It had been easy to turn a blind eye to it when I never had to deal 
with it directly. I had put all the lunchroom gossip and rumors 
about PPC and its "top secret" dealings down to the everyday 
urban myths that common people seem to thrive on. 

Now, however, I'm standing over a victim of PPC's "darker side". I 
am sure of it. This is no volunteer trying to escape a death sentence 
for murders and rapes. He's an innocent. He had to have been forced 
into this. 

Kidnapped off the streets, perhaps? He doesn't seem like a 
homeless person. He looks too well taken care of, too healthy 
underneath all the recent bruises. But there are some tell-tale scars, 
too. Might be an indication that this young man's life had a 
dangerous side to it. His hair is longish, but it has obviously been 
well cut in the past. His hands are smooth, not roughened over by 
hard labor. 

This looks like a man who lived by his brains, not his brawn.

And soon, through the manipulations of Dr. Kent, he may not 
have that brain to count on for whatever will remain of his life.

Seeing a file on the cabinet by the door, I open it to read that 
Specimen 51's name is Gary Redmond, age 32, born in Paterson, 
New Jersey. Never finished high school. Spent time as a drifter. 
Began his "career" in serial murder and rape in 1980. He was 
apprehended in Montreal and extradited to the States to stand trial 
for the kidnap, sexual assault and murder of a 13 year old girl in 
Massachusetts. He was brought in as a serial killer through the 
work of a special team of three FBI agents from the Violent 
Crimes Division out of Washington, DC He stood trial, was 
convicted and sentenced to death nine years ago, slowly making 
his way through appeal after failed appeal.

I stare at the file photos of an extraordinarily handsome young 
man. The eyes that stare back at me out of the pictures are 
lively, intelligent. I shake my head. The file and report look 
official enough. The pictures don't looked doctored, but 
perhaps too recent to fit the time of arrest.

There is more:

Gary Redmond's signature on the legal document that brought 
him to this fate. An arrest record detailing a mix of juvenile 
offenses, a troubled childhood. Small details: mother deceased, 
three years ago. Mother's home address. Social workers' notes on 
a troubled youth. A childhood affliction of stuttering that followed 
him into adulthood. A physical description -- matching the 
description of the man just a few feet from me now, right down 
to the scarring from gunshot wounds. 

Signatures of a dangerous life.

A copy of the FBI case report and trial summaries and medical 
records. I flip back to the FBI report. There is a long document, a 
detailed psycho-analytical paper on the serial killer suspect. I 
skim through it, wincing. Gary Redmond was -- is -- a monster. I 
glance over at the still form laying on the procedure table and 
shiver with the first doubts I have felt about this man.

What if my instincts are wrong? What if he is an unnatural human? 
Does he deserve a chance at a new life? Will the Genera Project 
even work on a human? Can a monster like Gary Redmond be 
reborn with a cleansed conscience and a kinder soul? 

I glance back at the report. I'm familiar with enough psycho-
babble and theory to know this analysis -- "profile", I guess they 
call it -- is remarkably rich with details that would seem to have 
taken a god-sent psychic to predict, if one believes in such things 
as that. 

Still, the report was signed and dated November 30, 1986 and 
Redmond was apprehended shortly afterward by Canadian 
Mounties on a tip from the FBI team which was present at his 
arrest. Curious, I glanced at the signatures of the three men who 
had signed the report: William G. Patterson, S.A.I.C.; Reggie S. 
Pardue; Fox W. Mulder. 

I smile at that last name as I close the file. Fox. Odd name for an 
FBI agent. 

I look over again at the man resting quietly within his restraints. 
He seems more comfortable now. A glance at the monitor tells 
me his respiration and heart rate have slowed considerably. 

This is still not right, my little voice is screaming. This handsome 
young man hardly seems like a drifter, a drop-out, a serial killer. 
Things are just not adding up here.

I return to the patient's side and carefully move aside the lock of 
silky hair that has fallen over the small shaved patch that marks the 
probe sight that Victor used. At least he swabbed the area with an 
antiseptic, I note with derision toward my former partner. 

There is a small puncture wound where Victor must have inserted 
the needle and probe to seek out the particular part of the brain in 
which this man's memories, motivations and morals were housed. 
Simple manipulations of the razor-like edges of the micro-fine 
needle could destroy and remove tissue, gradually changing Gary 
Redmond's reality forever, theoretically. 

If Victor was indeed following the procedures proscribed in the 
Genera Project, this man's brain should be allowed a recuperative 
period. Then the same area would have fetal brain matter, rich in 
new neurotransmitters, introduced which would then regenerate new 
brain cells for the patient.

Then Gary Redmond would be ready to be programmed for his 
new, wonderful life. 

Or so the theory goes.

But it is a theory that is fraught with dangerous unknowns. 
Navigating our way to another star system would be easier than 
navigating through all the great unknowns of the complicated 
human brain. I know there isn't enough test data available to 
predict the outcome of a project like this.

So, what then, is being done to Gary Redmond? And why?

"You've become rather careless about your job security, Deanna." 

I whirl to face Victor Kent and the two security men. The younger 
blond smiles slightly at me, but the one named Eddings is 
glaring.

Before I can say anything, Victor gestures at me with a dismissive 
wave of his hand. "Don't even make excuses for yourself, Dr. 
Branson. Was it Arlie that let you through the gates? I'll see to it that 
he's out of a job before he punches out at seven."

" You'll do no such thing! It wasn't his fault, Victor. I lied to him. 
Intimidated him into it. And that's what I'll tell a Board of Inquiry 
-- maybe the same board that'll have to listen to me lodge charges 
against you for cruelty and carelessness in procedures and 
treatment -- of a human being." I back up against the procedure 
table, placing myself between them and Specimen 51.

Victor looks uncertain for a brief moment, then, as if mindful of the 
presence of the security men, his eyes become bright with rage. 

"You've changed, Deanna. What is it with you and this sudden need 
to rebel? Playing Nancy Drew? Jane Bond? You don't threaten me, 
Ms. Branson. This project is being documented step by step. I've 
had enough problems without adding your troublesome new 
persona into the mix. Now, get out! You were ORDERED to stay 
away from here!"

His histrionics have a "staged" quality to them. I dismiss my 
suspicions, though. Specimen 51 is foremost on my mind right 
now.

"I can't ignore the cruelty being inflicted on this patient. You can't 
ask me to turn my back on this and just sit in the next room and 
pretend this isn't happening in here. Have you seen this man's 
body? He looks like a prisoner of war. He's being beaten, 
manhandled and... and..." Eddings allows a lecherous smile 
to creep over his face while he watches me. "God only knows, 
what else," I sputter.

Victor's face has not changed. He knows. 

Of course, he knows. How could he not? It is written all over 
his prisoner's body. I realize that the mistreatment is part of the 
treatment. Someone wants this man to suffer horribly. This isn't 
the noble cause of the Genera Project any more. Victor has been 
given a sanction; he is operating his own private Auschwitz.

And with that realization comes two more: I am probably right 
about this man being an unwilling captive. And I am now --
officially -- in danger. 

Maybe the safest place for me is in the middle of it all.

"You need more help, Victor," I say hastily. "Your goons are 
more responsible for delaying this project than I am..."

"Hey..." the young blond begins to protest at me. Eddings just 
continues to glare.

"If you are going to do a proper job on this project, Victor, you 
need me. You know I can help. We've worked together before. 
Now, unless Gary Redmond is supposed to leave here in a pine 
box, I'd like to help you with the procedures that will ensure 
him a new -- you know -- 'lease' on life." 

I pray he will buy my false concern for him and the project.

Victor stares at me. I can tell he is taking it under consideration. He 
glances quickly at Eddings. For a moment , I suspect I see fear in his 
eyes.Why?
 
"Sure. Sure, Deanna. Our working together again might just be 
real fine... again." He hands me the file. Too quickly. I think I 
notice a shade of aggravation bloom over Eddings features. 

Victor continues, ignoring the other man, "Here's some interesting 
reading. You'll love to hate our Mr. Redmond here. Lots of people 
do. Oh, and don't hassle me about the way things are done in here, 
Deanna. There are some aspects of this project that are..." He 
glances over at Eddings again. "...uhm... top secret. By necessity. 
Do you understand?"

I nod, but Eddings looks angry. I can tell he and Victor are going to 
have "words" later. 

He pauses near the procedure table, noting the warming blankets I 
had secured over the patient's torso. "What's this?"

"I had to raise his body temp, Victor. When I came in, his 
temperature was dangerously low."

Victor purses his lips and looks grim. And -- surprise -- he looks 
concerned. "He's been having trouble maintaining a consistent body 
temperature. He's had several bouts of Cheynes-Stokes breathing 
that set off the monitors. And a few episodes of bradycardia. But all 
that seemed to even out in the last hour or so. I think the procedure 
must have caused more a little more localized swelling than I thought 
it would, possibly near the hippocampus. His para-sympathetic 
nervous system seems compromised. I think it's temporary."

"You THINK it's temporary?!" My eyes widen in shock. "That's 
serious! If you think he's got problems, where is the respirator he 
might need if his system 'forgets' to breathe? Where are the 
intravenous lines for emergency medication? What were you going 
to do if you made a mistake, and suddenly his brain 'forgets' to 
tell his heart to keep beating? Why did you allow his body 
temperature to get so low? And how can you allow him to be 
beaten like he has been, Victor? It's going to affect how much 
success you have with him. He needs time to recover between 
treatments! He needs..."

Victor leans on the table, bowing his head wearily. "I know, I 
Know. Christ, Deanna! I'm working BLIND here! Do you SEE 
any of the equipment I really need to do this?" He sighs and looks 
at Eddings again. 

What is going on here? 

Eddings' face is an impassive mask. Victor seems a bit fearful 
of the man." I-I've been giving him medications for... Oh, what 
the hell...You may be right, Deanna, but I'm not the only one in 
charge here."

"That's right," Eddings chimes in with a big smile. "He has his 
orders. I have mine. And right now, according to the schedule, 
me and Number 51 have a date this morning in the showers." I'm 
sure the comment was meant to unnerve me.

It does. I feel nauseous. 

There is no opportunity for commentary, however. The body of the 
prisoner suddenly arches and snaps into rigidity, straining at the 
straps that hold him down. I see his fists clench and tremble, 
muscles and veins standing out on his pale arms. 

A grand mal seizure.

Victor moves quickly to force a padded bar into the patient's mouth. 
Alarms sound, and the EEG machine kicks on to record the violent 
quake inside the young man's brain. 

Then, as quickly as it had begun, it is over. His body flops 
exhaustedly back onto the table and is still again. The inevitable loss 
of control over bodily functions is made evident  as a wet stain 
spreads over the thin sheet draped over him. Eddings just snickers 
and begins to unbuckle the straps and remove the head brace. The 
other security guard has enough decency left to look embarrassed 
for the unconscious victim. 

Victor is already absorbed in the EEG readings. Is this man a human 
or lab rat to him? It seems as if he doesn't care about anything except 
the data. 

I have to stop Eddings from lifting the young man off of the table. 
"Please! Let him rest. Victor? Would you tell this man to stop?"

Victor turns around as if just realizing we were all in the room. 
His face is pale, and he seems a bit shaken by the "event". 

"Eddings, just let him be. You'll have to put your blood lust on 
hold for today. Besides, he'll be too out of it after that seizure 
to suit your demented fun and games anyway."

Eddings looks angry, but he drops the man in his arms back onto 
the table and begins snapping on wrist and ankle restraints. He 
pulls the restraining strap over Specimen 51's chest testily. 

"Dr. Kent, we need to talk. Now!" the big man barks and then 
pauses to glower at me before leaving the room.

Victor looks perturbed. "Deanna, you start work immediately. 
His medications are in the cabinet right here. I have charted 
what he's had and when he's had it on the first page. You'll 
find the dosage information I've worked out for him on the last 
pages. I'll be back in a bit." He leaves the room slowly, as if 
reluctant to face this new conflict. 

I don't feel sorry for him, but I do wonder if I've dug myself 
a deeper hole. What am I doing?  

"Ma'am? I'll be glad to help you with him, if you'd like."

It is the blond security guard, standing beside me with clean 
linen and scrubs for the unconscious man on the table. 

"What's your name?" I ask. 

"Mackey."

"Offer accepted, Mackey. Let's get the lead wires that Eddings 
ripped off attached to these electrodes again. I'd like to keep him 
on the monitors for a while. That last episode scared me. Has he 
been having seizures like that all along?"

Mackey shook his head. "No. But Dr. Kent has been a bit behind 
in the treatments because this fella's been fighting us so hard. 
Orders came down yesterday to speed things up, so Dr. Kent was in 
here later than usual, and -- according to the way he was grumbling 
about it --  doing more than he felt he should be doing to the -- 
uh -- patient. I think he's feeling like they're pushing too hard, and 
Number 51 is going to..." He stops and purses his lips. "I probably 
shouldn't say more. Dr. Kent is going to have to be the one to give 
you details. But I am sure that your help will be what he needs."

"Who are 'they'?"

The blond man won't answer me.

Okay.

"Do you know this man?" I gesture toward the still form on the 
treatment table.

"No, ma'am. I know OF him. I read the files, too. Except..." 
He pauses.

"Except, what?"

Mackey shrugs. "I'm not sure. I kind of got the feeling that the guy 
in the file and this guy are two different people. And the whole time 
this fella has been battling us, he's been screaming that he's not him 
-- you know -- this Gary Redmond guy. But he won't -- or can't -- 
say who he really is. Eddings claims he's just a psycho. I don't 
know who to believe, and I'm not supposed to care." He drops the 
linens on the cabinet dejectedly. "Christ! I should just learn to do 
my fucking job and not question anything. That's how it's 
supposed to be done." 

He avoids my eyes and mutters, "Sorry 'bout the language, ma'am."

A decent man? Amidst all this? He sure was out of place in this 
torture chamber. Like me.

"You're new at this, aren't you?"

He nods again. "This wasn't even supposed to be my assignment. It 
was a last minute thing -- my 'trial by fire', the CO said. After six 
friggin' years in the Marine Corps, I thought I'd be prepared for 
some of this kind of shit. But I'm thinking I made a mistake getting 
into this line of work. I should have stayed with the Marines." 

"Well, then, get out of it." 

Sure, Deanna, like you'd be the one to give advice, my little 
voice is snapping at me. Look at your own wasted life, you idiot.

Mackey is looking at me wide-eyed. "It's just not that simple, Dr. 
Branson, or I'd have left the first day I saw Eddings doing..." He 
stops again, glances at Specimen 51 and swallows hard. His face 
has flushed red. " I don't know. Sometimes it's just easier to shut 
down." 

He looks over at me and lowers his voice in warning. "And safer. 
If you don't mind me saying so, ma'am, you seem new at this 
kind of stuff, too. If you're going to move over to this level of 
thinking, Dr. Branson, you'd better be ready for anything they 
send your way. The Company is God, creator and destroyer. 
And forgive my streak of sexism, but I don't believe it's any 
place for a woman, either."

He doesn't look willing to say anymore, and I'm not sure I want 
to hear anymore. I am beginning to feel scared again. I nervously 
make myself busy undoing the restraints on the patient. He looks 
so peaceful at rest. Finally. His own brain has shut him down, 
protecting itself. 

I run my fingers through his dark hair. Asleep, he looks even 
younger than I expect he is. Who is he really? And who do 
"they" want him to be when this experiment in cruelty is done?

There must be some way to find out this man's real identity. 
Fingerprints? Dental records? Blood typing? What? Where do 
I start? Who do I call?

What had Victor called me? Nancy Drew? Jane Bond? I smile at the 
irony. Well, maybe... 

There won't be too much time to think about it. And this certainly 
isn't the time. I glance at the clock. 5:15 a.m. already!

"Mackey, let's get him cleaned up. If we give him his medications 
now, perhaps we can get him past the nasty little agenda Eddings has 
set for him. And he'll need someone to stay with him and watch for 
any more seizure activity -- at least for the next six to eight hours.
Can you do that?"

"Sure. But you've got more guts than I do," responds the security guard.

I almost laugh. "More guts than a six-year vet of the Marine 
Corps? Why, thank you, Mr. Mackey!"

Maybe this is what they mean by "change of life" for a woman.

**************
Chapter 5
**************

1:45 P.M.

Almost time to head for home.

I glance back at the closed door of the primate lab. I managed to get 
a lot of my work in my own lab done today despite the constant 
wanderings of my mind. 

Eddings had returned to the clinical treatment room after about 
thirty minutes of heated conversation with my former partner.

Eddings had told me I would have to leave for the time being. The 
dark-haired young man was resting comfortably by then. Well 
medicated. Sleeping deeply. I had no assurances that Eddings would 
leave him alone today, but I hadn't heard any commotion behind that 
locked door, so I assumed the big brute had honored Victor's 
orders. 

Victor had wandered through my lab at about 9 a.m., looking 
exhausted. He had paused by me long enough to say, "I usually 
come back to the lab at about midnight. There is more to do with 
him tonight." 

He had looked uncomfortable, watching the door of the old primate 
lab nervously. "I have things to tell you, Deanna," he had said in an 
almost conspiratorial whisper that startled and confused me. "I could 
use your help," he had continued. "This isn't going well. I wish you 
hadn't gotten involved, but now... Now, I can only hope you know 
what you've bought into, Deanna. I wish I had." 

He had left with that cryptic remark still hanging in the air.

Maybe I had jumped into this too quickly. Maybe I really didn't 
know what I'd "bought into", as Victor put it. 

Throughout the workday, I had fantasized: I imagined taking 
Specimen 51 out of the clutches of the monsters who conspired 
to keep him. I imagined helping him find himself again -- 
whoever he was. I imagined he'd be grateful to me, and that 
he'd take me so far away from my nothing existence that it 
would be as if I were the one being re-born, not him.

By 1:45 p.m., my vague fantasies have evolved into a resolve to 
help the victimized Specimen 51 escape this prison. There will be 
time enough to check on his real identity, and I know someone 
who may help. My first priority will be to find out who he isn't. 
Then I'll find out who he is.

I lock up and head home for a quick shower and some sleep before I 
return tonight. My search for an escape plan occupies my thoughts 
all the way home.

                        **************

Midnight
Pinck Pharmaceuticals Laboratories

I am getting rattled. Nervous about my "plans". This is more than a 
timid lab scientist could possibly attempt. I think I must be going 
mad. I am starting to imagine things.

When I had gotten out of my shower earlier today, the phone was 
ringing. I picked it up. There was no one on the line. A feeling of 
dread crept over me, not helped by the fact that it happened two 
more times, waking me each time out of a restless sleep. 

Had "they" wanted me to know I was being watched? I dismissed 
that idea. Conspiratorial thinking is too foreign to me.

Arlie isn't on duty at the guard station when I drive up to the 
company's security gates. My feelings of dread deepen when I look 
upon the impassive face of a stranger wearing the company security 
uniform. My instincts tell me not to ask about Arlie's whereabouts 
as the new guard waves me in.

As I get out of my car, I notice two more guards posted at the far 
ends of the parking lot, almost hidden from view. I think I can 
make out the figure of a third man at the corner of the building, 
half hidden in shadows. Too much has changed in the past eight 
hours. I feel a trickle of sweat roll down my neck as I make my 
way toward my lab. There is a new security camera in the 
hallway, its red alien eye blinking at me as I swipe my keycard 
over the lock.

I am terrified. I can't indulge my silly fantasies and foolish escape 
plans in the face of all this! The level of beefed-up security  is 
intimidating. Who are these people? And who is Specimen 51 really? 

He must be very important to someone.

Eddings is waiting for me outside the primate lab. He is 
expecting me, it seems. Of course. The security cameras, the 
guard at the gate. He had lots of ways to know when I would 
arrive.

He punches a code into a brand new keypad. Codes must have 
been changed. Oh God, what is going on? 

He wordlessly opens the door for me and signals me to move 
ahead of him. He's wearing a gun tonight. I try very hard to look 
unaffected by this show of power though I am nearly breathless 
with terror.

I head for the clinical treatment room, but Eddings pulls me away 
at the door. "You're going to baby-sit, missy. Your pretty patient 
is awake. The treatment's made him calmer than he was yesterday, 
but I think he is still aware he has some needle-time coming up 
again. Not to mention some one-on-one time with me." 

He smiles pointedly at me as he swings the cage door open and 
pushes me forward into the dim interior. "Oh, he has some food in 
here, too. In about thirty minutes, it will be too late for him to eat 
it. He's going to be under the needle in about two hours, so see if 
you can get the little bastard to eat. Damn stuff must be stone cold 
by now. Serves him right."

The door clangs shut. I am shocked to hear the lock turn. 

Eddings' laugh is mean-spirited. "How does it feel to be locked up 
and alone with a convicted serial killer ? You'd better hope that 
your partner is doing his job correctly..."

My heart feels frozen. I don't move, trying to get my eyes to 
adjust to the dimness. I can see another red blinking light high 
in the corner. Another new security camera! Can it see anything 
in this low light?

I jump at the rustle of fabric I hear just to the left of me. My 
eyes are adjusting. I can see him. He's standing, braced in the 
far corner of this padded cage. I can just make out the glitter of 
his eyes in the shadows.

Swallowing the knot in my throat, I move toward the mattress 
on the floor in the center of the little room. The food tray is there. 
I sit beside it and pat a space on the mattress next to me. "Come 
here," I say quietly, hoping he doesn't know that the quiver in 
my voice are fear and doubt -- my two old friends. "I... I'd like 
you to eat your supper. You need it -- if you're going to..." 
I pause. 

Going to what? Everything seems so futile now.

"If you're going to fight them," I add quietly. 

It sounds so foolish. He is David against Goliath. Without 
the divine help, it would seem.

He doesn't move, just keeps staring at me.

"Please? I won't harm you."  I'm not sure he's the one who 
needs reassuring just now. I can feel myself relaxing, though. 
My initial fright and recurrent doubts are fading away. I just 
can't feel a threat from this young man. My heart is beginning 
to go out to him again, because as my own fear melts away, I am 
beginning to sense the depths of his terror.

I motion him forward. He won't move. He won't talk. 

"Come here," I say as softly as I can. "I don't want to hurt you. 
Are you hungry? C'mon now..."  I think I see a hesitant move, 
but then he seems to tighten up again and push himself further 
into the corner.

I lean in his direction. The single poor light from the tray slot in 
the door catches on my  hair, and I hear him gasp. He slides to 
the floor and sits, wrapping his long arms around himself. He is 
staring at me intently. Or rather at my red hair which is lit by the 
weak light. 

He had seemed fascinated by the sight of my hair the first time I 
saw him. Maybe it resembles someone he knows. Or knew -- 
depending on how much his brains have been scrambled by 
now. Perhaps I can use this to my advantage. 

What was the name he had called out? Is sounded a bit like 
mine, I remember. Dana? Yes, Dana Scully.

I extend a hand toward him. "Do you remember Dana Scully?"

His eyes study my face.

"Dana," I repeat.

He blinks rapidly and rubs awkwardly at his eyes, but he remains 
silent. Perhaps last night's treatment has taken more of this "Dana 
Scully" memory from him. What else had last night's treatment done 
to him? 

I offer him the stale roll from the tray. At first, he doesn't move. He 
looks from me to the offered bread. He has to be starving! How can 
he refuse himself this? 

I hear his stomach growl, betraying him. It pushes him to reach out 
and take the food from my hand.

He eats a bit too eagerly. He is obviously very hungry, yet he had 
stubbornly refused to eat for them. I marvel at the will power. 
Surely this instinct to resist comes from a deeper part of him.

Maybe there would be hope for him after all this. 

Who am I trying to kid? By the time he has had all of the preliminary
Genera treatments, essentially stealing what remains of his mind, he 
would be an empty shell. 

No will, no memories, no soul?

I hand him the large Styrofoam container of lukewarm milk, 
which he accepts quickly. He glances at the rest of the tray and 
back to me. He is still unsure, but now that his hunger had been 
unleashed...

I pat the area on the mattress beside me again. "Come on. It's 
okay."

He glances toward the locked door with a visible shiver and then 
slowly pushes himself forward to the mattress. Without another 
glance at me, he eats the food wolfishly. Fish and rice -- cold. 
Must taste ghastly, but the high protein will be good for him. 
There is a bowl of wilted strawberries and a lime-green puddle 
of melted gelatin that I thought he would surely shun, but it is 
all gone in a few minutes.

He looks up at me, self-consciously. He does not smile. He 
does not speak.

"Feel better?" I rub his back lightly. 

Wrong thing to do. 

He winces and pulls back into the corner. This time I am a bit 
bolder, and I follow closely, planting myself beside him. I touch 
his forehead to gauge his temperature, feel his hands and bare feet 
for circulation, even as he squirms under my examination. I silently 
curse the dim light. His pupils are dilated, making his eyes dark, but 
in this light I can't be sure if the wide-open irises are a sign of brain 
injury or not. 

He seems to be moving well, with only a bit of awkwardness. I 
wish he would talk. It would be another good sign if he could 
show me his speech center hadn't been affected.

"Who is Dana Scully?" I ask, trying to prompt him.

He looks at me quizzically and then abruptly turns away, not 
rising to the bait.

"All right, then... Is your name Gary Redmond?" He stiffens 
his back. "Gary? Is that your name?" I ask a bit more insistently.

He is still silent as if thinking. His shoulders sag, and he shrugs. 
And just as quickly he turns to me and whispers, "N-no... N-no!" His voice 
is strained and hoarse. He is stuttering, desperately trying to express 
himself. "N-not m-me."

A small alarm bell goes off in a corner of my mind. Didn't the file 
on Gary Redmond indicate he had a stuttering problem? 

However, I can see genuine frustration in his eyes. He isn't used 
to this. Perhaps, instead, the "treatments" might have begun their 
insidious damage to his speech center? He is clearly struggling to 
communicate.

I brush his dark hair away from his eyes gently. "It's okay. I 
believe you. I do." 

His lower lip quivers for a moment. 

"Can you tell me your name?" I continue, gently.

His big dark eyes fill immediately with a glaze of tears that he does 
not allow to fall. He shakes his head. The question panics him, 
and he tries to crawl away from me. I grab the bottom of his shirt 
and stop him. He rocks and rocks, not so much to pull away from 
my grasp as to comfort himself. He is quietly sobbing, shaking 
with the effort to get himself under control.

"Hey, hey, hey... stop. Don't go away from me." I speak softly, 
moving my hands to cup his wet face and bring him forward to 
rest on my shoulder. He sobs openly then, leaning stiffly into my 
embrace. 

What have they done? Why is he being subjected to this? How does 
something like this torture happen in this country? Is this 
kind of secretive abuse really happening in my country? Who is 
he?  Who are the people who brought him to this end? Who could 
possibly wield this kind of power over another human? Nothing of 
my former life and sensibilities can exist after finding Specimen 51. 
My mind whirls as I feel his warm breath on my neck, hear his soft 
crying in my ear, feel his hot tears run over my shoulder. 

My little voice is screaming now. From this point on, there can be 
no way back for me or the mysterious Specimen 51. How could I 
have ever doubted the wrongness of all this?

This man has been targeted. He is being tormented for a reason, for 
someone's dark purpose. I feel so helpless. For all my misguided 
good intentions, I am useless to this young man. Another half-ass 
attempt on my part, and this time I had made a dangerous move.

As I rock him, I can feel him force himself to calm down. He lay 
quietly, yet somewhat rigidly, in my arms. He does not seem used 
to this, but he appears to need it. With a sigh, he pushes clumsily 
away from me, rolling onto his back, sprawling onto the thin 
mattress and staring into the shadows overhead. He won't look at 
me, but he does attempt to speak again.

"Th-they're c-c-coming a-a-gain... M-m-more..." He gestures at 
his head. "M-m-more... h-hurt." He drops his arm to the mattress 
and squeezes his eyes shut. 

Oh God. He knows. He's aware of what is being done to him. He 
hasn't even been spared the horror of knowing his mind is being 
taken from him.

I'm sure he doesn't want the memories he can recall; memories 
of these last brutal days. Or the loneliness and hopelessness he 
probably feels as he loses more and more of himself to Victor 
Kent's needle and probe. 

It would have been kinder to kill him. 

But I'm sure "they" knew that.

My eyes wander the dim interior of his padded prison. It is then I 
notice that the blinking eye of the camera is gone. Turned off? 
Why? Who? Perhaps they don't think of me and this prisoner as 
a threat any more? No. I can't imagine Eddings letting his grip of 
control loosen for one moment. 

My heart begins to race. Something is going on. 

And no sooner did I have that thought than I hear a key turning in 
the lock. The young man beside me scrambles to hide in his 
shadowy corner even before the door swings completely open.

Lifting my hand over my eyes to protect them from the sudden 
brightness outside the cage, I try to determine who the shadow 
against the light is. I hope it isn't Eddings. 

"Deanna. Come with me now." I am as surprised to hear Victor 
Kent's voice as I am to recognize a conspiratorial tone in it.

"What is it, Victor?" I snap at him. "Have you invented another 
biological torture device that you and PPC can scam the 
government into paying for?"

"This is really not the time, Dr. Branson." he whispers harshly 
as he steps forward to grab my arm. I can see perspiration 
standing out on his shiny head. He looks very nervous. 

However, before I am pulled to my feet by Victor, I feel the grip 
of another hand over his.

"N-no! S-s-stop!" The soft yet insistent voice comes from close 
behind me.

Specimen 51 has become animated. His eyes are full of anger and 
hate, and while his grip on Victor is shaky, his handsome boyish 
face looks uncommonly stormy. Whomever he once was, this 
protective temperament must have been second nature to him.

Victor looks shocked and for one giddy moment I thought: This is 
how Dr. Frankenstein must have looked the first time his monster 
talked. 

I don't wait for this moment to escalate between them. Fearing that 
Eddings might be lurking nearby, I pat the young man's hand 
reassuringly. "It's okay. Dr. Kent and I have to talk, that's all."

His hand falls away. He looks crestfallen, as if I am betraying 
him. I look back angrily at Victor. "You can say anything you 
have to say to me in front of him. I'm not leaving here."

"Deanna, please. This is important to our survival and..." He 
nods toward the young man glaring at him. "to his survival, 
too." He swipes his hand over his sweaty forehead and looks 
quickly at the now-blind camera. "Please. Now. There isn't 
much time."

I turn back to Specimen 51 to say something comforting, but he 
has already withdrawn himself. His eyes avoid mine. There isn't 
much time, Victor had said. The mighty Dr. Kent looks scared. 
What is going on? It actually seems like I can feel my heart 
struggling to get up into my throat. 

I know this looks like a betrayal to the forlorn prisoner whose 
trust in me had been slowly growing. No time to talk. I follow 
Victor out and watch him lock the cage after me.

The young security guard is just outside in the hallway, 
motioning us forward. "Act naturally as you head to the 
treatment room. The hall camera is still on. The surveillance 
equipment in the room is off, but it won't be long before he 
notices," whispers Mackey. 

What? 

Victor pushes me lightly forward. Once in the treatment room, 
he shuts the door. "Deanna, as I talk, we must look busy -- as 
if preparing for 51's next treatment." He begins pulling out 
instrument trays. I follow suit, wondering what in the world 
is going on.

"Victor!" I hiss. "What is this about?"

"I never expected you to be here, Deanna. You must believe 
me." Victor is talking in a breathless rush. " I had hoped to be 
done with this dirty work on that young man in there and be out 
of Lobdell before you got back. And now just when I didn't 
think it could get worse..."

"What? WHAT is getting worse?"

Victor leans heavily over the treatment table, his shoulders 
slumped, shaking his head. "I was such a fool," he groans,
clenching his fists.

"All this has nothing to do with your work on the Genera 
Project, does it, Victor?" I ask quietly.

Victor sniffs pathetically. He won't look at me. "No, Deanna. 
Oh, it has some relation, of course. That's why they chose me -- 
because of my work in altering brain wave patterns with 
manipulations of cells within the temporal lobe region. You 
know what that does."

I sure did. 

The temporal lobe was widely believed to be the storehouse of 
human memory. It has been conjectured by some that most of 
what makes us each unique individuals occurs within this area. 
Lifetime memories. A reference library for an individual's entire 
existence. I used to say to Victor, in our few late-night pillowtalk 
sessions, that I wondered if that is where one's soul might reside. It 
is such a precious area of the brain and so close to other vital brain 
functions. 

I thought about Specimen 51.

"Victor, you're going to take away his memory? You'll change his life. 
Permanently. That's what you're doing, aren't you?" 

He winces at the accusatory tone in my voice as I continue, "There 
was never any intent to 'regenerate' that young man's affected brain 
cells, was there? Who is doing this? What is he to them? WHO is 
he? He's NOT any creepy killer named Gary Redmond, is he?"

Victor just held up his hand, as if he could physically ward off my 
outrage. "Wait. Deanna, just listen."

"Victor, how could you?"

"Please, Deanna. I know how all this must look to you right now. 
There is much you don't know and damn little time to tell you 
everything. First, before I tell you what we must do, I beg you to 
believe at least this: that young man's memory capabilities had 
already been severely altered before I ever saw him. All I knew was 
what they told me. I really did assume they wanted this done to a 
killer named Gary Redmond. Everything I knew about him is what I 
was handed in that folder you read.

"I was called in with all sorts of promises made to me about 
furthering my work in the Genera Project." He looks up at me and 
cringes, knowing the judgment I am passing on him. Hopefully, 
he has passed judgment on himself already.

"I KNEW it was wrong, Deanna, but I was going to LOSE my 
funding. They threatened to put an end to my research." His voice 
went from a desperate hiss to a self-pitying whisper. "It would have 
been like murdering my own child. It would have killed me, 
Deanna. I couldn't lose the project."

I wait impatiently. What in the hell is he trying to tell me? And why 
tell me now? Is this his bid for absolution? Or another ploy to 
further his ambitions with me as his helpmate again?

Victor licks his sweaty upper lip nervously and continues. "They 
had had problems with him -- Specimen 51 -- whoever he really is.
They told me he was this Gary Redmond guy. They told me he was 
a willing participant in a government experiment. It was clear to me 
that they had attempted their own 'brain-wipe' a while before they 
brought him to me. But it wasn't taking. He was resisting and 
showing signs of trace memory."

My eyes must have widened in shocked surprise at the implications 
of what he was telling me, because Victor nods knowingly at me.

"Yeah, and you thought the only 'brain-wiping' that was being done 
was on rats and rabbits? I suspect this has been part of an arsenal of 
secret weapons for a long time, Deanna. And it made me wonder all 
the more about Specimen 51's true identity. 

"The people who approached me -- Eddings is one of them -- 
ordered me to attempt another brain-wipe with the Genera pre-lim 
methods -- the brain cell removal procedure. 'Just perform the brain-
wipe and don't attempt the Genera restorative treatments on him,' 
they instructed. Then I could write my own ticket for further 
research grants. I confess, it didn't take much to convince me."

He looks at me for understanding. He doesn't get any.

"Don't you see, Deanna?" he pleads ineffectually. "They were 
GIVING me my own human test subject! All I could think at that 
time was: this would put me YEARS ahead of anyone else. Well, 
in the public domain, at least. I'd be able to attempt this on a human 
subject. I knew it was an opportunity. I would be the first."

He pauses when he notices the look on my face. I'm sure he can 
read the contempt I am feeling for him right now.

I cross my arms and say hotly, "But you aren't the first, Victor. 
You just told me they wanted you to do only the preliminary 
operation -- the brain cell removal. They don't want you to give him 
any 'help' with regenerating brain cells. Didn't I hear you correctly?"

He sighs heavily before he continues, "Yes. Yes, you DID hear me 
correctly, Deanna. But when I first laid eyes on Specimen 51, it 
occurred to me I could still prove something to these people with my 
Genera Project."

I stiffen. "What are you talking about, Victor?"

He looks up at me. "When 51 first arrived here, I was alarmed to 
find he had been beaten unconscious, possibly drugged, not knowing who 
he was when he came to. His memory loss seemed complete to me at the 
time. I suppose that was part of the plan all along. They must have had 
him held somewhere else for weeks before I was called in. I suspect I 
was summoned in on this just to make sure that their prisoner remained a 
total amnesiac -permanently. Technically, his life -- as he knew it - 
would be gone forever as soon as the treatments were completed."

"Does anyone know who he is?" I ask breathlessly. This was too 
much to comprehend.

Victor shakes his head and has the decency to look ashamed.
"No. I mean, Eddings might. I was only supposed to make his 
amnesia irreversible. Here's the thing, though: They were going 
to see to the new memory input -- 'brainwashing', if you will, 
nineties-style. As for who he is or where he came from -- they've 
told me nothing. I was merely to do my job. But I thought I could 
prove the Genera Project's worth to them with this man, so..."

I draw up close to him, angrily interrupting him. "And how far 
along are you in your part of this little task, Dr. Kent?"

He backs away from me. " We... uh... got behind. He was very 
combative. He put ME out of commission the very first night. 
Knocked me flat on my ass! I was out for over ten minutes! And, 
of course, when I woke up, I found that he was hardly ready for 
treatment after Eddings punished him for that prank. So, he has only 
had a preliminary treatment and the one I did last night. They are 
pushing me to finish the next five in these last two nights, but..."

"That will kill him!"

"Probably." Victor agrees grimly. "But let me finish: It could kill 
him IF it were true that I was doing exactly as they commanded."

"What?" I gaped at my ex-partner. " IF? Victor, what are you 
saying? What have you been doing to him?"

Dr. Kent glances around and lowers his voice fearfully. "I haven't 
been taking brain cells AWAY from him, Deanna. I've..." He 
hesitates again. 

"In the two chances I have had with him so far, I have begun the 
Genera treatments -- the implants. I have been GIVING that young 
man fetal neurotransmitters -- helping his body repair his already 
compromised memory."

I am stunned. Did Victor think this news would make me think he was 
some goddamned Albert Schwietzer? Some hero? Some balding, bespectacled 
angel of mercy?

No, I KNOW what motivates Victor Kent.

"You son of a bitch!" I hiss at him. "So you get your human test 
subject anyway, right? Long live your damn Genera Project, right? 
Victor, how could you?"

Victor grabs at my arms which I had begun swinging wildly at him. 

"Deanna! Shut up! Keep your voice down! LISTEN! Just listen to 
me... Yes! Yes, I have used 51 as a human test subject -- but believe 
me, Deanna, his future may be better NOW than what they had in 
mind for him. We -- Mackey and me -- have a plan to get him out of 
here."

I immediately go still, gaping at Victor. Did I hear him right?

Victor smiles at my shock this time. "He's part of my Genera 
Project now, remember? We made plans just two days ago. It was 
a simple plan then. Mackey was having an attack of guilt about the 
treatment that young man was getting, and I was worried about 
keeping Specimen 51 in a more stable environment, with better 
working conditions than here with Eddings."

He heaved another sigh. "Now -- suddenly -- something's changed 
here. Maybe it was your unexpected arrival. Or maybe his people 
are near, looking for him. As of a few hours ago, everything has 
been locked down, and the pace of the treatments has been ordered 
stepped up. I let them know how I felt about it -- another mistake on 
my part, I'm sure. I don't know where these orders are coming 
from. Eddings has contact with them, not me. 

"I'm the puppet here, Deanna. You must believe me. We are in 
danger. We have to get ourselves and that young man out of here. It 
won't take a rocket scientist to determine that I'm not following their 
plan for treatments soon. If given half a chance, I think that man will 
recover his memory -- but not if we remain here." 

He suddenly pauses and looks at me with a tenderness I never 
saw in his eyes before.

Brushing my cheek lightly with his fingers, he says, "Deanna, 
there is so much I would have done differently. My mighty 
brain has not served me well enough in the practical matters -- 
personal matters -- of my life." 

He seems to be struggling for words. I'm sure he is. Victor never, 
ever acted as if he had feelings. But who am I to criticize anyone 
else for lack of feelings? Maybe he and I were more properly 
matched than I cared to acknowledge, but right now he is revolting 
to me.

His face hardens with resolve. "Not enough time for regrets." 
He glances at the quiet security camera. "We must hurry -- Listen 
Closely. We are going to attempt to break out of here tonight."

What? Break out tonight? Now? 

I'm becoming frightened. I suppose I knew this danger was coming 
when I noticed all the changes, the heightened security.

"We must break out. There will be no other choice for any of us. I 
certainly don't believe I was ever meant to walk away from this 
experiment, Deanna. I recently realized these people have no interest 
in me or the Genera Project. There is nothing I could show them that 
they would be impressed with. So, if I want to save the Genera 
Project..."

"Why in the hell should I help you save this bit of illegal, 
irresponsible research?" I rage at him God help me. I have never 
been so angry at this man as I am now. He is using the prisoner for 
his own purpose, too.

Specimen 51 is everyone's pawn, it would seem.

"Because now you are in danger as well. And as for that young 
man in there? They won't let him 'walk out' of here either if their 
agenda hasn't been followed. That should be sinking into your brain 
by now, Deanna. If I don't get him to a safe facility where my work 
with him can be continued, he has either a coffin or a padded cell 
in some mental institution to look forward to. We must be successful 
in getting him -- and ourselves-- out of here. Tonight!"

Victor shoves a black duffel bag at me. "In here are his records. 
Every note that I've kept on that kid. Observations, monitor strips, 
procedural documentation, medications. The Genera treatments are 
documented in a code that you will recognize. I've also put a 
week's supply of the sedatives and anti-convulsants in here with a 
box of syringes."

He begins rifling through the cabinets for something.

"Victor, why are you giving these to ME?" He was really scaring me 
now.

He avoids the answer I am looking for. "We have a plan. A hasty, 
ill-defined plan, but a plan, nonetheless. Mackey is a big help. He 
approached me earlier this evening about this... Ah. Here it is." 

He finds a locked leather box and places it in the duffel bag. 

"Deanna, in that box is everything that is current and known in our 
field of research. It IS the Genera Project - the only child I've ever 
given birth to and cared for." His voice is laden with bitterness. "If 
we should get separated..." He pauses and swallows hard. "If I 
don't make it, that may be 51's only chance at getting back to 
who he once was. I want you to see to it that he gets the right kind 
of help, and I want you to see to the success of the Genera Project, 
with or without me."

He searches his shirt pocket and pulls out a business card.
 
Squeezing it into my hand, he instructs me, "When everything 
seems quiet and safe enough, call this man: Neil Radamacher, 
Director of Cognitive Neuropsychology and Research at Johns 
Hopkins. We have corresponded frequently about his work and 
my progress on the Genera Project. He is familiar with my theories. 
His studies and mine most closely resemble each other. I trust him, 
Deanna. He'll help him. He'll know what it takes."

"But Victor, how long? What is the prognosis? When do I bring 
him in?" I am panicky at the thought of having another human's 
life and future dropped into my hands. This is no longer my 
fantasy escape. It's reality, and it's frightening.

"I can't say, Deanna. There was no time for proper assessment. 
These weren't lab conditions as you and I would have them. 
They have toyed with that man's life, and now , I guess, I have, 
too. I don't know who he is -- or what he may be returning to if you 
and Neil Radamacher are able get him back to himself. There are so 
many unknowns... including the capabilities and recuperative 
powers of Specimen 51 himself."

"How could you do this, Victor? Your research is automatically 
compromised. These aren't the strict conditions required to 
document something like this. What if you've harmed that young 
man?"

"Or maybe I've already helped him, hmmm?" Victor snaps back at 
me, even though I can see he is getting more nervous about his 
grand rationalization. "Remember, Deanna, if Specimen 51 made 
these kinds of enemies -- ones powerful enough to change him like 
this --  well, it just might be better for him to take on a new existence 
and never go back to whatever hell they were making his life at the 
time."

I am shocked by the significance of what Victor is saying. 

When I had looked upon the prisoner's naked body yesterday, it 
had not escaped my notice that he had a number of old scars, at 
least two of which bore the signature scarring patterns of gunshot 
wounds. One high on his chest, near his left shoulder and the 
other, high on his right hip, dangerously close to his groin and 
the life-line of a major femoral artery. 

Specimen 51 is no stranger to pain and horror. Victor Kent and his 
ambition had just added another layer of uncertainty to his life. I can 
only hope this will work for him, not against him.

And I vow I will make Victor Kent answer for this sin against 
Specimen 51, whether it helps the young man or not.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the camera's dead red eye blink 
back to life. It quietly rolls and tilts in its housing. Victor takes the 
duffel bag from me almost casually and zips it up, dropping it by 
the door.

"There you are, Doctor." Eddings' mechanically distorted voice 
hisses from the speaker below the camera eye. "A few of these 
new cameras seem to be acting up on that end. Can you hear me?"

Victor smiles woodenly and gives the camera a thumbs-up signal.

The room falls silent. Victor returns to calmly laying out 
instruments as he says to me, almost sub-audibly, "We must be 
on the look-out for Mackey's signal. Don't hesitate when it 
comes, and do not look back for me."

I lay out new drapes for the treatment table. Hopefully, the young 
man will never have to feel the cold touch of these straps and this 
table again. With good luck, we will all make an escape and leave 
this evil insanity behind. I will have to follow blindly, and I will 
have to pull Specimen 51 along with me, too. 

The proverbial "blind leading the blind".

Mackey comes into the room, breathless. "Dr. Branson, I'll need 
your..." He looks at the blinking red eye of the security camera 
and seems to go pale. "Uh... I-It's Number 51... He isn't being 
co-operative. Maybe you had better stay with him until it's time 
for his treatment ?"

I nod slowly. I must look like a dunce. Things are going too fast. 
My heart is racing, and I feel so helpless. But quivering and 
quaking isn't going to serve any purpose now. If what Victor 
says is true then this is a "damned if we do, damned if we don't" 
mission. This action of theirs, however hasty and ill-conceived, 
may be a last chance for all of us, especially the darkly handsome 
young man in that cage. 

As I passed close to Victor  on my way out the door, he shoves a 
heavy black package at me.

A full-sized body bag? 

He lays a syringe on top of the dense plastic, shielding his 
movements from the eye of the camera with his back. 

A sedative?

He looks into my eyes as if evaluating me. " Hurry. Use the 
sedative on him if you have to. It's relatively short-term. 
Now go!"

I turn numbly away, my "gifts" from Victor held close to my 
body, away from the prying eye of the security camera.

********************
Chapter Six
**************

He is aware something is going on. He is aware that the routine 
has been changed. He is aware of all the tension. The air is thick 
with it. 

When Mackey lets me back into the cage, Specimen 51 is pacing 
back and forth at the back of the tiny space. He sees me, but he 
does not stop his frantic pacing. His eyes are wide with wariness 
and fright. There is a feline grace to his back and forth pacing; he 
seems ready to leap, ready to fight. A reaction to this heightened 
anxiety we are all swimming in, I'm sure. 

As lost and weak as he must be, he is still ready to fall back on his
instinct to fight. Amazing.

I glance at the camera. Still dead. But for how long?

"Calm down. Stop and listen to me. Please!"

My voice is shaking. He can probably hear the panic in it. His eyes 
grow steely as he looks from me to Mackey to the open door and 
back to me again. He keeps pacing, chewing furiously on his 
lower lip, clenching and unclenching his fists. He is taking 
everything in. My own fright. The black package in my arms. 
The syringe. 

Oh, damn! The syringe. 

He fixates on it. Keeps pacing. Never lets his eyes off of it.

"We've only got minutes, ma'am," Mackey warns. "I've got 
my vehicle at the loading dock, and the next guard pass will be 
in less than thirty minutes." 

He lowers his voice. For my ears only: "Shall I take him down for 
you? We need to get him into..."

"No!" I hiss. 

Mackey steps back quickly. He decides to stand outside of the 
cage and opens the cage door wide with a friendly smile and a 
nod at the nervous young man. A signal of reassurance, I'm sure, 
but I doubt that the prisoner is going to trust it.

I lay out the body bag on the mattress and unzip it. He does not 
slow his pacing, but he is watching me. I put the syringe on the 
floor in his path. He stops and stares down at it. The gesture 
confuses him. It is different than his experience with these things 
for the past few days. He stoops slowly and picks it up with 
unsteady hands. 

He looks from me to Mackey. I can see he is unsure, but he has 
lost some of his wariness.

"Will you listen to me now?" I ask softly.

He clutches the syringe tightly and takes a step backward, but 
he nods.

"We want to get you out of here. We have to hide you in here." 
I pull open the body bag. There is no way to make this less 
threatening. I realize that he seems to be aware of what the 
zippered bag is for, as if he had seen a few in his lifetime.

"I'm sorry. This all we have for now." I hasten to chase the 
horror out of his eyes with my silly, cliched reassurances. "We 
won't hurt you. The syringe only contains a sedative. It is to 
help you stay still while we get you out of here. This bag is to 
hide you from the guards outside when we go through the gates."

He lifts his hand to look again at the syringe and then at Mackey 
again. The distrust is back. He shakes his head firmly.

This time my voice isn't as soft. I let my own desperation flow 
through. "There is no time for this. You must do this, or we'll 
all die - and soon!"

He listens to that. I can see, however, that he is battling with his 
instincts. He has nothing to trust. No reason to trust.

Miraculously, he drops to his knees beside me and rolls gingerly 
into the shadowy folds of the body bag. He stiffens when 
Mackey moves forward to pull the flaps together and begins 
to zip it shut. He looks at me and then offers the syringe, 
clenched in his fist, to me.

"N-n-no m-more," he stutters pitifully.

"But you will need..."

He shakes his head adamantly. Mackey looks at me anxiously 
and then at his former prisoner. He lays a hand gently on the 
young man's shoulder. "All right, but you have to stay still 
no matter what you hear, okay, Sam?"

"Sam?" I inquire.

Mackey shrugs. "That's what I named him. He'd be yelling that 
name out whenever he was having bad dreams. 'Sam' -- and that 
'Dana' name he called you. C'mon. We have to hustle." He pulls 
the zipper up to the young man's chin and pauses. "Listen hard, 
Sam. I'm going to be carrying you on my shoulder out of here. 
Got that? It'll feel scary -- but you can't move, okay? Then you'll 
feel yourself being slid into the back of a vehicle -- like a mini-van, 
understand? If we make it out of here, we can get you out of this 
contraption real quick-like. In the meantime, you absolutely cannot 
move."

Mackey looks every bit the proud, fierce marine he was for six 
years of his life. "Sam" is looking at him with dark, serious eyes. 
He nods. I'm sure he understands. He doesn't seem to be a 
stranger to this danger-game stuff, either, even though he looks 
scared stiff right now. 

I take my cue from him; if he can face this with as many doubts 
and fears as he has, then certainly I can do this, too.

It takes Mackey only a minute to seal the prisoner in the black 
bag and lift him into a fireman's carry. It is only when I swing 
back to make sure that I close the cage door tightly that I notice 
the blinking red light of the camera inside. 

It is alive. 

How long had it been watching?

Too late to send out a warning. Mackey is already headed to the 
back of the lab, toward the door that leads to another short 
hallway with storage rooms and the door to the back dock area. 
He is moving fast, and I have to nearly run to catch up.

I reel my head back and forth, looking for Eddings. Did he see 
those last few minutes in the cage? Where is Victor? 

I move ahead to hold open the back hallway door. No one there, 
I note with relief. Not yet anyway.  "Mackey! I saw the camera 
In the cage. It was on." I whispered.

"What?"

I freeze the moment I look back at Mackey and his cargo. Just 
behind him, back in the hallway, I see Eddings' sadistic grin. 
He has just come out of the staff quarters across the way. His 
gun is unholstered and a com radio is in his other hand.

Mackey sees the look in my eyes and comes to an abrupt halt. 
He does not turn around. 

"It was pretty efficient of you to put Number 51 in that body bag, 
Mackey. It'll save me a lot of time and trouble." Eddings moves 
up behind Mackey and begins feeling for the zipper at the head of 
the black plastic bag.

True to his word, Specimen 51 does not move even though he 
must know what is happening. Mackey looks defeated and angry. 
I am so numb with terror that I can't imagine how I must look. 
Like a ghost, perhaps.

"Where you taking my boy, Mackey? Gonna get some for yourself, 
maybe?" 

He snorts and goes back to working the zipper open. "What do 
you think, soldier-boy? If -- when I put this gun barrel between 
this boy's pretty lips and make Number 51 swallow some lead -- 
right here, right now -- is there a chance the bullet will go through 
you, too? Huh? What are the odds? Suppose I can get one bullet 
to do the work of two?"

Mackey remains statue-still, glaring into the empty hallway 
beyond us. He's probably thinking the same thing I am: How 
could we only be a few feet away from freedom?

I can't stop myself from watching. I can see Eddings clutch a 
fistful of the silky chocolate-colored strands of the young man's 
hair as he lifts the black pistol up. I draw up one shaking hand 
to press over my mouth to halt a scream. 

This can't be happening.

The blur of motion from behind Eddings confuses me at first. 
When the bastard gasps and claws at the syringe sticking into 
the side of his neck, he lets the radio fall to the ground with a 
clatter. He sinks to his knees, momentarily stunned, and now 
I can see the figure of Dr. Victor Kent standing behind him.

Victor looks as white as a sheet. "Go!" he hisses to me. He tosses 
the duffel bag full of Specimen 51's future to me. "Don't forget 
this! Get in the Jeep. I'm going to drag him out of sight and be 
right with you... Go!"

Mackey has already pushed forward. I linger only long enough 
to look again at Victor. He waves me on with a weak smile and 
stoops over to grab Eddings' shirt. As the door swings shut 
behind me, my mind registers a picture of Eddings with 
startling clarity. 

The gun was still in his hand. 

His hand was moving.

By the time I am through the outside door, the significance hits 
my anesthetized brain. I hear a single shot from within. 

Victor!

Mackey snaps into full guerrilla mode. He pulls me off the 
concrete dock when he sees me hesitate. "In!" he shouts, throwing 
me over the body bag he has already pushed into the back of a 
black Jeep Cherokee. "Stay down!"

He slams the back cargo door, and I hear his front door open. 
Almost simultaneously,  I hear a burst of automatic gunfire. The 
clank and ping of real bullets hitting metal and concrete bursts all 
around us. To my left, the side window blooms into a fine web 
of broken glass, and I feel a frightening tug of something at the 
back of my lab coat as if a bullet had caught the cloth, narrowly 
missing my head.

Beneath me, our "package" squirms. I tighten down on him. 
"NO!" I hiss at him. 

He stops moving. I think I hear one quick report of a pistol, and 
the gunfire stops. I hear Mackey cursing furiously to himself, and 
then the engine roars to life. As I lift my head up gingerly, I can 
see a man's body sprawled on the pavement as we rocket past. 
There is shouting behind us.

"STAY DOWN!" Mackey is screaming at me. 

The rear window blooms into that same webby  pattern as the 
window on my left.  I can feel some pebbles of safety glass rain 
over my back as I lean protectively over the black body bag.

I realize Mackey is not going to make it through that main guard 
gate. 

Ignoring his earlier command, I scramble over to the seat behind 
Mackey and shout over the roar of the straining engine. "Right! 
Go right! Beyond this field back here is an old entrance that has 
been fenced over. If you can crash through and stay ahead of 
these guys, there are a bunch of quick turns we can make to 
lose them."

Mackey's jaw is tensed. He is breathing heavily and a sheen of 
sweat stands out on his forehead. His young handsome face looks 
pinched with pain, but he looks determined. With a quick glance at 
the rearview mirror through the ruined window, he cranks on the 
steering wheel and sends our escape vehicle into the dark field to 
the right of the lab building.

I am sure they can see our headlights bobbing and bouncing over 
the rough terrain. Two sets of lights suddenly appear far behind 
us. Mackey curses audibly.

"Okay, Lady Doc, where is it? Where's our out?" His voice is 
high, strained with tension.

I catch sight of the overgrown remains of the old concrete entrance 
road in a flash of our head lights. "There! There it is!" I shout 
excitedly.

Mackey sets his jaw again. He pulls onto the old road. I can feel 
the jolt of acceleration as the tires grip the familiarity of a firm 
surface. 

"Get your head down!" Mackey cries out as we bullet toward a 
ten foot tall chain link fence.

I fall into the well between the seats just as the Jeep hits the fence. 
There is an incredible bouncing and shocking shuddering from 
the vehicle. It seems to pause for an unreal amount of time, as if 
we were suspended in time and space. 

Then, the jarring impact of wheels against roadway surges 
through our bones.

Mackey is grunting with the exertion of keeping the Jeep moving 
forward at breakneck speeds. "Okay, Lady Doc -- Finger the turns. 
We've got a chance here."

The next twenty minutes were spent maneuvering hairpin turns 
at impossible speeds. When I point out that a mile to our right, 
west as the crow flies, is the old Ambrose Highway which 
eventually skirts the boggy waters of Lake Pontchartrain on its 
way into Ponchatoula and then New Orleans, Mackey bites down 
on his lip and sends us veering into another dark field, taking a 
more direct route to the road we need.

I pray, and I pray hard. I blink as I stare into the darkness ahead. 
I imagine I see Marraine Solange's image floating eerily in front 
of us as if hovering just outside of the reach of our rocking 
headlights.

Please, God.

Had I ever believed in God well enough that He should be 
listening to me now? 

I think I can hear the silvery laugh of Marraine Solange, as clear 
as it was that day decades ago, as we sat by the riverside talking 
about God and prayers while she braided my long red locks of 
hair: //Non, non, mon chere//, she had laughed at my childish 
theories. //If God is not answering, maybe it is because HE 
is a SHE and is sorely insulted by being addressed as a man!//

Male or Female, He or She will have to send us a miracle now. 
Louisiana fields are merely human attempts to fight Mother 
Nature's nature; they are true swamps, tamed and risen by 
farmers' hard work, but struggling everyday to sink back 
into their lazy former life.

If we get over this field and onto the patchwork safety  of old 
Ambrose Highway, it will be a miracle akin to Jesus' walking 
on water! No sooner do I think that than the vehicle jerks and 
bounces violently and settles into a steady pace. We are on solid, 
blessed pavement. I crane my neck in all directions: no lights to be 
seen.

"Nothing," I tell Mackey. 

In the green glow of the dash lights, his face looks grim. "They're 
there. It's only a matter of time," he asserts. Impossibly, he urges 
more speed out of the Jeep's straining engine. The dash clock 
blinks the time: 1:15 a.m. We are the only ones on this near 
forgotten stretch of road.

I move back to check on our passenger. He had wriggled free 
of half of the body-bag and still has his long arms bracing him 
against the seat and back door. He looks at me, eyes dark and 
wide. "O-k-kay n-now?" he stammers. 

"For now," I answer with a smile that is supposed to convey 
confidence, but I sure don't feel it. I extend my hand to help 
him up into a sitting position. The hand that had been closest 
to the shattered back window feels wet. I notice a thin dark line 
flowing from his hairline. He was laying among shards of glass 
and a few had found their way to his unprotected skin.

"I've got to bring him forward, Mackey!" I shouted to the man 
in front. "He's cut and laying in all this glass!"

I see Mackey quickly nod. I turn back to helping my new charge 
out of his black plastic wrapping and over the seat to sit beside 
me. Settled, he still looks a bit bewildered and frightened. This 
must all seem so strange to him.

"Wh - what... ha - hap... ha-..." He stops, frustrated by his 
stuttering. 

"Even I'm not sure," I say to him, brushing aside a dark lock of 
hair and probing for cuts. He jerks when I touch one. There a 
several pebbles of safety glass still in his hair, and I pluck them 
out gently. 

Mackey leans over and snaps on the radio. He rolls through 
several noisy rock and Cajun music stations and stops when he 
hits upon a news broadcast. "... that will raise roadblocks along 
all major thoroughfares from Texas to the Mississippi border. 
Please, folks, the police want you to remember, these people are 
armed and dangerous. If you spot a vehicle of this description, 
call the state or local police immediately. Do not approach the 
vehicle -- Best to leave these escapees to the authorities."

Mackey snaps off the radio and laughs. "How long has it been? 
Thirty minutes? Forty maybe? And they've thrown the net out 
Already." He laughs again.

I don't understand. 

"What do you mean, Mackey?"

"Our beloved employers -- the keepers of our 'brother' Sam, 
here -- have alerted authorities. I'm sure they made a real 
convincing case for our 'armed and dangerous' tag."

"What? What do you mean? Weren't they talking about some 
escapees from a...?" I stop myself as my brain begins to churn. 

Dear God. They meant us. The roadblocks are being set up 
for us.  How in the hell...?

The dark eyed young man next to me is watching my face 
anxiously. He looks sad, resigned. When I meet his eyes, he 
simply turns quietly to stare out at the darkness we are rushing 
through, bringing his bloodied hand up to play absently with 
his lip.

"Mackey. Did you and Victor...?" My throat tightens suddenly 
at the mention of Victor's name. I had not had room enough in 
my terrified mind to give him any thought since that last awful 
moment when I heard the crack of a pistol shot from within the 
lab.

Mackey is glancing at me through the rear view mirror. "Did we 
what?"

"Did you have a plan for where you were going to go?"

Mackey snorts and seems to grimace sharply again. He takes a 
minute before answering. "Dr. Kent had a safe route mapped 
out into Arkansas, skirting Baton Rouge, going toward Natchez 
and heading directly north from there. I was going to get us into 
the mountains in Kentucky and lay low for awhile. I was kind 
of hoping Sam would come around and remember some of his 
people -- I gave up THAT hope after that seizure he had 
following last night's treatment, though."

I look over at the man beside me. He heard that, I'm sure, but 
he just continues to stare out into the blackness.

Mackey waves his hand in a gesture indicating futility. "Well, it's 
all a moot point now. And good marines are prepared for any 
eventuality, Doc. We're way off plan. Fate is pointing us toward 
New Orleans." He laughs weakly. "We'll have to hide in plain 
Sight. My favorite trick. Used to do it all the time as a kid."

He falls silent for a long time. I can feel my forebodings returning. 
Mackey is leaning too far over the steering wheel, grimacing. 

"Mackey? Are you all right?"

"Fine, ma'am." he says quickly, but he does not straighten up. 

We drive in silence for a while. When we rocket past an old sign 
for directions to Ponchatoula, I realize that we aren't too far from 
the little farming town on the northern end of Lake Pontchartrain. 
Will the road blocks be in place?

"We're going to have to get off this highway soon, aren't we?"

Mackey just nods. He doesn't look hopeful. 

"It's okay. I spent a lot of time, with people that were sort of 
my family, outside of Ponchatoula. I can get us through the back 
roads if need be."

Mackey doesn't answer. He is grimacing. 

"Mackey? What is it? Oh my God..."

I had moved toward the front and for the first time I notice Mackey 
holding a bloody fist over his groin area. There is a dark, wet stain 
spreading over his lap. I push myself into the passenger's seat in 
front.

I can see how bad it is. I can see the pain, and now -- for the 
first time -- the fright written on his face. 

"Mackey! I - I'm so sorry. Why didn't you say you were hurt?"

"Not much point at the time, ma'am," he says weakly.

The young man in the seat behind us has straightened and is 
listening intently. He has realized something is wrong, too.

"There's a hospital in Ponchatoula. We're not too far..."

"No, no and NO!" Mackey is shaking his head. "When they see 
my blood on the floor of that dock, they're going to know 
someone was hurt. They'll be waiting at any hospital in a hundred 
mile radius, and by breakfast time, they will have had the whole 
state canvassed!" His speech is becoming punctuated with little 
grunts of pain.

I look around wildly. The terrain is getting familiar. If I can get 
in the area of the Terrebonne family, they will help. I was 
practically a blood relative. Much of my childhood was spent 
here, playing with Lucille and tagging along after her older brother, 
Edel. Many of their cousins still live on the family lands, farming.

"Let me drive. We'll take the next turn-off, Mackey. Maybe we 
can get some help for you yet..."

Mackey tries to smile as he pulls over to the side of the dark 
highway without an argument. He looks doubtful. The young 
man in the back seat looks worried. I get out of the jeep and 
work my way to the back door. Another shower of shattered 
safety glass clatters to the pavement as I reach in for the duffel 
bag Victor had given me.

Back in the front seat, in the dim overhead light, I fumble for the 
box of syringes and vials of sedatives. As I bring up one of the 
vials to draw a dose into the chamber of a syringe, I am aware of 
"Sam" moving nervously in the seat behind me.