until the note comes down from Corporate to ship them out, just like all the other animals have been shipped out. Or killed. Or whatever. Don't hand me that bullshit about ME disturbing YOU and your precious research! Why don't you just go work in a veterinarian's office? Clean rabbit cages! Line the monkey cages with your damned Ph.D.!" That hurts. True as it is, I just don't need to hear it right now. Stiff upper lip, Deanna, I tell myself. "Nice remark, Victor. Very kind. Very sensitive. Your astute observations about the uses of my doctorate aside, the fact remains -- I AM here at the moment, and I think I have a right to know why you have returned. After thirteen months without a word from you, I think I can safely assume you haven't come back just because our pitiful attempts at sex were so unforgettable..." I am as shocked by what I hear come out of my mouth as he appears to be. Again, silence. I think I see that darker side I always feared in him rise up behind the pale blue of his eyes and make them glitter with annoyance. "I'll take that under consideration, Dr. Branson," he hisses. "As for my experiment, it is currently none of your concern. Yes, it has to do with the Genera Project. We're securing one of the large primate cages and the old lab for a special subject -- tagged Specimen 51. As long as you're here, you'd better know this much: the area is off-limits to everyone but me and designated security. Don't ask. Don't tell. Got that, Deanna?" There is something not right about this. He is acting oddly. There is something else lingering behind his words. God help me. I can see it in his eyes. I know why he is nervous. It is like having the "second sight" as Marraine Solange called it. I can't keep the horror out of my voice. "Specimen 51. It's not an animal, is it?" No answer. "Specimen 51 is human, isn't it, Victor?" He just glares at me, but there is a glimmer of discomfort in his manner. His anger is some kind of facade. I sense he is afraid. Answer enough. "I know how far along you were with the Genera Project, Victor. You were YEARS away from human trials! How is it that you suddenly have a human specimen to work with? How, in the name of all that is sacred in science, did you ever get approval and clearance for this?" "All that is sacred in science?" Victor snorts. It is a cryptic comment. He sounds more disillusioned than derisive. He avoids eye contact as he continues, "He's a 'volunteer', Deanna. A serial killer. A death row murderer and rapist with nothing to lose. A human monster at the end of his appeals. At the end of his rope, so to speak. I have all the necessary signed papers. It's all nice and legal-like, doctor." He is sneering again. And he is lying. I am sure of it. He stares at me now, as if daring me to defy him on this. I am briefly puzzled by the fact that he still looks as if he feels uncomfortable with this "lie" he is trying to foist on me. >From what I was familiar with of the project, having assisted Victor in some of it last year, I knew it was far from ready for human experimentation -- that is, if the Genera Project should ever even BE introduced to humans. My mind reels. A human subject for the Genera Project! As ground-breaking as this part of the research project is, it has some very wicked implications. Victor's work with lab rats had produced some promising results in regard to regenerating essential neurotransmitter cells through the introduction of fetal animal brain matter delivered to the areas of the specimen's brain deliberately injured in the name of exploratory science. When I first worked with the project, I shared Victor's vision, seeing great possibilities for helping people with minimal brain damage from injuries, strokes, disease or even birth defects. However, there were several unsettling hints that the project's broader scope could have a more sinister purpose. Doctor Kent was specializing in what was euphemistically called "brain-wiping". His lab rats were systematically and selectively wiped of their memories. The Genera injections of progenitor cells -- fetal brain matter -- helped the rats' brains regenerate necessary brain tissue, but in doing do, it also helped to "re-invent" the rats: they became "different" rats when given distinctly different personalities, re-created according to Victor Kent's whims and data needs. The research went swiftly. Too swiftly. Victor was anxious to press his skills and theories further, knowing full well that there were other comrades-in-arms working in this tiny field of research. Victor Kent wanted to be the first. Victor Kent wanted his name to be the one printed most prominently on this particular page of scientific history. It was this part of his ambition that divided us. He had been unafraid of the costs. So, apparently, since our abrupt separation, rats with re-invented personalities quickly had become bothersome child's play to him. Somehow, in the past thirteen months, Victor had reaped a research scientist's dream: permission to move into human testing. Too soon. Too odd. The arrival of Specimen 51 seems just a bit too opportune at this point in the research. I shudder to think what could be done if this "re-invention" were successful on a human being. Specimen 51 will be re-born. He will be made into a virtual "tabula rasa", a blank slate. A new man without memories -- but open to... What ? Programming? Brain-washing? A brave new world? Maybe if Specimen 51 really WAS a condemned murderer and rapist, Victor's brain-wiping expertise and subsequent Genera treatments could be his redemption, I tell myself. As well as a grand experiment for society? No, the implications are still there. Messing about with a human's mind? It was too god-like, and the temptations for power over another human being would be too seductive. Besides, if it were so easy to turn a murderer / rapist into an ordinary citizen, it would also be possible to turn an ordinary citizen into a murderer / rapist. Armies of similar-thinking, killing machines could be fashioned out of the mundane hordes. The death of free thinking, to be sure. And Victor is already lying. There is already a cover-up going on. What are the chances that this is part of a conspiracy that Victor has gotten himself involved in with his senseless ambitions for the Genera Project and his own personal fortunes? And how much did I care anyway? To use a worn-out analogy, if Victor is laying down with dogs, he deserves the fleas. Re-fashioning a murderer and rapist into a tax-paying, flag- waving, church-going, stock-buying, voting member of the American middle class? Why? Seems to me that the Genius of the Genera Project is selling out for something -- or to someone -- mysteriously outside of the public domain of our science. The buzzing and banging in the back rooms slows and finally stops. Three dusty workmen file out, carrying ladders and tools. They nod wordlessly at Victor and ignore me as they leave the lab. "I've got some set-up to do in the clinical room, Deanna. There will be a clean-up and sterilization crew coming in after the noon hour. I expect they'll be working past the time that you head for home. Just so you know." He moves toward the back door again and suddenly turns as if having an afterthought. "Would you like to have dinner together sometime before I leave again?" I can't tell if he's sincere or just mocking me, so I just level an icy look at him. He shrugs and reaches for the code box next to the primate lab door, stabbing at the buttons. "Suit yourself. By the way, this lock code has been changed. Don't try to make contact with Specimen 51, Deanna. He's being isolated in here for your safety." "MY safety?!" I chortle. "Who's kidding whom here, Victor? I thought this guy is a 'volunteer'! Why is he being caged and locked up and treated like an asylum patient." "Because he IS like an asylum patient, Deanna. I'll let you study his records if you like, then you can decide if you're more comfortable with him being caged up. He knows what he bought in for, but he may not play by our rules. Just to be safe, stay away. In fact, maybe you should use up that huge amount of vacation time you have coming until I'm finished with him. It would be easier on me if I didn't have to worry about you." He pauses and adds, "Please. Don't get involved in this." How touching. He almost manages to sound really concerned for my safety. And his offer to examine Specimen 51's files is too quick, too smooth. He is up to something. I smile pointedly at him and turn back to my work without further comment. I hear the clang of the back door and the scrape of the heavy lock. Worry about me, indeed. ******************** Chapter Two ************** Pinck Pharmaceuticals Company The Following Day 6 a.m. My nerves are on edge already. I hadn't slept well. I had been wakened hourly by ghostly feelings of dread. A change is coming, Marraine Solange would say, and if I would open my heart as well as my eyes to what my subconscious is trying to tell me, I would be prepared for whatever is to come. I had awakened for the last time at 3:26 a.m., sick over a myriad of conflicting emotions and quaking over the new moral challenge that Dr. Victor Kent and his "Specimen 51" now presented in my life. Victor had a human specimen. A human! It wasn't right. He had to be lying. He could not have gotten a "willing" human subject through any known legal means -- no matter what he may have told me. The "lie" had preyed on my mind all of yesterday and throughout my restless night. It wasn't right. But what was I going to do about it? I had no answer to that. The thought that I might have to do anything or challenge anyone still terrified me. But my own terror might be nothing compared to the terror and suffering an unsuspecting human subject might go through, my little voice had kept saying. I had finally resigned myself to the day, getting out of bed, hoping to dull the insistence of that little voice in the back of my mind. I made strong, sweet Cajun coffee and sat by my bedroom window, waiting for dawn like a beggar outside of a church, willing myself NOT to think about Specimen 51 and Dr. Victor Kent. But even the dawn had been denied to me today. How symbolic. An early morning storm had rolled in and squelched the lazy gray light of the new day. I had sighed, given in and decided to come into work two hours early, telling myself I had a lot of records to review to make sure everything had been cared for properly in my recent absence. At least that's what I had been telling myself as I showered, played with my hair, put on makeup. But, as I was driving in this morning, half hypnotized by the steady "thuck-thuck" of my windshield wipers, I had begun to wonder what it was that was REALLY bothering me. Why was I unable to commit to this moral dilemma? Simple depression after losing a loved one? Forced re-evaluation of my life in the glaring spotlight of loneliness? And what about the re-appearance of one Dr. Victor Kent in my life ? Whoever is scripting this absurd comedy I call "My Life", he or she has a very odd sense of humor. Victor couldn't have shown up at a worse time. By the time I had reached the familiarity of my lab and began the day's routine, I had sensed that that was not the entire problem, either. There remains a deeper, nagging sense that I should act now to stop Victor's research. But there is also a sense that there is something else going on, and after years of living with my head in the sand, so to speak, I feel ill-equipped to determine what it is that seems so very, very wrong now. I know I am very, very bothered about the sanction of experimentation on the unknown Specimen 51. What kind of human rapes and murders, gets captured, convicted and sentenced to death, and yet still wins a second chance at life? And what kind of company allows for dangerous trials on humans far before the recommended tests and research data are done? What conspiracy of greed would drive the unseen and unknown directors of Pinck Pharmaceuticals to chance the make-over of a human monster into a human being without considering the moral implications on both sides of this issue? It doesn't make sense. There is too much else going on within my head, I tell myself. It's Victor's business, and I should stay out of it. Just shut down and shut up, Deanna, and get your work done. Just shut down. Just shut up. Like always. My animals seem nervous again. They aren't as frenzied this morning, but they are definitely wary. Smarter than me in that respect, I guess. Even Suzie, one of the younger female monkeys is reaching out for me, a gesture indicating she wants comfort, needs to touch. She rarely does that. Curious. She must be very upset. I pop open her cage and allow her to jump to my shoulder and cling to my neck while I go about the rest of the business of opening up for the workday. She hides her face in my lab coat and does not move, making me wonder just what these animals witnessed last night that upset them so. I throw a glance toward the door in the darkened shadows of the unused part of my lab. All quiet. A sliver of weak yellowish light shows through a tiny crack at the bottom, but there are no sounds. Something must have happened last night, though. Moments later, as I begin to pull up data screens on my bank of computers, Suzie starts screeching in terror and tries to burrow further into my lab coat. "Damn it, Suzie! What has gotten into...?" As I turn, trying to pull her out of my coat, I see what has her so upset. A large cruel-looking man has just come through the door of the old primate lab and is making his way across the lab to the exit. He looks enraged and ignores me and Suzie, whose screeching has struck up another chorus of terror in the other animals. The man is scowling. It looks as if he is nursing a swollen eye, but that part of his face is turned away from me before I can be sure. I do see blood on his thin lips. He is wearing the dark blue uniform of the PPC Security staff, but I've never seen him around here before. He is gone before I can even utter a cross word about disturbing my animals. I do notice, though, in his fury, he has not shut the primate lab door completely. The sliver of yellow light is much wider, indicating the lock may not have set back into place. I glance back at the exit through which the man has disappeared. Victor's warning of "Off Limits" is still buzzing in my brain, but I impulsively ignore it and head toward the door, surprising myself again. Once in the hallway of the old primate lab, my own fear disorients me a bit. I had worked in here for years. I knew this lab complex by heart. But now, after Victor's warning, it feels foreign, and I feel like a naughty child about to get caught. I press on, however, stroking Suzie's silvery-brown fur. More for my comfort than hers, I suspect. The door to the clinic is open. All but the safety lights are off. In the dimness, I can make out the procedure table. It is covered with drapes -- already mussed, used. A few dark stains. Blood, perhaps? There are thick black straps hanging loosely from the table. I back away. This is more than I wanted to see, I tell myself. There was a procedure done here last night, but if it was on Victor's "volunteer subject", my first guess would be that the subject wasn't very happy. There is a syringe with a bent needle at my feet near the doorway, but before I can lean over to retrieve it, Suzie pushes herself away from me and skitters across the hallway, toward the confinement area. "Suzie, no, not now," I moan. I give chase, hoping that no one else is back here. All my curiosity and resolve are gone, melted into a leaden ball of fright that has settled into my gut. What the hell was I thinking? What am I doing here? This is insane! Where is that damn monkey? As I come around the doorway of the room that had formerly housed the big primate cages, I see Suzie. She is huddled at the door of a barred cage that has been totally refitted, its floor-to- ceiling interior covered with thick, well-padded canvas, bolted to the inside of the bars and to the door. The only visible opening was a slot at the bottom of the door, presumably a pass-through for trays and things. "There you are! Come on -- get over here!" My voice comes out in a nervous squeaky whisper. "We've got to get out of here! Hurry!" Suzie just gawks at me. We both jump a bit when we hear a moan and the muffled sounds of movement coming from behind the padded cage door. But, Suzie, more intrepid than me, dips her little head down to the slot in the door and begins reaching in for something. This is too much. I start for her only to stop dead as I see her tug a man's hand through the slot . It is slender, elegant-looking. Long fingers. As I stoop to snatch Suzie away, I can see bruised, bloody knuckles. Perhaps these are the knuckles that met with the thin-lipped mouth of the man I had seen earlier. It is becoming clearer that a struggle had taken place. I again recall Victor's description of his volunteer: a murderer and a rapist. Looking at this pale hand, though, I don't get a sense that it is the hand of a criminal, as foolish as that sounds. I am a scientist, not given to relying on flashes of intuition. I hesitate, studying the hand for a moment longer, while Suzie chitters beside my ear. I can just see the slim wrist. It is red and raw-looking. Markings of restraints? What kind of "volunteer" is so unwilling that he has to be beaten and restrained? Another impulse. I brush my fingertips lightly over the bruised knuckles, wondering about the rest of the body this belongs to. It moves with a drugged slowness in response to my light touch. I draw back quickly and hug Suzie to me. "We've got to get out of here. Let's go," I whisper as if Suzie would answer. It is a soft, hoarse voice on the other side of the door that responds. "S-Scully? Scully? Is that you?" It sounds slurred, laden with drugs, but it sounds desperately hopeful, too. I am too shocked to answer. What have I done? "Scully?" He tries again. I don't know what to do. I should go. I edge back toward the door, but that hand is moving now, reaching shakily for me. "Dana? Please. Scully? Who's there? Help me -- please." His voice is so weak, so desperate. He thinks I'm someone named... Who? Dana Scully? Should I answer? Should I try to make him understand? But what is there to understand? Fear rules again. I hold Suzie tightly to me and bolt back down the hallway toward the safety of my own little lab. This is Victor's project. I have no reason to be here. I have no business snooping after his research. I've got plenty of my own work to... The door opens just as I reach for it, and I find myself staring into the startled face of Dr. Kent. And just as I feel the warm flush of embarrassment rush through me, I see his face darken over with anger. He pulls me roughly forward into my own lab and slams the door shut before he turns on me. I've never seen him this angry. He seems to be shaking with rage. I back away from him. Suzie is squirming and starting to shriek again. Suzie. My salvation. She is the perfect foil. "Victor! I had to get Suzie. Your security guy got the animals all worked up this morning, and Suzie bolted from her cage. She headed right through this door he left open -- and I had to go get her." My words tumble out in a rush, sounding idiotic, even to me. Is he buying this? I can't tell. His face is so vicious-looking. Then, thankfully, I see him waver. He looks from me to the frantic Suzie and back at the door as if considering the possibility that my little fabrication might be true. His face relaxes a bit. He believes me! Thank you, God. "What did you see?" he demands gruffly, still pinching my arm too tightly. "Nothing," I snap, wriggling free of his grasp. Having gotten away with my lie, I allow myself a little indignation at his treatment of me. "I found Suzie by the cages. She came right to me when I called." I don't know what else to say. I have to be careful with the web I am weaving; I know there were security cameras back in there somewhere. And those cameras never lie. He chews his lip, considering my tale. Perhaps he just chooses to believe me. In any case, his manner softens considerably and he uses his stern father-lecturer voice that I have always despised: "You've been warned, Deanna. We've got a violent, dangerous man in there. For your own good, stay clear." I force myself to be cheery-sounding. "No need to tell me twice, Victor. I saw the face of that security guard this morning. Must have been quite a fight. I sure hope none of your work on your new specimen was compromised." Victor seems to get a bit concerned at that. His face blanches visibly, and he hurriedly moves to unlock the door. I am not going to allow him the luxury of running away from my irritation with him and his special project. "Tell me again how they got this man to volunteer for this experiment, Victor?" I say it in my sweetest voice, but Dr. Kent does not take it sweetly. He sends one last scowl my way and disappears through the doorway, slamming and locking the door behind him. I stare darkly at the closed door. Amidst my tumultuous thoughts, I can still hear that man's soft pleading voice: "Dana? Scully? Help me." He's not a volunteer. I'm sure of it. However, I didn't survive this long at PPC by being curious about every secretive project that slithered through our doors along with our regular work. I have been lucky to have been involved in simple straight-forward research projects over the years. No reason to ask questions. No reason to cover things up. Until now. Should I even let this get under my skin? Last year, I respected Victor Kent's work with the Genera Project. Regeneration of essential brain cells would seem like a boon to mankind -- surely headed for Nobel Prize recognition in several years. This part of the project is new, though. And sinister. And so is my former lover, Victor Kent. Why am I not more surprised, I wonder? I catch myself rubbing the tips of my fingers absently. I can still feel the cool bruised flesh of that mystery man's hand under my fingertips. I can still hear the desperation and fright in that quiet voice. Who is "Dana Scully"? I resolve to remember that name. And I resolve to pay a bit more attention to my little "inside" voice, the one that Marraine Solange said I should listen to more often. Right now, it only says there is a change coming. And I should be ready. ******************** Chapter Three ************** Pinck Pharmaceuticals Company Day Three 6 a.m. Another nearly-sleepless night. I am in a deep funk. Depressed. If I dreamt at all, I cannot recall the images. I don't feel rested. I feel haunted. And immediately irritated when I step into my lab this morning. All the lights are on. The animals are disturbed, of course. If these lights were burning all night, they probably didn't sleep. They were off their feed yesterday, and I'm willing to bet they will be today, too. I will have to note this in the logs and reports -- again. This constant uproar is going to show up in their weights and measures soon. I might as well kiss off my carefully gathered data. Did anyone - including me - care? I feel a rush of anger at Victor. At PPC. And at myself. Why was I allowing myself to be trod on like this? I hear a raised voice coming from deep within the old primate lab. It is hard to resist the urge to listen in. As I slip on my lab coat, I move closer to the back door. The voice was not familiar. Not Victor's. Not the velvety voice of that stranger in the cage. Deeper, rougher. Certainly angry. "Eat, you bastard! Or you and me are gonna go another round!" I wince at the sharp unmistakable sound of flesh striking violently against flesh. "EAT, goddammit!" There was a scraping sound, like a chair being pulled back across floor tiles and a muffled cry. Without thinking, I begin pounding on the door. I have absolutely no idea of what I'm going to say or do if it opens to me. I am acting almost instinctually, enraged by the sound of that slap, spurred on by the sound of that cry. The silence is telling. I pound on the door again, full of righteous indignation. This time, a voice answers. "Who is it, and what is your business here?" came a lighter male voice, different than the one I had just heard. "Dr. Deanna Branson. Open up! I am a partner of Victor Kent's on the Genera Project." A white lie. Victor would be furious. But I must have said all the magic words because the door opens, and a thin blond man in a PPC security uniform looks out at me. His face is absolutely unreadable. I shove my sudden rush of faintheartedness to the back of my mind. There is someone in here being manhandled, and that's a breech of civility in this lab. We never mistreat our animals; why should it be allowed with Specimen 51? "What's all the noise I've been hearing?" I demand as I step into the hallway with a renewed resolve. I have to put a stop to this. The young man looks a bit confused by my assumed power. He must be new. He doesn't know whether to question my authority or not. I can tell he's not going to last long in the security guard game here. I don't wait for him to ponder it all. I head down the hall toward the small kitchen area where I assume the ruckus had been coming from. As I pass the confinement area, I see the big man who had made the hasty exit through my lab yesterday. He is closing the door to that big padded cage and hurrying to lock it. "Stop right there!" I demand. He merely looks at me and turns the key in the lock with a deliberate defiance. "Open that up! I want to see him!" I hear myself shouting. I'm surprised at how much anger I'm feeling. The big man scowls at me. "On whose authority ?" I pull forward the lapel of my lab coat, showing him my PPC ID which carries the special blue bar indicating my rank here at the lab. There are at least two grades above me with greater security clearance. I know that, but will he? He sets his jaw and crosses his arms over his massive chest. Yes. He knows I'm too far down on the organizational chart to be any threat to him. "She's Dr. Kent's old partner in the Genera Project, Eddings." The voice of the smaller security guard came from behind me. "Maybe she'll be able to help put him down. He might not get as feisty with a woman. If we don't get that guy on his way dreamland before Dr. Kent returns, there'll be more hell to pay." Eddings and I just glare at each other for a moment. "What needs to be done?" I ask, attempting to break the stony silence. "The bastard has been uncooperative. He's overdue for his morning drugs." Eddings drops his arm in angry resignation and moves to unlock the door. "He's supposed to get two drugs -- both by injection. Keeps him asleep throughout the day until the doctor wants him prepped for treatment. He gets cleaned up, fed and given a fresh round of drugs before he gets dragged into the treatment room at midnight. Trouble is, our boy here isn't being as companionable as our schedule requires." He pulls open the padded door and for a moment all I can see is a plain mattress laying on the floor. As my eyes adjust to the dim interior, I can just make out the huddled form of a man in the far corner. The hallway light falls on his torn clothes -- formerly a set of immaculate white scrubs, now stained with what looks like food. He makes no movement, but I sense he is watching. I can only see the quick heaving of his chest and the racing movement of his pulse fluttering under the skin of his slender neck. A thin ribbon of blood is slipping over his jaw and along his throat, but I can't see where it's coming from; the rest of his face is too well hidden by the shadows. I step toward him, but he pulls further into the dark corner. I crouch nearby trying not to look too "officious". This guy might not be in the mood to deal with another authority figure after being treated to breakfast in Eddings' style. "Hi," I say as softly as I can. I extend my hand. A silly gesture -- as ancient in human communication as the smile, the first and most famous "mixed signal". He still does not move, but I can see the glitter of his eyes. He is looking at me oddly. "Dana." His voice is a soft shocked whisper. "Scully?" Now his voice sounds incredulous, and his hand darts out of the shadows to touch my hair. The move startles me and the trigger-happy guards. I hear the slap of leather and metal and the click of a cocked trigger. "Get back, boy!" Eddings barks. The man jumps back into the deeper part of the shadows immediately. My heart is thumping loudly. Specimen 51's impulsive touch scared me. I can't afford to forget that this man is supposed to be a murderer, a rapist. Maybe all my well-meaning intentions are misplaced here. Maybe the best people to deal with this fellow are the guys with the fists and the drugs and the guns. But he had only stroked my hair. And he had called that woman's name again. Dana? Dana Scully? Maybe she has red hair like mine. Maybe he just thinks I am her. He wasn't being aggressive. In retrospect, it even seemed like a forlorn gesture. Once again, I wonder how true it is that this man volunteered to have his brain re-wired by Victor Kent and his Genera Project. This man seems more like a prisoner than a willing recruit. "Get him some clean clothes and something to clean up with, please." I am as pleasant as I can be with Victor's goons. Eddings doesn't move, but the other man hastens to do as I ordered. "Does Victor know how you've been treating this man?" I ask Eddings pointblank. "Dr. Kent knows he's uncooperative," Eddings replies, casting an angry look at the man in the shadows. "The treatments are already off schedule, and his progress is slow." "Has he had any treatments at all?" Eddings shrugs. "If you want clinical information, you can talk to the good doctor. You aren't even supposed to be this close to the creep. He's human scum, and Dr. Kent is going to make him over into a new man." He turns and spits in the other man's direction and snarls, "Isn't that right, Number 51? Tell the pretty lady what a scummy bastard you are. Tell her about those kids you killed in Maine. Tell her how you did that teenager in Boston. Tell her about..." The huddled figure in the corner seems to shrivel, trying to pull further into the darkness. He throws his arms up over his ears and begins rocking against the padded wall of the cage. "No.... No. No. No. I didn't.. That wasn't me. Stop it!" Eddings laughs. "Naw, maybe it wasn't, buddy-boy. Maybe it was that 'other' you -- the one that hears voices." The big man chortles with glee. The figure in the corner is clearly distressed. I am getting angry with Eddings' brand of cruelty. "That's enough! You're out of line. And as for the treatment of this man, as a patient of Dr. Kent's Genera Project, he should be handled gently. These are delicate procedures on the brain, and the experiment's success can depend on how the patient is physically." "Christ, lady, Get a clue!" Eddings cackles loudly. "This guy is a throw-away. A nobody. I've got my orders. See to it that he wakes up without a thought in that pretty little head of his except for the new ones that Dr. Kent is going to plant there in seven days. That's all we have: seven days. Two have been wasted already. If we lose any more time, he's headed for the 'scrap heap'." "What are you saying?" I ask, horrified at the implication. "I'm saying that this guy either cooperates and gets himself a new brain, or he heads for the fate that the American justice system originally had planned for him -- death by lethal injection. Ain't that right, bucko?" Eddings nudges the man in the shadows with his foot, but Specimen 51 does not respond. He just keeps rocking himself against the cage's padded wall, muttering denials under his breath. I swallow hard, trying to clear the dry knot I feel rising in my throat. Watching the distressed figure, listening to his litany of "No. No. No.", it is easy to believe he might be crazy or trying to escape a death sentence by paying his debt to society with an offering as extreme as the sacrifice of his mind. Victor's Genera Project could give him a new life. I still feel something is amiss here. Something is not right. The other security guard returns with a fresh set of scrubs and some wet towels. "Clean him up and I'll help with his medications, but DO NOT hurt him! Understood?" The blond nods at me, but Eddings just scowls. I hear the prisoner's voice rise with a sudden desperation as I step out to give them some privacy. "Scully? Wait! Don't leave... No! Don't touch me! Dana! Goddammit! I said don't touch me! DON'T LEAVE ME!" I can't figure this guy out. He is definitely confused. He's mistaken me for someone; he doesn't seem to know who he is; he's combative. If he IS schizophrenic as Eddings has implied, he'd have never ended up with a death sentence because of his illness. Victor never mentioned schizophrenia in this man. And besides, how could a mentally impaired man legally sign away something as important as his life? Too many questions. I resolve to ask Victor when he comes in later this morning. "All right!" Eddings is shouting. "C'mon! Give this wildcat his sleepy-time shot! We've got him down." When I step back in, I see the two guards have their troublesome charge pinned face-down onto the mattress. Miraculously, the man is still squirming under their combined weights. For the first time, I can see he is long, of slender build, but obviously strong. His hair is thick, a rich chocolate-brown color. His hands are gripped behind his back and his face hidden from me by his warden, Eddings. "Hurry!" Eddings is grunting with the exertion of trying not to be bucked off his charge and trying to keep a hand clamped over the man's mouth. "The syringes are in the case right outside -- by the door -- where I left them." I open the blue leather case. Two new syringes, ready to use. Thorazine -- labeled -- a moderate dose. The other: an anti- convulsive medication. Odd. It is not labeled by name. Tegritol, perhaps? -- presumably to keep seizures, the brain's natural reaction to some one poking around inside its tissues, at bay. These were for the patient's own good, I knew. Why would he want to fight them so? "Hey now... calm down. These medicines will help you. They'll help you relax. You'll sleep. Won't that feel good? Wouldn't you just like to close your eyes... and sleep?" I keep my voice soft and low, trying to relax him -- just like my lab animals. "Come on... Come on... Calm down now. It won't hurt if you just ... relax. Just a little bit..." I talk as I slowly peel back his scrubs enough to reveal some thigh muscle. He has stopped squirming. He seems to be listening to my voice. Still I can feel how tensed his muscles are when I push the first needle, loaded with the Thorazine, in. It must hurt. I wait a moment, rubbing the injection site gently, still talking. "Shhhh... Shhhhh. It's going to be better now. Don't fight it. Relax..." I can feel him loosen up, and so I move quickly to finish the next injection. "Enough," I snap at the two security guards, waving them off the patient. "Leave him alone now." The blond moves away quickly, but Eddings lingers, clearly defying me. He smiles at me, slowly touching the man underneath him in a way that gives me the creeps. He finally rolls off of him. "Thanks for the help," he says. I don't want to be thanked for this. I don't want to think I've helped them. I have to convince myself I am helping HIM -- the young stranger. I have to convince myself that I saved him from being brutalized any more. Well, for today anyway. Wordlessly, I return to my lab. For the rest of that day, I am unable to accomplish anything, gnawed by guilt and indecision. That young man is being tormented. I keep thinking he can't have volunteered for something like this. Yet, what if I'm wrong? What if he really is a convicted murderer? What if he really did have nothing to lose? Was his treatment in response to who he was or how he had behaved in the past? Twice during the day, I pick up the phone. Perhaps I should call... Call whom, Deanna? What are you willing to start? Are you willing to shoulder the possible humiliation if Victor is right? Or the censure of PPC? Or the ridicule of the local cops? So, twice during the day, I also put the phone quietly back in its cradle. With silent apologies to Specimen 51 for my weakness. ******************** Chapter Four ************** Following Morning 3:45 a.m. The dream woke me up. Shook me up. I decide to drive into work if only to run from the dream. Besides, I am still irked that Victor Kent managed to avoid me yesterday. I wanted to know more about his little "project". At this hour, I may even catch Victor hard at work. The entrance gates are locked. Not unusual at Pinck. Arlie Jackson, one if the night shift guards who has been with the company for years, approaches my car with a quizzical expression. "Why, it's you, Dr. Branson! What brings you here at this hour?" His black face is, as always, open and friendly. "Sleepless night, Arlie," I tell him truthfully. "And I've been a bit behind since I've been gone so..." "Yes, ma'am," he says reverently, giving me an honest look of sympathy. "I was powerful sad hearin' about ol' Mizz Terrebonne's passin'. She was a wonderful woman and well known in every parish from here to N'Orl'ans. Lotta people gonna miss her. I 'spect you most of all..." I can only nod. My dream rose up sharply again in my mind: Marraine Solange, standing at the banks of the Mississippi River behind our big house, silently motioning me forward. The river, swollen and dark. I could only see into it when flashes of lightning from the angry clouds overhead lit the sky. I moved slowly in my dream, reluctantly. I felt my heart pounding with fear over what Marraine was trying to show me. Her face was sad. She motioned again, pointing urgently toward the angry river. When I followed the gaze of her ghostly eyes, I saw someone struggling against the rage of the flooded Mississippi. A man. He had dark hair. His eyes were wide with desperation and fright. He was struggling for his life as the seething waters threatened to pull him down. His eyes fixed on me, pleading. In my dream, all I could see were those eyes. He reached out for me just as a black whirlpool claimed him. I felt frozen, locked up with fright. I recognized the bruised elegant hand as it sunk beneath the surface of the inky water. It was the hand of the stranger. Specimen 51. I was unwilling to reach out to him. I was afraid to reach out to him. My feelings of absolute loss and regret woke me up. I could feel the keen disappointment of Marraine Solange in me. I could feel my own self-hate. I had failed to act. I was too late -- immobilized by my fears and uncertainties. "Dr. Branson?" Arlie's voice brings me back to my senses. "Is there anything I can do for you at this hour? The facility is locked up for the whole night, you know. I can't let you in 'til 'bout six." What? His statement is slow to register in my brain. I can't go in? This has never happened before. Victor and I used to pull a lot of night shifts. "What do you mean, Arlie? I've never been denied entrance!" "Yes, ma'am. Please, ma'am. I know it's damn peculiar, but..." "No, it's more than damn peculiar! It's damn insulting; that's what it is, Arlie!" "Yes, ma'am. You know I wouldn't do it to you, ma'am, if it weren't for the order from..." I am fuming. I am not even listening to Arlie's apologies. From where I sit, I can see three cars in the west end parking lot. Victor and his goons, no doubt. "It's an order from Victor Kent, isn't it?" I demand of the hapless guard. "Well...uh... actually, it came down from the main office, Dr. Branson, but I know it has something to do with Dr. Kent." I wave my hand dismissively. "Let me in, Arlie. It's just Victor and his damnable Genera Project again. Now you know he and I worked on that together last year. I know what he's doing in there." Arlie is looking unsure; time to trot out another little white lie. "I assisted with the project specimen yesterday, Arlie. In the primate lab. It's all right. You can let me in." Arlie is visibly squirming. "Well, maybe I should phone over to..." "For God's sake, Arlie! I've worked here for nearly twenty years! Let me get to my job, or I'll crash right through the gates." The old security guard looks startled at my raised voice. It sounds as new to him as it feels to me, I suppose. Deanna Branson gets an attitude? Finally? There is only a brief moment of uncomfortable silence. Then Arlie smiles shyly. "Sure thing, Dr. Branson. I don't guess I've ever seen you this excitable." He reaches back into the guard house and hits the controls. He smiles and waves me through the clanking and groaning gates. "My apologies for shouting, Arlie. It's been a rough few weeks for me." I feel compelled to explain myself. Arlie has been a kind friend for a long time. His smile tells me all is forgiven, and I drive forward. ************** I am worried about what I might do. I had told myself that I had merely driven in to get some of my work done. To escape a disturbing dream. But when I enter my own lab and see the door to the old primate lab standing wide open, I realize what had really drawn me here: the need to know more. I have to be sure that Victor is telling me the truth about Specimen 51. I have to look into the eyes of the stranger to see if I can read the terror in them that I had seen so vividly in my dream. I have to see if I can do what Marraine Solange was asking me to do in the dream. Then I have to make a decision that is going to affect the rest of my life, one way or the other. The hallway is dim. The lights in the clinical area are on, though. I can hear the steady beeping of monitors as I approach the room. I can hear a garbled conversation, drifting on the air, coming from the far end of the hallway. Two, perhaps three, voices. I halt at the doorway of the clinical room. For a long moment, all I can do is stare. I have spent most of my career at Pinck Pharmaceuticals in clinical testing, but only on animals. I know are were labs elsewhere in our organization that do the necessary human testing when a new product reaches the readiness stage. I, personally, never worked with human specimens, though. Yet, I am sure that what I am looking upon is not right. It violates the standards of procedures we have for animals. The condition of the helpless human I see before me violates the standards of humanity. Specimen 51. Strapped tightly onto the procedure table. A thin sheet thrown carelessly over his body. His head locked into a position by a cruel-looking metal brace, turned a few degrees toward the wall, exposing some of the back of his neck and a tiny patch of shaved scalp under his longish dark hair. Another small shaved patch is barely visible under the hair midway between his left ear and temple. My first impulse is to free him from this wicked brace, but reason dictates that to allow him to move now, when I don't know what his neurological status is, may do him more harm than good. I will have to talk to Victor first... As I draw closer to him, I can see his chest shuddering with each breath he takes. There are electrodes scattered over his body: on his head, his torso, his legs. Wires attached to a cardiac monitor. Wires attached to an EEG monitor. A chest band attached to a respiratory monitor. No IV's? No scanning equipment? What in the hell is Victor doing to this man? I come around the side of the table where I can see his face more clearly. I hear an odd clicking and chattering sound that I cannot identify. Drawing closer, I lean down to look at him for the first time. I am taken aback for a moment. He looks like a boy, but that can't be so. A well-defined jaw-line, beautiful full lips and hazel eyes that just now look vacant as he stares at the wall in front of him. His body begins shuddering again, and again, I hear that odd clicking sound. It's his teeth! They are chattering as his body shivers with chills. I touch his arm softly. Oh God, he's freezing. His skin temperature must be well below what it should be! Fool Victor! He knows better than this! I search the room for blankets or anything to help his body with its struggle to stabilize its temperature. Linen is scarce. But I find two plastic warming blankets. Small -- chimp-sized, actually. Two will at least cover the man's torso. Once I have them hooked up and the plastic chambers fill with circulating hot air, he should at least feel some relief from the cold. I work quickly over his trembling body. "Give it a minute... Just a minute... You'll start feeling better in a minute." I surprise myself with my whispered cooing at this stranger. My annoyance with Victor Kent is growing as quickly as my sympathies for Specimen 51. His shivering eases. I can no longer hear his teeth chattering. His glittering eyes are still fixed on the wall in what seems like an empty stare, except he seems to hears me. There are tears rolling gently from the corners of his brown-green eyes. It might be gratitude. It might be relief. Or he may be mourning for something. Or perhaps someone. I wonder about this young man as I wipe his tears away with a warm damp cloth. I run the cloth over his lips. He is drooling, unable to help himself. A quick scan of his restrained body shows vivid colorful bruises, the reminders of his struggles. I can see the tell-tale pink and red welts left by belts or whips and shudder inwardly. This is way beyond inhumane treatment, hardly "typical" procedure! It should be reported. But to whom, Deanna, asks my timid inner voice. You've worked at PPC long enough to know that the company has its secretive, probably dangerous, side, I tell myself. This young man is evidence enough. And besides, who's going to stop them? Me?