CHAPTER 2

I never liked hospitals. Even as a kid, if I could list all the places I hated going to, hospitals would be at the very top of that list. The constant hustle and bustle, the smells, the equipment—that's not for me. Not to mention knowing that people have died in those God-forsaken places. I don't about you, but I personally can do without that kind of stuff.

Now I have another reason to hate them.

The Cygnus was built with a very state-of-the-art medical center, and I mean VERY state-of-the-art. In just a matter of seconds, this facility could cure diseases that, once upon a time, were very serious and possibly fatal. And with all that time in space, it's a damn good thing that medical science had evolved so much.

Well, when we were marched into the ship's medical center, it was not for healing purposes.

I watched the sentries round up the medical staff and herd them into every corner of the room like cattle. As they were held at gunpoint, the rest of us were lined up and ushered over to the operating tables. They were basically giant circular conveyer-belt looking things that could treat six patients at a time. But on this day, this equipment that saved so many lives, healed so many injuries and cured so many diseases was now going to be used as instruments of inhumane torture, mind control, and the inflicting of horrible, excruciating pain.

My shipmates' screams of agony and pleadings for mercy rang in my ears as the laser beams drilled into their foreheads. I knew what was happening to them: their memories, their emotions, and their wills—in other words, their humanity—were being permanently erased. Think of the ancient practice of giving a violent, combative patient a full frontal lobotomy. These atrocities that were going on before us were no different than that cruel, barbaric procedure. A lot less messy, perhaps, but the same results nonetheless: no free will, no motivation to fight back against those who were mistreating you, and no choice but to obey everything you were told to do.

In other words, you are a zombie.

While I stood in line and waited for what was to come, one of the crewmen tapped me on the shoulder and whispered that there was a way to withstand the torture. He told me that, according to Bob, the best way to maintain your memories was to think of all your past experiences and any other information you've obtained over the years, but only to start the instant the lasers hit.

I didn't know whether to believe him or not, but I did know that in just a matter of minutes, I and five others would be on that table. My panic level was off the charts by this point. I thought of making a break for it, but I knew I'd never make it out of there. We were completely surrounded and outnumbered. On the other hand, though, death would've been a helluva lot more preferable than this.

Next thing I knew, two sentries grabbed me and slammed me back-first onto the table. There were six of us, and I was lying between two other crew-men, my head right at my shipmate's feet. We were like human sardines.

On the upside, I wouldn't be the first one in my group to be lobotomized.

As the conveyer belt moved me underneath the lasers, I prepared myself to do what my shipmate said to do. The last thing I saw before squeezing my eyes shut was the lasers powering up. This was it. This was going to hurt like hell, and my only alternative was to disassociate myself from the mind-erasing agony that made the torture methods used during the Spanish Inquisition look blissful.

A million thoughts went through me as the lasers bore down right between my eyes. My childhood in the mountains of Oregon. Seeing my baby sister for the first time when I was five. The projects that won me my blue ribbons at the annual grade school science fair. My high school graduation. My acceptance letter from MIT. My days at space camp. As I reminisced about those happy times, I also started mentally reciting any and every piece of scientific and literary in-formation I could think of: the formulas of Einstein, Bible verses, Newton's laws of physics, Shakespeare, even the songs from Mozart's The Magic Flute. Those bastards would have my obedience, but I'd be damned if I'd let them have my memories of what was happening. Even if I was subjected to this indignation day after day for the rest of my life, there was no way I'd forget any of this. Sure, I'd be an empty, emotionless shell of the man I was, but I wasn't about to completely give up without a fight.

And then, just a few seconds later, it was all over. I opened my eyes, and everything was a big blur. I was dizzy, my head was pounding like a jackhammer, and my whole face was numb. It was like it wasn't even there. A sentry grabbed my arm, pulled me up and guided me off the table. If it wasn't for these horrific circumstances, I would've grabbed that mechanical SOB's gun and blown his head clean off. Obviously wishful thinking, because I couldn't even feel my arms.

I dared to catch a glimpse of myself in a passing mirror as I was led out of the hospital. In the center of my forehead, there was a black burn mark that was roughly the size of an almond, and my eyes looked dull, puffy and cloudy. I barely recognized that man in the mirror staring back at me. All the emotion and life was now erased, just as thoroughly as one would erase their handwriting from a dry-erase board. All that remained was just an empty body, condemned to a life of an unwilling automaton.

I knew damn well what the others must've been thinking as they were made into flesh-and-blood robots. They didn't deserve to be treated this way. None of us did.

We didn't want this.

All we wanted was to explore the farthest reaches of space, not be enslaved by a madman. We were supposed to expand our minds and better ourselves, not be subjected to a fate worse than death.

On the way down the hall, I remembered how Dr. Reinhardt used to tell us that the end justifies the means. How the hell could we have known that his wish to fulfill his greatest achievement would be at the expense of our own lives?